Grammar: Introducing the comma

No, we're not going back to the beginning in this series of grammar goofs on commas, but proceeding to using commas after introductions.

To begin with, introductory clauses are dependent clauses that introduce the rest of the sentence, or the independent part of the sentence. Introductory clauses begins with adverbs: after, although, as, because, before, if, since, though, until, when, therefore, etc.

If I am to believe what is written, I have six months to live

Although a reviewer's job is to write what they did or did not like about a book, it is still just their opinion and thus subjective.

Introductory phrases are not dependent clauses, but have a subject and verb that are separate from the main clause, the independent clause, of the sentence. Introductory phrases may include phrases that are prepositional, appositive, participial, infinitive and absolute phrases.

To control weight, models limit their intake of carbohydrates and fats. (introductory infinitive phrase, main clause)

Lying judiciously, Annabelle chose her words carefully in order to keep the police from examining her further. (introductory participial phrase, main clause)

An intelligent and well-liked woman, Eleanor Roosevelt used her position and power to effect changes in her neighborhood of Greenwich Place. (introductory appositive phrase, main clause)

Blustering loudly and continuously, Jeremiah proclaimed his innocent. (introductory absolute phrase, main clause)

After enactment of the obscenely expensive stimulus package, unemployment continues to climb while the president jets all over the country and around the world with his vast entourage. (Introductory prepositional phrase, main clause)

Using words like however, furthermore, therefore, still and meanwhile provide links and continuity from one sentence to another.

The tea parties continue. Meanwhile, liberals continue to push their pork-heavy agendas.

The tests were conclusive. Still, there is a question of whether or not the illness is psychosomatic or physical.

There are instances when a comma is not necessary after an introductory clause. Here's how to tell the difference.

Use a comma:

• After an introductory clause when the introduction has a subject and verb of its own (dependent clause).



• After a long introductory prepositional phrase or more than one introductory prepositional phrase when there are more than five words before the main clause.



• After introductory verbal phrases, some appositive phrases or absolute phrases.



• If there is a distinct pause in order to avoid confusion. When you read it aloud, do you pause? Would the reader have to read the sentence more than once to understand it? If you answer yes, a comma is needed.

Do not use a comma:

• After a brief prepositional phrase of less than five words.



• After a restrictive (essential) appositive phrase. My best friend Connie and I met when we took driver's education in high school. (noun or pronoun is green and appositive is in yellow)



• To separate the subject from the predicate.
(see below)



Writing, rewriting and editing a novel is one of the easiest parts of being a writer when you consider the time and effort necessary to promote and market the published book.





To write a book without any idea of how to market and sell it is a waste of the writer's and the publisher's time.





It is difficult to trust someone who has blatantly lied to you over and over while professing their friendship and honesty.

If you have any questions or comments, please feel free to contact me. There is still more information on commas to come, but next week should finish this comma coma once and for all. Until then, may all your grammars goofs be easily fixed.

Passing friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tarot: Beggar's victory

When I pulled the cards a few days ago, I didn't see their meaning right away. They didn't seem to have any connection, but everything is connected in one way or another and the connections aren't always easy to discern.

A storm blows up in the Arctic and snow swirls along deadly, cutting winds, scouring the surface of the tundra until all is laid bare and clean. It's a local occurrence that doesn't reach the nearest Alaskan town or freeze the icy waters. It roars its wintry defiance and dies down, leaving a pristine wilderness of frozen waves and sculpted in the snowy plain.

Meanwhile, in continental America, the summer sun blisters freshly laid tar and macadam bubbles lightly in the streets and on parking lots, burning anyone who braves the scorched surface barefoot. The dog days are here. The relentless sun beams down from a brazen sky and clouds drifting over the mountain's edge grow wispy and disappear.

A faint breeze ruffles sweat-soaked curls lying heavy on bronzed and reddened shoulders alike, and every face turns to the breeze, breathing in the promise of cool fall days to come before it is gone like the clouds. Another breeze tinged with Arctic breath blusters and the timid clouds mass as the Arctic storm, now long quiet, makes its furious onslaught felt, pushing its frozen presence felt. The temperature drops and the darkening clouds rumble and spark, loosing a torrent of rain and hail that batter the bubbling macadam and cooling the fresh tar into a sea of shining black now pock-marked by hail. Sweat cools and chills. Bronzed and reddened shoulders hunch. Everyone dreams of smoky, spicy fall and golden aspens where the autumn winds whistle in harmony with crackling fires and hot chocolate.

***

The first card is the Ace of Wands, a fiery brand upheld in human hands. Every Ace is a gift from the universe, but the molding of this gift is in human hands. The spark of creativity is given to mankind to temper and shape. This Ace is the kindest and most generous gift of all. It is the beginning of life, inspiration and passion. This gift requires an exercise of will and to achieve the goal and courage to see it through. It is an opportunity, but, like all opportunities, it means nothing without active pursuit. Don't wait. take action. Use the fire of inspiration to see the potential of pure, raw, unbridled creation and unleash what lies inside with confidence, being grateful for what is offered.

Crippling poverty and fear are obvious in the Five of Pentacles as the ragged woman clutches her tired and hungry child to her breast, her other hand outstretched in supplication. She needs help but is ashamed to ask. She feels guilty for getting squandering what she has and does not realize that she is making her problem seem bigger than it is. Her outstretched hand is tentative as though she isn't sure she should ask and doesn't really know what to ask.

Standing in front of the glorious stained glass window, she is unaware of the help that is available, has always been available, if she'd only look up, open her eyes and see what is right in front of her. Help has always been just within reach, but she is too sunk in despair and misery, afraid that if she looks up all she will find is an empty purse and a closed door. The door is always open. Someone is inside or the window would be shadowed and not so bright.

In earlier decks, the Five of Pentacles was the card of the mendicants, missionaries who chose a hard road without seeking or accepting the help that was always ready for them. Their fear was palpable and bowed their heads so low they couldn't see what was right beside them, an open door where warmth, sustenance and help were theirs for the asking.

It was a day for fives when I pulled these cards, but the Five of Swords seems much different from the Five of Pentacles. A man stands with upraised sword victorious on the field of battle. The enemy lies dead or dying around him and he holds the booty of war in his arms. This is a Pyrrhic victory, a victory won at heavy cost. There are no comrades celebrating this victory, only the defeated. What is victory worth when all is lost? Was it worth the effort?

Wars and battles are not always way to resolve conflict, not when they come at a high price. There is no profit in humiliating the enemy because they will come back even stronger with revenge and destruction in their hearts. In an intellectual conflict or verbal argument, sometimes it's better to take a step back and look at things from a different perspective instead of battering an opponent until there is nothing left. To assert superiority in such a way is not only poor sportsmanship, it is also unnecessary and the victory is short-lived. There is more to be learned and to be gained by leaving a little room for the opponent to maneuver. It's never a good idea to push the enemy into what Sun Tzu called "death country" from which there is no retreat and safety. The enemy has nothing to lose and will fight even harder and more wildly and the cost to defeat them may be the decimation of the army.

The fives in the tarot deck always spell trouble or a crisis that needs resolution. It's up to you to turn the tables and make the best of a bad situation before it is too late. The Five of Swords shows victory, but it could just as well point to dishonor, malice or slander and, in such cases, no one wins even when they're proven right.

It's like picking up a frozen snake near death and warming it near your breast. When it wakes, it will repay your kindness and generosity with death. That is its nature. If you must pick up the snake, take it to a fire or somewhere warm, but don't linger. It's safer that way.

***

There cannot be a connection in these cards, or can there? The fire of inspiration, a gift of possibility and opportunity that must be acted upon cannot have anything to do with beggars down on their luck and unwilling to see that help is within reach, and it certainly cannot have anything to do with a costly victory. Can it?

A woman digs in her garden and finds a rag wrapped bundle. It smells foul and crumbles to bits in her hands. She tosses it onto the heap of branches and cuttings that will go into the trash. The bundle breaks open and out spills a wealth of jewelry: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls of all colors, sapphires. A king's ransom in stones and silver and gold. Thinking it must be stolen, she gathers it all up in a trash bag and hides it beneath a loose board in the floor of her closet, placing her shoes and suitcases over the spot to hide it from prying eyes.

The woman is of middle years and has worked hard for what little she has, spending her life's savings on the little cottage with its rose and herb gardens. She continues to work, but the cost of upkeep is almost more than she can afford. She's not ready to give up and is used to getting by on short rations. The wealth hidden in the floor of her closet would be enough to fix the place up and set her up for life. She would never want for anything. She could sell the jewels one at a time to different places so no one would make the connection, but it might cost more than the jewels would bring that way. She could call the authorities or check old newspapers to see if something like that was stolen just to be sure she was safe. If she did that, someone might say she had no right to it and take it all away from her, or she could return it for a reward. That might be enough to see her comfortable.

What should she do? I'll leave the end of this story up to you.

Until next week, may all your stories be full of life.

Religious calling

One of the biggest mistakes I made as a beginning writer was taking on too much, especially in fiction. I'd have too much for a short story and not enough for a novel, and I couldn't tell which was which.

I began a novel about an Air Force pilot, a woman, who was allowed to teach other combat pilots, but not fly combat. This was about thirty years ago when things were different. Women fly combat all the time now. I had a romance brewing and the characters were talking to me. The male romantic lead kept waking me up to tell me he knew the heroine before they met in the book, and it was the first time a character bothered me in my sleep and hounded me day and night. I thought I had something.

I plotted. I made outlines of the action. I knew where I was starting and where I would end, but had not clue about the middle. I thought it would come as I wrote. It didn't.

I had great scenes. There was laughter. There were tears, brilliant dialogue, rapid-fire exchanges and heat, lots of heat. I had everything to make a great book, or so I thought. I got to the middle of the book and hit a brick wall. It felt much harder than brick when I banged my head against it, writing this way and that to get out of the rapidly closing cul-de-sac from hell. I was stalled. Nothing came. I couldn't get past it to the end of the story.

Thinking I had everything covered, I had no idea the mid book slump could happen to me. I was fearless. I had prepared carefully. I was lost. The remains of the book are still on a 5.25" floppy and is probably no longer readable. The hard copy is still in a folder in a locked cabinet that is probably food for mice by now.

There are times when a book just won't jell no matter what you do. Even with the best outline and covering all the points of plot, characterization, dialogue and time lines, a book can, and often does stall. There are many reasons for this stall that turns into a horrible crash-and-burn. What it amounts to is running out of gas -- enthusiasm. There are ways to write past that point and find energy by working on the last part of the book, hoping that something will come out of the blue and save the story, and sometimes it means a whole rewrite. Such is the case with Whitechapel Hearts.

When I began writing the book, I tried it in several different points of view and styles, from confessionals to dairy entries, and nothing came. I couldn't figure out how to get from point A to point D and was having a difficult time bypassing B and C, which was a new experience for me. I usually bypass them without any difficulty, but I found I couldn't bypass them in a novel. I gave up, printed out the hard copy of everything I did and stuck it in the locked cabinet in a file next to the combat pilot romance, moving on to other projects that didn't tax my abilities quite so much. During a conversation with a friend about Victorian pornography and morality, I had a flash of insight. I knew what was wrong with Whitechapel Hearts and I knew just how to fix it. Mind you, this is a few years after I originally began.

Everything started coming out as though I was typing from a finished book until I hit the brick wall in the middle again. It wasn't a lack of story or not knowing what came next; I simply ran out of gas. After several tries at writing around the wall and tackling it from different angles, I decided to put it away and work on something else. That was several years ago.

I have since worked past the wall and finished the book. I have rewritten sections and added layers I never knew were possible before. As I learned, the book became better and better. I refused to give up and now it's a done deal. No doubt my editor will put me through the paces once again and she will help me see textures I didn't know were there.

There are some books that should remained in a folder in a locked file cabinet and some that won't let you go. I've been lucky enough to have more of the latter than the former. There are stories and books bouncing around in my head jostling for pole position, and they will eventually get their turn . . . when they have simmered long enough. I'll have to face the wall again in other books and sometimes it will be closer to the beginning or right before the end, but I know how to get past it now -- brick by brick.

I have lots of books in me, yet I am reminded of another author who wrote a best selling novel that is still a best selling novel decades after its first publication -- Harper Lee who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird. When asked why she never wrote a second book, Harper replied, "I never needed to." It was not the whole truth and it wasn't completely a lie. She wrote another book, but it was declared so awful that she stuck it in a folder and hid it in a locked file cabinet never to see the light of day, and has lived very well since then on the proceeds of Mockingbird. I think she might have given up too quickly, should have tried another publisher or written another book, but we are not the same people. Some writers only have one book in them. And some writers never know when to quit.

Writing is as much a vocation as it is a calling, and writing is in some ways a religion. You either believe or you don't. Some writers lose their religion and some backslide from time to time, doubting their calling and their faith. In the end, the only things that matter are the words and how the come together.

For some writers, they will come together effortlessly without the sweat and blood it costs other writers every time they put fingers to keyboard or pen to paper. For the rest, it will look effortless from the outside and like anyone can do it, but that's because those writers have sweated blood, cried, pleaded and battered the words until they were pounded smooth as silk and come out looking like child's play.

Only another writer can understand the hard work that goes into the magic that happens when the story becomes a tangible reality between the covers of a book. And that makes it worth all the trouble, anguish and hard work. Ask any writer who has held their first check for a story or received their copies of a novel that was years -- or weeks -- in the making. You won't have to ask, just look into their eyes and see the shining light of the faith and religion that is writing.

A painter's tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jealousy.

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond drama in the zone

There are times when writing is effortless and other times when it's hard work. Even when I've finished a book or a story, ideas will nibble at the edges of my mind and slip themselves seamlessly into a story I thought was finished. Good thing when it happened this time, I wasn't in final editing. I still have time to change a few things, and my publisher is generous about changes -- at least until we're actually in the editing phase.

There are so many themes and layers to a novel length work, and I've discovered a new theme in the one that has been invading my dreams and interrupting my work day, but it's adding a lot to the story and making it much more richly textured. I love when that happens. I get into the zone with little preparation and no effort. It's like a heaven sent gift and I never refuse or return those.

It has been a while since I've been in the zone and I've missed it. I've allowed trivialities and drama (other people's not my own) to invade my space and take me away where even Calgon cannot reach. I didn't know how much I have needed this literary vacation until I looked up and four hours had passed in the most pleasant and untroubled way. My character feels the tick-tick-tick of time like an eternity of seconds with no end in sight, but time has flown for me.

That's the funny thing about time, it stretches endlessly into a boring and monumental weight or speeds by like a shooting star, a glimpse of argent fire that suddenly winks out as if it never existed, the after image lingering long after the event.

Time has been an imponderable weight of late, but not today. That's what it's like in the zone, and I am reluctant to leave it even to go to the bathroom, but chores and duty call me away. At least I'm at a good stopping point that will quickly and easily admit me back to the zone when I'm finished with the more mundane details of life. Today is a good day, and a productive one, I cannot wait to repeat. I know where I'll be spending the next few days -- in the zone in another time and another world where hidden textures and depths wait to be discovered and unearthed.

Regional flavors

One thing I had taken for granted came zooming back at me last night when I read Mary Ann's zombie story -- regional voice.

Every writer has a voice, but some writers have distinctive regional voices. Midwestern writers get cheated a bit because they're so middle of the road that you can't tell an Iowa writer from a Wisconsin writer without references to cornfields or cheese. Yes, that's a bit of a generalization, but not by much. That's why some writers leap out and stay front stage center, their unique regional voice.

You can't read Tennessee Williams and not think of New Orleans and genteel squalor or the excess and eccentricity of Eudora Welty's little confidences from her little backwater town. Flannery O'Connor and Harper Lee cannot be divorced from their southern roots or their stories from the towns and characters that give them life.

New Yorkers have as much regional voice as any southerner, deriving as much from their surroundings as their insular qualities that sever them completely from their hometowns. They are no longer from anywhere but New York and the cadence and timber of their stories rooted firmly, or as firmly as possible, in the steel, concrete and glass of their ever changing landscape of gallery openings and restaurants that last a hot New York second. The boroughs also have a voice of their own, New York chic polish over earthier tones.

The voice of the eastern seaboard, entrenched Yankee territory, is clipped and matter-of-fact with little tolerance for for anything that wastes time, money or words living as they do through harsh winters in isolated communities that have changed very little from Revolutionary days. They know how to pinch a penny and get value for it.

California has a voice all its own, all sunlight, sand, surf and mellow with more than the occasional New Age flight of kumbaya, while Texas is hot, dusty, rowdy and clad in cowboy boots with a gun strapped to the waist. The Texan voice is the biggest, best and bawdiest of all the American voices.

There are some softer regional voices, but you have to work hard to discern them without local references.

And New Orleans has a voice all its own, a polyglot melting pot of Cajun, Creole, French and any number of other incursions that is unique in its passion, heat and excess.

Some writers pick up flavors, literary tofu, borrowing spices,accents, references and colloquialisms from the regions they inhabit for a while, but they comprise the vast middle range where most writing is set, voices that reach everywhere and are universal in their appeal. They are the ambassadors of the word.

If asked to name my favorite, I could not choose just one. I love them all for their different qualities, suitable to my varied moods, and I delight in discovering new regional flavors and favorites. For now, I travel to New York to marvel at the towering structures glittering under the sun where millions climb skyward on a tiny island between the Hudson and East Rivers. Tomorrow, it's back to Paris.

Messy, wonderful and heartbreaking life

Since I didn't sleep well last night, this day has been endless. Chili Bob called me early this morning for our weekly chat, and I had to cut him short because my intestines sounded like a grinding gears about to explode and spew watery foulness everywhere. I made it -- just.

After all these years, Chili Bob and I have kept in close contact, through his surgeries and vacations, and my erratic travels and changes of address and phone numbers. There is seldom a week that goes by when we do not exchange some communication. When I lived in Hudson, he often came to visit when he was in the area. Toledo is pretty far from Hudson, but not so far that he couldn't drop by whenever he had the chance.

We both have friends we've known longer, but few have been as close as we are. There is nothing I can't tell him and nothing he won't tell me, and it's so easy being together -- or apart -- simply because we care for one another.

He keeps me up to date about his daughter Liz and all the important milestones in her life and his wife's milestones and low points, as well as his own. I do the same with him.

There are some friends I don't see or hear from as often, but we have had decades of experiences and adventures together that keep us connected.

You cannot help but be close to someone who has seen you in a bikini at sixteen or in the throes of a suicidal depression, from tears to laughter. In joyful times and times when you think you cannot go on because you've lost someone or something important, the friendship is tempered in the fires, and nothing, short of death, can come between you.

One thing I've learned is that friendship is easy as long as you treat people the way you want to be treated. However, if you're into misery and wallowing in depression, that brings up a whole other kind of relationship that has little to do with true friendship. Masochists and sadists leap into mind. Two masochists seldom make good friends and sadists end up trying to outdo each other until someone ends up hurt -- or dead.

It's really not about owing someone something, but about respect. When you care for someone, as a friend or a lover or family, respect should be uppermost in mind, even when the other person doesn't respect you. Above all, you should respect yourself first and respect the people around you, even when they don't seem to deserve respect, and we're back to that golden rule: Treat others as you would be treated.

What goes around comes around.

Chili Bob and I had a rocky beginning. He said I was as prickly as a porcupine. I was. I was wary of anyone who treated me nicely because I was certain (hard lessons from personal experience) that he was after something. He was being nice to me because he had a hidden agenda. I was snarky and he was polite. I answered in short bursts of terse emails and he persevered and treated me with kindness and respect. Eventually, I got the message. Good thing he didn't give up or we would not be friends now.

Few people have lived a perfect life of sweetness and light or have never been hurt or known a broken heart. It's inevitable wherever there is life. Zombies are a whole other subject. Life is full of surprises, adventures, mundane and dull days, repetition, horror, laughter, love, hatred, joy, depression, pain, heartache, jubilation and so much more. There are as many emotions and experiences as there are words to describe them, and they are all part of life, and friendship, and they are all risky. But without risk and possibility, life really isn't worth living.

Where there is light, there are shadows. Valleys require mountains. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. And that should be enough bromides and homilies for one day.

Basically, life is messy, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing, as long as you respect yourself and extend that respect to others. They might surprise you and give you respect in return.

Grammar: Here a comma, there a comma

A couple weeks ago I had to critique manuscript that was heavily salted with commas. It took me longer to read one page of that manuscript than it would take me to read half of Winnie the Pooh. Yes, I read Winnie the Pooh. Doesn't everyone. It reminded me of something transcribed from a William Shatner monologue.

"The needs, of the many, outweigh, the needs, of, the few, or the one." Puhleeze. There are times when commas are necessary and times when they are nothing more than William Shatner-isms and just as irritating.

Today, the subject is co-dependency in relation to sentences, and grammar, of course.

A dependent clause is a group of words with a subject and verb that do not express a complete thought.

When I lived in Panama dependent

When I lived in Panama, the jungle was about thirty feet from the house. complete sentence.

Notice the comma between the dependent clause and the rest of the sentence. The last part of the sentence could stand alone and that is an independent clause.

An independent clause is a subject, verb and object that can stand alone as a sentence.

The jungle was about thirty feet from the house. independent clause, complete sentence

A complex sentence is usually a mix of dependent and independent clauses. The dependent clauses will be marked in red and independent clauses will be marked in blue.

In view of the hardship imposed by higher taxes on citizens over seventy years of age, the government will impose a moratorium, however, not until the end of the current fiscal year.

If someone reaches the age of seventy after the proposed date, taxes will be deducted until the beginning of the new fiscal year.

It's really quite simple. If a clause can stand alone and is a complete thought, it is an independent clause. If it cannot, it is a dependent clause.

And if it is a dependent clause and is used as a complete sentence, it is either part of dialogue (people often speak in incomplete sentences and dependent clauses without the use of commas -- or taking a breath, which is the comma's original intended use) or the writer is either being stylish or trying to make a point.

The best way to figure out where a comma goes, especially in cases where independent and dependent clauses are concerned, is to read the sentences aloud. The ear is a good instrument for detecting comma placement -- unless you're William Shatner -- as are the lungs. If you have the lung capacity of a free diver, you're going to have problems with this method. The best thing to do is keep working at it and memorize the rules. Print them out and keep them close at hand when editing.

There are times when two independent clauses, or a combination of independent and dependent clauses require a semi-colon, but that is a subject for another day. Until next week, when we continue our comma coma, may all your grammar goofs be small ones.

Tarot: Drunk on the moon

One of the questions most writers are asked is "Where do you get your inspiration?" I usually respond by asking, "Where do you not find inspiration?" Maybe it is peculiar to writers, but everything I see, hear and read provides inspiration. Today, it's the tarot cards.

Nice segue, don't you agree?



"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb." Juliet, in Romeo and Juliet chided Romeo not to be inconstant like the moon who shows first one face and then another, much like most men believe women do. The moon -- and women -- are constant, although the light shines on them in varying degrees, sometimes in shadow and sometimes in full light. The moon reflects the sun's light, playing hide and seek with the sun, its opposite, behind Earth.

The moon speaks to the soul, stirring our deepest fears and haunting our nightmares. The moon also shines a light on our best dreams. It is a shining beacon in the night that inspires us to romance and changes the way we view the world and ourselves. Thomas Harris, through Hannibal Lecter, asked an FBI agent if they had seen blood outside under the moon. It's black, he said. Fresh blood is shiny, liquid night under the moon's glow. On the nights of the full moon snow is blue and the world is faintly tinged by blue light, a much smaller arc of the full spectrum of light that the sun provides. You must be careful when viewing anything under the moon's glow or listening to whispers in the night, they are shadowy messages that might not hold up in the full light of day.

Some believe the moon brings on madness -- lunacy (lunar madness) -- and some believe the moon calls forth the savage nature inherent in the soul. We can be certain of nothing under the moon's influence. It shows only half the story, half the truth, but where there is light, there is truth, and even a half truth can be more satisfying than a lie.

The card shows the moon above a clockwork chronometer that measures the movements of Sun, Earth and Moon, ticking away in measured movement. Yes, the moon shows us a different face every night, but it is the same face that a lunar month from now it will show us again. Everything that goes around comes around. As above, so below. What at first seems like deception and inconstancy is just the face of the moment, that point in an ever changing cycle that has at its heart a regularity by which clocks and stonehenges keep time.



Beneath the bloody light of dawn, a man kneels, hands clasped, grief clear upon his face. He is grieving, mourning a loss. Is his loss connected with the contents of the three cups that lay empty and on their sides next to him? Why does he not see the full cups behind him? He has not lost all, although the loss seems greater than he can bear. He is so sunk in despair and grief that he is oblivious to what he still has, to what he has always had.

When I look at the Five of Cups, I think of a man who has a good life. He is successful and he has been successful in his life, although not without sacrifice. He is a knight of middle years who has no doubt seen death and destruction, often at his own hands, through many wars, and he is still alive and well. Three-fifths of his life is gone and it seems he can see nothing but what is over and done. He cannot see that he still has two-fifths of his life to live, years full of happiness and joy, cups full to the brim that will satisfy his thirst and his needs. He is too sunk in misery to care or to see, concentrating on what he does not have instead of enjoying what he does have.

If his grief continues, he will waste his life in mourning, prolonging the drama and the grief until it is little more than a bid for attention, a minor melodrama blown up to the proportions of tragedy when there is no tragedy. Yes, he has lost someone or something dear to him, but so much more remains. The long night is over. The moon has set and there is daylight coming up over the horizon. Will he look up at the new day , drag himself up out of his depression and pick up the life remaining to him or will he choose passive suicide and deny himself the comfort that lies waiting within his reach?



There is no way to look at the Three of Cups and not be filled with excitement and laughter and pure joy? Three dancers dressed in bright colors celebrate the bounty of life and love. Blue is the color of the swords, the color of the sky, the element of air and inspiration. Green is the color of the bountiful earth, lush and fertile and full of life, the symbol of the pentacle and success. Red is the color of fiery passion and emotion, the symbol of the wands.

The cups overflow with golden waters, a fountain of youth and vigor, full of life and joy. This fountain of golden cups stands in the endless sea from which the depths of emotion flow. Emotional experience binds the past, present and future, giving birth to and nurturing inspiration until it becomes the achievements that bring joy and happiness. However, it takes time to celebrate and appreciate achievement, whether yours or someone else's, and attention must be paid. Acknowledge your own achievements, and do it with joy and true happiness, but don't forget to celebrate the achievements of those around you without rancor or jealousy. We are all connected, like the fountain of cups that support the graceful dance of air, earth and fire among the waters of eternity. To celebrate another's success does not lessen your own unless you ignore their pleasure to hoard what you have. Like seeds in a dank and cobwebbed cellar, nothing grows that stays in the dark underground. Seeds need light and warmth and water while they lie in the earth before they tap the energy at their heart and send forth tiny tendrils to seek out nourishment and the sun. Sitting on a dusty shelf, the seeds like dormant, their energy and life untapped, their potential wasted.

Don't focus on your own problems, no matter how pressing they may seem. Practice gratitude and reach beyond yourself and you will soon see what develops.

As I chose the cards for today's column, the overwhelming grief of the knight in the Five of Cups and the Moon card provided a strange sort of inspiration. I envisioned a man who had lost the love of his life. Kneeling by the deathbed of his lover, he swore to never see the sun again. He leaves her and sets fire to the house, the flames licking high in the blackness of the night toward the faint sliver of light on the night of the dark moon. It is a night of dark omens as he sets out in his limousine and orders his chauffeur to drive west, following the path of the moon. His driver keeps pace with the dark, shadowed orb above, chasing down the moon.

The man is wealthy, beyond wealthy, and he can afford to chase the moon. By plane, by ship and by car, he follows the moon around and around the globe, sleeping and eating when the demands of his body get beyond his control, but never seeing the sun again. Under cloudy skies or clear, always under the moon, he sails in the shadowy world of waxing and waning moonlight, a slave to his grief, trying to outrun the dawn. He knows deep in his mourning heart that if he fails and the sun rises, then his lover is indeed gone and he must go on without her. As long as he follows the moon and never lets her out of his sight, he is safe. The night will never end and time will forever stand still.

The waning moon, not far from full, filled my head with dark thoughts and, under its influence, I dreamed of shadows and grief. How do today's cards and the moon inspire you?

Lashing out

She is dressed in ruffled and flowing white, the gown falling off pale white shoulders glistening with sweat. Her hair, now flaccid damp curls and strings, is no longer hidden by the powdered wig that towered over and framed the virginal blush of her cheeks and the dark fringe modestly concealing the brilliant green of her eyes with fashionable curls flourishes. Fragile and softly rounded arms are corded with strain, her arms pinioned to two columns. Chains clank as she moves with each searing bite of the blood-slimed whip that whistles through the air before it cuts into the crimson-ribboned curve of her back, bare above the waist. She bites her lip and smiles in ecstasy, caught in the grip of la petite mort, the little death. She gasps softy and sighs, riding the ebb and flow of smoldering passion, meeting each thrust with an eager, welcoming embrace.

This is the scene in a forgettable, and forgotten movie, Waxwork and Deborah Foreman is the formidable actress who elevated this campy 1988 flick from pedestrian to something very special. Not even the performances of John Rhys-Davies, David Warner, Patrick McNee, the male half of The Avengers, or the sexy and handsome Miles O'Keeffe could elevate this beyond second rate C movie fare. It is Deborah Foreman's performance at the end of the Marquis de Sade's whip that makes Waxwork special.

Even if you're not a fan of sadomasochism and don't get a dark thrill from seeing a girl dangling between strong supports while she's whipped, this is something you should not miss. The other scenes in the waxworks that come to life -- Dracula's castle, the werewolf's cabin in the woods or the pharaoh's tomb -- don't have the sensual and riveting quality of the Marquis de Sade's dungeon. Check it out and let me know if you agree. I'll understand if you don't.

That is all. Disperse.

A Facebook event on marketing fiction

On Wednesday, August 19th at 11 a.m. EST, web marketing guru, Cathy Stucker,
will post on my Facebook wall (Jackie M. Cornwell, Colorado Springs)and impart
some of her marketing wisdom for authors of fiction of all genres. She's going to show us how to use nonfiction techniques to sell fiction. You can check Cathy out ahead of time at Selling Books.

As one author recently told me, once your book is published, the real work
begins - selling. Cathy Stucker is going to show us how.

Pass the news around and I hope to see you all share your questions. Cathy
Stucker will be around on and off all day on August 19th respond to your questions and
comments.

See you there.On Wednesday, August 19th at 11 a.m. EST, web marketing guru, Cathy Stucker, will visit here on the Wall and impart some of her marketing wisdom for authors of fiction of all genres.

See you there.

Halley's comet filled my sky

It's Monday so it's time to talk about exorcisms, garlic, wolf's bane and promotions. What? You don't think they have a connection? They do . . . at least in my mind. I have a tendency to make unusual connections, but that's how most of my writing begins -- unusual connections.

Demon possession, vampires and werewolves are not the only links between the above. I can exorcise a negative influence, or someone who takes me for granted. Garlic is great with almost everything, especially for making fresh tzatziki to go with fresh falafel, and wolf's bane blooms at night and has beautiful flowers with an exotic scent. It's all in how you look at things. So, what do promotions have to do with all of that? How about promoting a live Q&A with a published author whose work touches on those subjects -- or doesn't? Curious? Good. An announcement is coming that will change the way you think about nonfiction, fiction and promoting books that will thrill the hearts of all the writers out there. I know because mine is quite excited. Nothing like giving something back to the industry. Until the announcement, that will have to do, but if you don't have a Facebook account, you have about a week to get one set up and let me know about it or you will surely miss out.

I have been having strange dreams and most of them center around men. Yes, there is sex involved (it's summer and there's always sex involved), but that's not the common theme. The common theme seems to be acceptance and desire for my company.

There are times when I long for a full time companion. Most of the time, however, I am glad I'm single, especially now when I have to put so much energy into promoting my writing and my new, light on the romance novel. I don't think I could deal with anyone else's needs when the book takes most of my time and energy -- when I'm not earning a living and taking time out for food and rest, and the frequent occasional cold shower. It's summer and I get hot and sweaty; cold showers help keep me from boiling over, especially after a long night of dreaming. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

In short, I don't have time for anything or anyone that pulls my focus from the task at hand, so I've made a list of people and things to put on a shelf until I have the time to give the kind of attention needed. This is why I don't have pets.

It seems a cut throat and cold way of handling things, but I prefer to think of it as honest. If something or someone is more of a hindrance than a help and require me to expend too much energy that could be used better elsewhere, it's kinder to cut them loose for a while. Think of it like Halley's comet.

For a while, Halley's comet with its long white tail streaking behind it in its spectacular progress across the sky both night and day is all we can see when we look up. The familiar stars are still there, but we know they will be there when Halley's comet is gone. It is, for most people, a once in a lifetime occurrence that must be experienced fully. It is a story to hand down to children and grandchildren and memorialized in prose, poetry and music. Attention must be paid.

I saw Halley's comet several years ago, wandering out into the street to gaze up with breathless awe during the day and standing outside at night for hours marveling at this miracle that was once considered the harbinger of death, destruction and evil. I remembered Mark Twain at those moments because he was born when Halley's comet passed over his home and died when the comet returned, his life marked by that spectacle like book ends to his life.

Mark Twain loved his family and his idyllic splendor, preferring the round of social visits and writing in the gazebo on his spacious lawn to the lecture circuits that made him famous or the business of publishing his own books. He would have preferred to spend his days with his family writing and entertaining, but writing is a business and to succeed sacrifices must be made. He sacrificed the company of family and friends to do what he hated most, lecture on his books and stories. It is the same for any writer wanting to make his work a success. Whatever takes away from the primary goal of making a novel a success must be sacrificed. That doesn't mean dropping out of sight and ignoring everyone, just those who do not contribute some positive influence.

After the dream I had last night, I realize that is what I must do today, cut away negative influences, black holes, that suck away my energy and time and give nothing in return. The transition will be instantaneous for me and probably go unremarked by those so influenced. That's the way of life. We are often so caught up in our own needs and the demands of work, family and personal pleasure that we forget about everything and everyone else. I get that. Now, it's my turn to make new friends, forge links with other writers and authors and move on with the business of success. I will still be available for some people, but others will find me conspicuously absent for a while. If you, like the stars I so love to watch and ignored when Halley's comet passed this way, are still there when I have time again, I'll be glad to see you. If not, well, some people and things were never meant to last. People come and opportunities go and the important ones make themselves known.

That is all. Disperse.

Bike riding hell spawn

Dawn has cracked the horizon with a loud and sonic crack that makes me squint my sleep-gummed eyes and sniff back the congestion muddling my brain. I feel fuzzy and my eyes are beginning to water in the horrendously cheery dawn. Someone turn off the lights or at least put a shade over it so I can sniff and squint in peace.

I have just crossed over the threshold and landed securely in cranky old lady land. Three boys, who believe that the big old mound of dirt and the two boards still straddling the hole over my sewage system after nearly six months is a launching ramp, were clattering over the boards and flying up over the mound of dirt that has slowly diminished in the rains, seeping and weeping down over the parking lot in a flood that courses into the city's sewers. The fluorescent yellow star bursts painted on the blacktop haven't faded, but at least I know what happened to the sunflowers I planted on the mound of dirt that used to be part of railroad tie bordered planter on the front side of the house. Those boys.

While sitting on the toilet, the boy and bike-shaped shadows whizzing by the translucent window caught my attention. I opened the window and there they were about to launch yet another airborne foray over the dirt mound, crushing the budding life of yet more seedlings.

"You boys need to stop doing that." They looked at me with the sneering contempt rowdy boys always favor the hopelessly old.

"Why? Is the dirt yours?"

Let's see. It's sitting next to my house and the boards run across the parking lot and up to my house, so, ignorant hell spawn... "Yes, it's mine. Those boards are over a large hole that goes down to the sewer system. If those boards give way, you'll get hurt. Stop riding your bikes over it or I'll call the police."

The boys shared a secret contemptuous glance and rode away . . . just out of sight . . . as I shut the window and finished nature's call. Whiz. Clatter. Airborne shouts of 14-year-old glory. One. Two. Three. All right. It's time to call the police.

As I answered the dispatcher's questions and waited for what seems like pregnant pauses gone into double digit overtime, the boys disappeared. Evidently, their last ride over the mound was their assertion of their belief that they could get in one more "screw you, old lady" ride before the police came. The dispatcher said that if I couldn't describe them and they were gone for now, the police department would do nothing. "How about keeping an eye on things while cruising through the neighborhood?" The eye rolling was audible even over the static-crackled line. Right.

Almost six months that degrading pile of straggling weeds has sat with its sad little white flag outside my bathroom window. The landlord said it would be gone before this, but someone screwed up because it's still there. The plumber needs to mark out the route of the bathroom sewage line, but it's marked out. The plumber needs to drop in a clean-out drain, but that hasn't been done. The dirt and debris are still there outside the window like a juvenile delinquent magnet for kids who should be playing in one of the parks up the street or some derelict property overlooked by broken windows and fire blackened trusses about to give way, not here.

On the positive side, at least they are no longer launching their bikes off my front deck any more. At least that is something. I wonder how much rebar I can get to plant upright in the dirt mound and provide a hazard to bike traffic? I could always get out there with the gardening trawl and dig troughs in the pile so that it collapses when they launch their bikes or take the boards away and let nature fill the gaping gash in the sewer line that runs beneath my plantar box or booby trap them in such a way they collapse or threaten to topple those brats into the still open hole in the sewer line, except that would add danger to an already attractive bike launch into space. No, best to keep the cops on speed dial and keep a camera handy to take their pictures so I can give an accurate description of their underwear hanging out the backs of their low riding surfer shorts and the tattoos on their contemptuous, gap-toothed, grinning faces. A picture is worth a thousand words and will get better results with the police.

That is all. Disperse.

Grammar: Clauses and phrases and commas, oh my!

As promised, today is another grammar day featuring -- commas.

Introductory causes

If using an introductory cause, you need to use a comma. Common starter words include after, although, as, because, if, since, when and while.

Because it is my turn, I'll take it now.
As if in grief, the paid mourners howled.
When I was a little girl, I was expected to be seen and not heard.

However, and you just knew there would be, if you turn these sentences around, no comma is needed because they are dependent (subordinate) clauses.


I'll take it now because it is my turn.
The paid mourners howled as if in grief.
I was expected to be seen and not heard when I was a little girl.

Turning this sentence around still requires a comma, even though it is a dependent clause, because it is an extreme contrast.

Although I have published articles, this is my first novel.

This is my first novel, although I have published articles.

It gets confusing when you add words like subordinate, participial and infinitive phrases, absolute phrases, nonessential appositive phrases and long prepositional phrases. Sometimes it confuses me.

Having set the table, she began to eat.
To get a hug, you must be willing to give a hug.
After dinner but before supper, I'll clean the andirons.
The water pouring off his body, Colin Firth's shirt clung to his chest like a second skin.

Introductory words, like well, yes, however, and so, should be followed by a comma.

Well, my mother does call me quite a bit.
Yes, she is nosy.
However, she is excited about having a published author in the family,
So, I talk to her.

And that is it for today. Well, continue this coma-inducing comma session next week. In the meantime, enjoy the weekend and may all your grammar problems be small ones. When in doubt, check it out.

Grammar: Commas, commas everywhere

A comma can change the whole meaning of a sentence, sometimes with disastrous or life-saving consequences. For instance:

Czarina Maria Fyodorovna once saved the life of a man by transposing a single comma in a warrant signed by her husband, Alexander III, which exiled a criminal to imprisonment and death in Siberia. On the bottom of the warrant the czar had written: `Pardon impossible, to be sent to Siberia.' The czarina changed the punctuation so that her husband's instructions read: `Pardon, impossible to be sent to Siberia.' The man was set free.

One book, Eats, Shoots & Leaves, the no nonsense approach to punctuation, is a prime example. Move the comma and change the meaning of the sentence.

Eats, shoots and leaves. You just know someone is getting shot after dinner.

Eats shoots and leaves. Without the comma, it is apparent whatever is described, in this case a panda bear, has specific dietary needs.

Simply put, commas can create havoc or make things clearer and easier to read. That's what Shakespeare intended when, as the story goes, the comma came into use during his time to help actors deliver their lines without muddling the meaning. A pause -- and that is what a comma indicates -- can be dramatic, pregnant or clear as crystal, conferring emotional weight.

We will take this slowly and give you a few things to remember, but by the time we are done, you will have a firmer grasp of commas. Let's start with the easy bits first.

Essential and non-essential

1) My sister, in the red dress, is very much the clothes hound. (The red dress is not essential to the meaning.)

2) My sister in the red dress is very much the clothes hound. (I am pointing out one of two sisters, so the red dress is essential to the meaning.)

Closely tied and not closely tied

1) My brother Jimmy has two daughters and a son (closely tied)

2) Shadow, the black cat I adopted, liked to sleep on the desk when I worked at the computer. (not closely tied)

In the first sentence the name is needed to identify the word, brother. In the second sentence, Shadow is not needed to identify the black cat I adopted.

Series and connected words

This is a simple one. For writers, it often depends on the publication as to which rule is used.

1) The patient complained of vomiting, nausea, chills, fever, rigors, aches, and pain. This is a common one for me and I abide by the rules for the company, the hospital and the style guide for medical transcription, and thus a comma is used before the last word int he series.

2) Your chores today include washing the dishes, laundry, vacuuming, dusting and washing the windows. Leaving out the comma before the and and the last word in the series is the most common usages. This does change with some publications, so check their guidelines and check the listed style guide.

The use or lack of a comma in a series depends entirely on style guides, of which there are several, and space constraints. Some publications don't want a comma before the last item in a series and some do. The difference came about when publications conserving space deleted the last comma. In writing, more often than not, the last comma is left out and its use considered subjective. It's best to check first, especially when writing for professional magazines, papers or newspapers just to be sure. In this case, the lack or use of a comma doesn't change anything, but the look. The meaning is intact either way.

So ends our first foray into the world of the comma.

Tarot: Truth, Strength and Success

One thing I've found is that the more I use the tarot cards to create stories and backgrounds for characters, the more I discover about myself. Like most writers, a piece of me and bits and shards of my life are interred in each story. Using the tarot cards helps me to see which bits work and which shine a light on the right path.

I've sometimes considered writing a story about a writer -- nothing new there -- who feels they are disappearing with everything they publish, nibbling away at their essence to create art and worlds that will spin on after the writer is gone. Immortality through writing, although that is more difficult these days with more and more people deciding they want to write and publishing their tales. With the current technologies that is becoming easier all the time. Those who would have kept their stories to themselves or hidden them between the pages of notebooks, diaries and journals stuffed into shoe and hat boxes, buried in drawers and boxes or saved onto disks for computers long gone when the writer upgraded. It has probably always been that way, but more people believe their work should be published and take advantage of the technology and send their fancies, fantasies and dreams speeding along the information highway and sometimes into print for a price. It is their truth and they want to show it to the world.

One man's truth is not another's. Truth can be subjective, depending on your point of view.




The hermit carries a lamp. Caped and cowled he prowls the streets and alleys looking for an honest man, looking for truth.

Diogenes he was called, a cynic who looked for something beyond the reach of his lamp, steadying his journey with a staff, the only flash of color the cord around his waist. The Hermit's lamp is the light of acquired knowledge, his staff the power of his will and the red cord about his waist the passion that drives his search. The truth the hermit seeks is the truth that speaks to him, the truth that resolves the clamor in his heart and makes him whole. He must be careful not to become entrenched in his search or too sure of his knowledge for there lies dogma and stagnation. Ever vigilant, the Hermit seeks for the truth of his soul, trusting himself and what he knows to get him farther down the pathway.

"The Cynics rejected all conventions, whether of religion, manners, housing, dress, or decency, advocating the pursuit of virtue in a simple and [non-materialistic] lifestyle." You could say those who press for the world to go green are cynics in a sense, casting aside the materialistic trappings of the modern world in favor of a gentler and simpler approach to life and sustenance, returning to the earth for nourishment and the bounties of the rivers, lakes, seas, winds and geothermal properties of this planet for a sustainable answer to comfort against the cold of winter and the stifling heat of summer. Like any truth, there is always another angle, another side to the multi-faceted jewel of truth. Be careful not to become trapped inside it.



This strong lady has the powerful lion on a chain held loosely in her hand, almost carelessly, as though she neither leads the lion nor follows him. She is not careless of her hold on her animal passions and has learned to use the strength they give her power and courage when they are needed. Her strength is not immediately evident, except in her direct and clear gaze, and is demonstrated subtly and quietly, like the feeling of a lover's or friend's hand when your own are trembling. That soft, calm touch is sometimes all that is needed to rally the spirit and stiffen the spine when facing a trial. It is the powerful muscles and sinews of a lioness hunting, at first alert and almost languid when roused to action, always aware of her surroundings, the direction of the wind and the resources of her prey. She holds her instincts in check, reining in her passion for the hunt, until it's time to spring into action and bring down the quarry, a symphony of grace, instinct and strength unrivaled.




The Six of Pentacles is a picture of success and open-handed largess. This man is successful and willing to share his wealth with those around him. He is a benevolent man who believes in fair trade. He's not out to cheat anyone; that is not how he became wealthy and successful. He recognizes the responsibility of his wealth and his success to give back a little of what he has honestly earned.

He shares his success without strings or conditions and is most likely a little uncomfortable receiving compliments or gifts in exchange for his favor. It's a small failing considering all the good he can do and has done. A momentary prickle of embarrassment he covers by offering a helping hand or a cup of water or wine to those who need it. He is no fool, nor will he be made a fool by those who seek to cheat him or take advantage. He is a moderate man who can be aroused to anger or disappointment to be so used.

In these cards is the story of a seeker, a woman who has followed the path of knowledge but is not without her charms. She is not ruthless, but she is determined and strong, although you would not know it to look at her. She is canny and can spot the smallest flaw or make a connection where none seemed to exist before.

This time she is after a rare map that is considered a forgery, but her researches indicate that in the proper light the map will lead her to the find of a lifetime. She's had a successful career, so it's not about the riches or the fame. It's about adding to her knowledge and deciphering the clues that have eluded her and countless other seekers.

The journey is dangerous and arduous, but she is well aware of her strengths and weaknesses and has taken time to cover all her bases with an experienced support crew that she pays very well -- for their secrecy and their expertise. When she finds the prize at the end of the journey, it will add to her knowledge and the knowledge of the rest of the world, something she will share without hesitation, for the prize belongs to the world. History will yield up its secrets to her because she has marked the path well and is certain of her success. She has prepared well and left nothing to chance.

Anxious to begin her journey, she waits for the right time of the year and the right conditions. What she seeks has been hidden for centuries, a few more days or weeks won't matter in the end for she is the handmaiden of fate and she will succeed.

What story can you weave from these images and insights? What will they say about you -- and to you?

Hoary acquaintances

It's kind of amazing -- and energizing -- to see your own novel in print.

I've been dragging my feet about working on the latest project and haven't felt much like writing anything. There's also the problem of finding time among all the marketing and promotional work I have been doing. Even writing here has been difficult to squeeze in because of all the work involved. In case you didn't notice, I didn't have time to write a grammar post last week, so I'll make it up this week by making two grammar posts -- one on Thursday and another on Friday. It will be the beginning of a multi-part series on the comma. It was a request and so far there's a lot more to that sprawling period than is visible on first glance -- a lot more. Since there's so much to the subject, I decided to break it down into manageable bites so no one, including me, chokes.

One perk of working on promotions and marketing is rediscovering old friends and letting them know what I've been doing for the past however many years. Another perk is other people I haven't heard from in ages contacting me because they heard, read or found out about the book. One such long lost connection contacted me on Saturday. We spent two hours on the phone, after exchanging numbers, catching up, and she asked me a big favor, a big paid favor.

She googled me and found a lot of my writing out there (there's a lot to find) before contacting me and, during the conversation asked me if I'd be willing to turn her screenplay into a novel. There was a momentary urge to say yes, but it was quickly smothered by the weight of work I already have pending. I said I didn't have the time now. She said she'd wait.

She and I worked on a screenplay many years ago, about two decades plus. It never went anywhere. I'm not completely comfortable with screenplay formatting, but it's something I can do when necessary. I'm more familiar with the formatting for plays, of which I've edited, revised and written a few. That, too, was many years ago, a part of my varied and diverse past. Still, it was flattering for her to ask, especially after she quoted some of my writing back to me and mentioned some of my work that she'd read. She's a tough nut, she is, and comes from a long and interesting background in the movies. She's been in a couple and worked as a directorial assistant to Francis Ford Coppola on a couple of films, the first being One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest in which she also played a minor role.

Novelizing her screenplay is something to consider, but not while the muse is bubbling and sending new thoughts and dialogue into my head at all hours.

That's the thing about having a novel published and just out, at least for me, it's a great boost to pending projects. All kinds of plot points, characterization and dialogue keep flashing through my mind and the knot on the third finger of my right hand (I am right-handed) is getting a workout and becoming almost permanently indented from jotting down notes in the midst of so much other work. I can hardly sleep for wanting to get up and write, but I force myself to plunge back into the misty depths as soon as I've jotted down what the muse forces on me in my sleep. It's almost legible.

Mom called me yesterday with a contest to win your dream and I dutifully took down the information, but I already have the first part of my dream. The rest will come in time as long as I keep my nose to the grindstone and get the word out to as many people as I can about Past Imperfect.

You knew I couldn't go a whole post without mentioning the title.

I don't have a publicist, although I wish I did, but I do have some time not currently optioned by work, chores, writing, eating and sleeping and all of that goes into marketing and promotions. I don't want to be a one book wonder. There are so many wonders in my literary Aladdin's cave of dreams. On the other hand, winning that contest would mean I'd have enough money to hire a publicist and boost sales. That's part of my dream, too. Well, that and the cabin in the mountains and being financially secure enough to quit my day job and just write. Maybe then the muse will let me sleep and reserve her inspiration for my waking hours.

A shot across the bow

I've been swamped with work and getting marketing together for Past Imperfect, but it seems to be paying off. My publisher, L&L Dreamspell just sent me the link to my first review. Past Imperfect got 4.5 out of 5 stars. I'm pleased.

I'm ecstatic.

I'm high on ecstatic pleasure.

When I called Beanie to tell her she told me about her visit to the dentist. Eww, right? Wrong. She took my book with her and was reading it in the waiting room, carrying it with her when she sat in the dentist's chair. He asked her about the book and she told him her sister -- that would be me -- wrote it and that it is a romance. He said he and his wife would love to read it and asked how to get it. She gave him directions and he said he and his wife would have to have their own copies. Two more sales. Not much in the scheme of things, but one person became two and those two, if they like the book will mean more people. Who knows? My book may go viral.

It could happen.

Anyway, I'm off to spread the news. Happy Monday to everyone and don't give up on your dreams. It may take a while, but if you don't let go, they turn into books with good reviews. My first review is good so I can handle the bad ones now -- and they will come.

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot: Magical Mystery Tour

There are men who have the world by the tail and then there are men who just think they do. Which one are you? Oh, it goes for women, too.

Some women project an aura of confidence and expertise; they don't feel it inside. In the deep recesses of their hearts and minds, they are weak, ineffectual frauds who have learned how to fool the world, and sometimes themselves, into believing they are more competent, more self assured, more real than they are. They are magicians. If you look closely, you'll see these magicians aren't really good at their tricks. There's a card peeking out of their sleeve or the tail of a handkerchief cooing softly. Their magic is nothing more than illusion, not like the beginning of today's tarot post.



Look closely at the magician. He is he second card in the tarot deck, behind the fool who begins his journey will little experience and knowledge, but is game for anything. However, the magician's number is one (1) and he knows the secrets of the universe, can balance all four elements -- fire, earth, air and water -- and knows the best way to mesmerize you and put you under his spell. Or does he? Never forget the reversed card signifies a scoundrel, con-man, grifter or incompetent magician who just cannot seem to get his timing or his tricks straight.

The compelling gaze of the magician assures you he is aware of the laws of cause and effect and that he is in control. He is disciplined and responsible with the power he controls withing and between his hands with the tools at his disposal. He is focused and has honed his skills to a keen edge, yet he is aware of how much control to exert and that manipulating such power can blind him to the realities around him.

The magician is the messenger of the gods and he embodies the spirit of Mercury with his winged heels and hat as he flits between earth and the Olympian heights. When he delivers his message he never stammers or fumbles over the words; he has the patter down cold. He is a master of misdirection with the self confidence, talent, will and cunning to turn the world upside down, turn lead into gold and hearts to putting in his capable hands. Be careful how you deal with this magic man because he can see through your tricks and behind masks. The master magician knows the difference between illusion and reality whether it's his own or someone else's.



Even though the man in the Seven of Wands faces danger and a strong opponent, he is strong and brave and can face the odds in any conflict. He is practiced in the art of war and he will succeed in whatever war he enters. Though the enemy threatens, this warrior is certain of his strength and will, but don't look beneath the surface. The strength he projects covers his deep lack of understanding of what he guards. Behind the door is a balcony and night has fallen. He has nowhere to go but down and he probably doesn't realize it as he focuses on his opponents and relies on his mastery of the weapon he wields. This warrior doesn't fear attack to his beliefs. He is on solid ground. His beliefs are simple: serve, protect and don't question, and yet he is capable of change. He knows it never hurts to examine his position because it will add to his knowledge and his ability to defend his position, his beliefs or his country. He is not an obstinate child. He is willing to admit defeat when he's wrong and refine his position and he never gives up because he's afraid. There is nothing to fear in knowledge, except the lack of it. He is a staunch ally.



It is said that opposites attract. The Chariot could be seen as the opposite of the Magician.

Here is a woman of power so profound that she moves forward through all obstacles. The sun above her is the sign of immense power and focus and yet she is busy looking off in another direction. In her royal purple robes, she is ruler of all she surveys, but she is distracted, a little off balance, as she looks away from her chosen path. Don't get the idea she isn't in control; she is always in control -- most of the time. She is a woman with a strong will, but she has achieved her strength and her position without really understanding it. She has the ability to maintain order in the midst of chaos, but she lacks focus.

The sphinxes that pull her chariot are adept with riddles. One is silver and the other gold, opposites or opposing ideas, but they continue to move forward, posing their riddles to all who cross their path just as Oedipus once did. Oedipus was luckier than most. He solved the sphinx's riddle. Will you be so lucky when you find yourself in the path of this juggernaut?

Don't worry. You can do more and are more than you know. Set your goals and keep going. Don't stop moving forward. Don't stop learning because no matter what you know, or think you know, there is always more to learn and accomplish. You are in the driver's seat.

These three cards suggest a story. On one hand, there is a strong and confident man, sure of his abilities who is confident he can achieve whatever he chooses. He is adept and his skills are hard won, but he knows that there is nothing he tries that he cannot achieve, that is until he meets with a woman who is as strong and confident as he. She is his match in almost every way, but one. She doesn't want to settle down. She is a traveler, a seeker, a woman of power and privilege who intimidates most people, but not him. She is independence and spirited with a taste for adventure and conquest. He understands conquest because he has conquered himself and the elements. He is a scientist or doctor at the top of his profession. She is earthier and more basic, goal oriented, but easily distracted, and he finds that he wants to catch her attention. This is a mystery he is anxious to solve, if he can just get past her defenses and gain her attention long enough to get her focused on him so he can discover the secret she is determined to guard -- from him and from herself.

The thing about using tarot cards to help lay the groundwork for writing is that the cards provide the seeds and you determine how and where they grow. What these particular cards suggest to me this morning may not be what they will suggest tomorrow, next week or even next month. Each moment, each experience changes us and how we view the world around us. A casual conversation, a phrase or an idea can grow into so much more. When it happens to me I write it down, especially when I'm working on something else (I don't want to lose it), and sometimes I find a way to fit it into my current work in progress (WIP). Stretch your mind and the possibilities. Don't be afraid to step back or look away for a few minutes. There's now way to know what will change or how it will change if you're willing to stop and take a breath before continuing on your way.

For instance, Mary Ann and I were talking the other day and she mentioned that athletes inhabit their bodies differently than non-athletes. As I watched part of Brideshead Revisited last night a stray thought burrowed down and came up this morning into a new thought. It's not just athletes, but people from all walks of life that inhabit their bodies -- or skin -- in a palpably different way. You can tell the difference between someone who is comfortable with wealth and someone who recently became wealthy just as you can tell when a couple are close and when they're at odds. They don't have to say anything. It is in the way they move -- alone or together. Body language is more accurate than words most of the time. The trick for writers is to take body language and infuse it into their characters, help them inhabit their bodies more believably. Writers are magicians, but they can be adept or fumble their tricks. It's all all about practice and observation and knowing how to inhabit your body and how your characters inhabit theirs.

Until next week, what will the tarot cards reveal about your characters?

True life romances

The first time they saw each other, they were eleven years old. He wore horn rimmed glasses and a boy scout uniform and she wore a dress and pressed her sweaty palms together as she struggled for a smile. Out of the whole class, he was the only one she saw. She didn't know what he saw, but he looked at her; the whole class looked at her.

Over the next few months he gave shy signs that he liked her. He even talked to her while she was on safety patrol duty. He never said anything out loud or gave her a clear sign. He thought she was out of his league and she thought he didn't like here that much.

At the end of the year, they went to different junior high schools and spun into different orbits, until one day they met by accident and he talked about John Denver's songs. She was interested and he offered to bring over his albums. She agreed and he came over.

Focused on the music, he didn't notice she kept looking at his lips and wondering why she ever thought he couldn't kiss. That disastrous party a few years ago when he chose her while playing This and That and she described his kisses as a wet washrag were forgotten. Something about the way he smiled, one side of his lips quirked higher than the other, giving him a sweet, lopsided grin, convinced her that he knew how to kiss, but he didn't offer. She didn't offer either. She listened to the haunting strains of Rocky Mountain High and the evocative call of Take Me Home, Country Roads and wished that he would sing Annie's Song to her. He didn't offer. She didn't ask. And he went home.

High school was a blur of activities and whenever they met, they smiled and nodded, muttered a few pleasantries and spun into different orbits. She usually knew where he was, but was caught up in the trials and tribulations of raging hormones and high school social and academic politics. They spun into farther orbits when high school ended, she to marriage, children, divorce and work and he into another galaxy.

Little did they knew that their orbits spun closer together than they knew, like comets traveling similar vectors or binary stars without a clear line of sight. Time and tides brought them withing miles of each other time and again until the Universe, tired of waiting for the inevitable collision, pushed them closer.

Traversing distance, time and circumstance, he reached out and she responded, finally traveling an orbit that would lead to a closer orbit, and they orbited with joy, surprise, and unspoken passion that crackled in the air between them until a death brought them closer. It took over forty years, but they finally collided and the sparks flew.

People, unlike celestial bodies, have a mind of their own, and tend to change course when you least expect them. People don't realize the necessity, the inevitable and inescapable magnetic attraction of two souls in harmony. It frightens them and leads them to race to escape orbit. Some comets and stars are meant to collide, to share the same orbit, and so are some people.

This couple were meant to share the same orbit and eventually they did -- and do. Other forces pull them in opposite directions, but they keep coming back together, the attraction too strong to resist. That's the way it has always been and will always be. Some things -- and relationships -- are inevitable.

Back scratching

I'm still a little high from seeing and handling the copies of my novel. It's a heady feeling seeing my name on the cover of the book, reading the acknowledgments and the dedication and seeing the cute little airplane at the end of my bio on the last page. I always believed it was real; holding the book in my hands makes it even more real. It's a feeling I hope I never lose no matter how many of my books are published. It's better than drugs and almost better than sex. Sex while holding my book and reading from it might just be the best of both worlds. Now the real work begins.

I've always believed that a writer's work ended with the finished manuscript and once it was in the hands of the printer and publicist I could go on to the next project. I'm hopelessly old fashioned in that belief. This should have happened to me when I was in my twenties and early thirties because I was more amenable to public appearances and doing stints as a carny barker. I'm not so interested in the limelight, preferring my words to take center stage while I hang out in the wings. That's not the way it works nowadays because the world is upside down and inside-out.

The mere whisper of rumor that Stephen King, David Baldacci, Stephanie Meyer or J. K. Rowling has a new book out is enough to send fans to the bookstores to camp out and line up around down the street and around the block for miles the day before the release. Online book buyers order copies well in advance of release. There is no need for the publishers to throw tens of thousands of dollars at public relations firms and publicists to promote the books. The market is there and it's a strong market. That is not so for the up and coming or mid list writers. PR dollars for their books are in short supply, and no wonder since publishers offer six- and seven-figure advances at celebrities who seldom, if ever, make back their advances and the big PR dollars go to authors who've already made international names for themselves. Who would want to miss a new book by David Eddings or Christopher Moore or the latest Harry Potter adventure, sadly now finished? That's where the upside down and inside-out focus comes in.

If publishers spent their PR dollars wisely, they would realize that the big name writers who've been selling millions of books for a few decades aren't going to be around forever and when they are gone the mid list and up and coming authors are all publishers will have left. It's only good business to look to the future and that future is in the hands of mid list and new writers, so why not spend those megabuck PR funds on promoting the next generation of writers? Put a little power behind them and publishers would have a growing list of writers who soon will be on a level with best selling authors and be the fuel that keeps the publishing engine humming at a brisk pace. There is no sense promoting authors that need no promotion and denying promotion to authors whose work is good, but needs a bit of marketing. All that is left is for authors to give up their precious writing time to promote their books if they want publishers to continue to buy their writing.

That's what I'm facing right now. L & L Dreamspell is a small publisher, but a legitimate royalty paying publisher. They don't have the budget to put on splashy PR campaigns and it's up to the authors -- to me -- to promote my books and make money for the publisher and for me. I already have a day job, review books and do critiques in addition to my writing and I don't have time for promotion and yet I have no choice if I want my book to succeed. That means contacting reviewers, bookstores, book clubs and anywhere there could be a market to publicize and sell my novel. That takes time, time I don't really have to spare if I am to keep on top of my other obligations and continue writing and editing more books to be published. There are only so many hours in the day and I do have to sleep to continue to function at a level anywhere near normal. Getting older means I need less sleep, but some sleep is still required.

I spent a good part of last night and this morning contacting reviewers and bookstores and sending out releases, scheduling chats and interviews, and doing all the things a publicist should do so I can get back to the business of writing. Something has to give. It will probably be housework and laundry because I cannot shirk my other responsibilities and stay afloat. So, I turn to you for suggestions and to help me get the word out. For those of you who are writers, what goes around comes around.

Since the publishing community has put us on the back burner in favor of the big name, best selling authors, we have to band together and promote for each other. As you promote my books, I will promote yours. Get the word out. Send links, talk about the book, get people interested. Every little bit helps. I only wish I could follow Mark Twain's lead and put books in the hands of door-to-door salesmen working on commission who will crisscross the nation selling my novel. Unfortunately, most people have "no salesmen" signs on their doors or aren't even home and they're all tired of telemarketers, and we're back to helping each other. If a couple videotaping their creative and fun dance down the aisle at their wedding, it shouldn't be too difficult to get the word out that books are not just for geeks.

Past Imperfect is already for sale at Amazon (and it's been discounted) and will be available on Kindle within the next few days. It will also be available as an e-book to download from Fictionwise on Monday, August 3, 2009 and will be available through Barnes & Noblesome time in the next few days.

Reviews help, but the only real way to make a book successful is to get the news out to the public. We don't have big publishers or their megabucks for PR, but we can go viral one writer and one book at a time. It all adds up. In the meantime, while you're scratching my back, let me know where I need to scratch yours. As always, we're all in this together.

That is all. Disperse.

Broke but happy

Friends and family have called and emailed to tell me they got their copies of Past Imperfect. Seven minutes after Beanie called Mom called to ask where hers is. She didn't buy one yet, so she won't get it until she does, but I got mine. Actually, I got five copies of my novel and a t-shirt and a the cover and a brand new, freshly minted dollar bill in a frame (the glass was trashed) and a little bag of goodies and 50 posters and a big neat dark blue canvas bag and an advance check. Not a bad haul, but I'm a little bummed about the glass, especially since the box was marked FRAGILE and it looks like someone stomped on the box and destroyed the glass. I'll have to see if the USPS will buy new glass or if I will have to do it, but as soon as I do tomorrow, it goes on the wall. My first dollar earned from my first published novel -- and there's more to come.

You can get your copies of Past Imperfect at Amazon.com. Hurry while the supplies last.

That is all. Disperse.