Creative Stretching

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living.

Things to do in bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family fun and frolics

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

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

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

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

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

"How long, Mom?"

"Past his collar."

"Like a mullet?"

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

"Has he decided to become a hermit?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh, that's a good idea."

"Which one?"

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

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

"Sixteen."

"So what is 31 ounces?"

"One ounce shy of a quart."

"Then how many ounces in a gallon?

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is all. Disperse.

The gods are watching -- and meddling

Sometimes I get ahead of myself, double checking facts and data and still getting things wrong because I was in a rush or was distracted, as when mailing out packages. As I told one friend, I'm an idiot. Oh, well, admit the mistakes and move on. That's how I usually deal with things. It doesn't pay to keep hashing things over and over and beating myself to a pulp. I don't look good in bruises. Blue and Black are my colors, just not when there's skin involved.

It's one of those days when I'm running behind schedule and the harder I run to catch up the more behind I get. It's the usual follow-up to a really good day like yesterday. I don't need a slave standing behind me in the chariot holding a laurel wreath above my head reminding me I am just a human not a god. I've seen the job and I don't want it anyway. Being a god is boring, else why would the gods spend so much time taunting, teasing and otherwise messing up humans' lives? Only gods would grant someone the gift of prophecy and then turn around and curse the prophetess so that no one ever believes her. The gods must have been regular humans at some point who were more advanced and more intelligent than the rest of humanity and got so bored with being perfect and untouchable that immortality was a curse and a burden rather than an opportunity to continue evolving and shepherding humans to the next level. Let's face it, slapstick humor is funnier than intellectual humor because it resonates with the most basic instincts, someone else is getting reamed and, boy, it looks funny. In situations like that, it's best to point to your own folly before someone makes it a bigger deal than it is, hence my confession about mixing up addresses on packages and the contents of said packages. I prefer to think of it as a misfire in synaptic firing.

And then there are those that feel they were instrumental in another person's success. No one succeeds alone, although most of the time it seems like it. A lot of people, most of them unknowingly, helped me get where I am today. Every story and article I edited taught me what not to do and how to use my strengths to best advantage. All the articles, essays, stories and poems I looked at and decided whether or not to publish, all the writers I taught, every piece of advice (good and bad) I heard and chose to use or discard, every person who believed in me, every editor who took the time to offer help and school me, every person who read one of my stories and told someone else, and me, what was good and bad, and every single person who read my work helped me become a better writer. No one's input was without value, even when it wasn't right for me, and I owe every one of them my heartfelt thanks, and I do thank them.

Writers believe they write alone, but no one does anything alone, at least in the sense of being touched by others and touching others. Every moment, every experience, every thought, everything is part of the process and becomes part of the writer and the finished work. Whether or not the debts are acknowledged, they still remain.

Everything we do, see and are is due to the blending of internal and external forces, a symbiotic relationship that is as frustrating as dealing with the gods and just as rewarding. It's magic and it's worth it.

It only counts when spelled correctly

Off to a running start this morning after a night of almost good sleep. Now that's the way to start a day.

I received notice that one of my blog posts, Ride the Avalanche or be Buried was picked up and posted on twitter this morning. As flattered as I was, I did have to tell him he spelled my last name wrong. I don't understand how someone can read Cornwell and get Cromwell. Oh, well, at least they got the title and the link correct. That's something. I'm not irritated, but I am a little uncomfortable with having to thank the gentleman for commenting and cross-posting and then having to tell him he made a mistake, a rather big mistake. Oh, well, at least it was tweeted for a few minutes, if incorrectly.

For those of you turning in late, the post is about Jonathan Galassi's contention that William Styron's heirs do not have the right to sell digital rights to another publisher using the copyrighted manuscript published by Random House and created in concert with their editor and publishing staff. I also mentioned that the cost of e-books is far out of line and should be scaled back drastically, but you can read it for yourself, if you're interested.

I posted my review of Paris Under Water by Jeffrey H. Jackson on the 1910 flood and I must admit I was not looking forward to reading the book when I got it. I was, as is sometimes the case, surprised and pleased with the book. I've also marked it up and made notes in the margins, a sure sign that this book will impact future reading and may even end up in a blog post at some point. I enjoyed the way Jackson used contemporary sources and anecdotal material to make Paris under siege by the Seine come alive and how strategically placed photographs of the period were used to highlight and illustrate some of the more poignant and telling moments. The epilogue was quite revealing and, while I expected Jackson to go into environmental and blaming mode, he did not. Instead he put judgment aside and relied on facts and quotes from people on site at the time to point toward the future. I do wonder, however, if, like Cassandra of Troy, his prophecies will go unheeded and unremarked while the future unfolds as he sees it. Paris Under Water is definitely worth reading and re-reading.

I also booked my vacation next month and am looking eagerly forward to spending a sybaritic week (thank you, Mary Ann, for that image) reading, relaxing, toasting my toes in front of the fireplace and generally doing nothing remotely work related.

Right now, I'm off to shower, dress and get to work. It is another weekday after all.

That is all. Disperse.

Ride the avalanche or be buried

There's a quiet hush over the house. Work is finished for the day, although I'll be back at it soon. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower, get dressed and run some errands. I need the exercise and there are things I need to do.

I've been enjoying the 1150 and finished Hogfather and began Dead Until Dark. was right about Terry Pratchett. The "punes" are funny and thoughtful and Pratchett's use of mythology and science in such close proximity is nothing short of genius. He definitely deserves to sell more than 30 million books. I'm glad some of his books are available as e-books, which brings me to an op-ed piece I read this morning.

Jonathan Galassi, president of of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, wrote about what a publisher puts into a book and used William Styron and his experience with Random House as an example. There is no doubt that Random House put their best editor and resources forward to make those of Styron's books they published best sellers. Random House marketed Styron's books, like Sophie's Choice, to film and other markets and eventually, after the hard cover versions had been out a while, printed a paperback version at a lower cover price. Galassi makes the case that Random House should also be able to set the price for digital versions and that Styron's heirs shouldn't be allowed to sell those rights to a digital publisher using the Random House created version. He does have a point; however, he didn't pay attention to what he wrote.

He said a paperback version costing less than the hard cover version was put out after a period of time. Some changes had to be made in fonts and formatting in order to create the paperback version and they made money. Styron's heirs shouldn't be allowed to use the Random House version to make the e-book, which says he doesn't know anything about digital publishing. A publisher doesn't take the hard cover or paperback version of a book and scan it to create an e-book, not if it's a good quality e-book and not just a scan for the Google book project. In that sense, the e-book is not the original version and thus does not belong to the publisher in any way, shape or form. Yes, a Random House editor helped make Styron's book better, as Styron stated many times, but the editor was paid, and not in royalties. He drew a salary and did a job for hire. His part was over and his input, although valuable, was part of the copyright Styron owned and his heirs now own. And that is the point. The author owns the copyright and it is up to the author who is allowed to publish his work.

Instead of whining about losing digital rights, the publishers should be learning to make and market digital copies of their books and market them in the same way they market paperback versions. Right now, the cost of e-books is far out of line with what the market will and can bear. There is no paper, no binding, no cover and no physical book and yet big publishers insist on pricing e-books at the cost of hard cover copies and far about paperback copies. Paperback books have a shelf life of 5-10 years, depending in how much they are handled and read. They are a product of planned obsolescence. In other words, they are not meant to last so there is a market for replacements. There is no need for a replacement with an e-book as long as there is power and memory and the software necessary to bring up the e-book again and again, and that is what publishers are so upset about. They cannot continue to drink from the same well with the same dipper over and over. The answer is publishing back lists and making e-books affordable and not gouging the consumer.

Authors take their back lists to other publishers when the original publisher fails to promote and market the work sufficiently so they can concentrate on other authors making more money. Billions of books end up in landfills and are pulped and turned into who knows what if they don't sell during the first few weeks. With digital publishing, there is no waste and an unlimited market for books -- if they are priced affordably. With the current technology, e-books can be made available internationally and sell far more than paperbacks or hard cover with a wider distribution. That's where profit can be made. It's time for the big publishers to take a look at their business model and either move with the times or be run over by the digital avalanche.

In the Middle Ages, books were produced by hand and available only to the rich and the clergy. The average person couldn't read and didn't have access to books unless they took religious orders. Gutenberg changed all that with movable type. More books available made it possible for the average person to get hold of books and to learn to read. And the world was changed. Books were still the province of the haves and the have-nots scrounged for what books they could until Benjamin Franklin created the lending library. More people had access to even more books. In the booming economy, more people had access to more books, books they owned and read over and over. That was when books were made to last. As the middle class began to make more disposable income, they bought more books and publishers created paperbacks out of materials that were guaranteed to disintegrate with time so that beloved books must be replaced even with careful use and care.

We have gone from a world where books were the sole possession of churches and the wealthy to a world where anyone can buy a book and publishers are determined to make as much money as they can from the hunger for words and stories and fantasies that can transport the reader to magical worlds and into the realm of possibility and knowledge. It's time to move with the times where publishers realize that selling a book for $1000 is not nearly as important as selling a thousand books for $1. The technology has removed the barrier of planned obsolescence and in its place is a world wide open and ready for more books to read and savor. The answer for publishers is to buy, edit, market and publish good books that may not be available in hard cover until readers clamor for a print copy.

Publishers, either move with the times or stand aside for people of vision who are ready and able to do so or you will end up being swept away by the avalanche.

Ride the avalanche or be buried

There's a quiet hush over the house. Work is finished for the day, although I'll be back at it soon. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower, get dressed and run some errands. I need the exercise and there are things I need to do.

I've been enjoying the 1150 and finished Hogfather and began Dead Until Dark. was right about Terry Pratchett. The "punes" are funny and thoughtful and Pratchett's use of mythology and science in such close proximity is nothing short of genius. He definitely deserves to sell more than 30 million books. I'm glad some of his books are available as e-books, which brings me to an op-ed piece I read this morning.

Jonathan Galassi, president of of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, wrote about what a publisher puts into a book and used William Styron and his experience with Random House as an example. There is no doubt that Random House put their best editor and resources forward to make those of Styron's books they published best sellers. Random House marketed Styron's books, like Sophie's Choice, to film and other markets and eventually, after the hard cover versions had been out a while, printed a paperback version at a lower cover price. Galassi makes the case that Random House should also be able to set the price for digital versions and that Styron's heirs shouldn't be allowed to sell those rights to a digital publisher using the Random House created version. He does have a point; however, he didn't pay attention to what he wrote.

He said a paperback version costing less than the hard cover version was put out after a period of time. Some changes had to be made in fonts and formatting in order to create the paperback version and they made money. Styron's heirs shouldn't be allowed to use the Random House version to make the e-book, which says he doesn't know anything about digital publishing. A publisher doesn't take the hard cover or paperback version of a book and scan it to create an e-book, not if it's a good quality e-book and not just a scan for the Google book project. In that sense, the e-book is not the original version and thus does not belong to the publisher in any way, shape or form. Yes, a Random House editor helped make Styron's book better, as Styron stated many times, but the editor was paid, and not in royalties. He drew a salary and did a job for hire. His part was over and his input, although valuable, was part of the copyright Styron owned and his heirs now own. And that is the point. The author owns the copyright and it is up to the author who is allowed to publish his work.

Instead of whining about losing digital rights, the publishers should be learning to make and market digital copies of their books and market them in the same way they market paperback versions. Right now, the cost of e-books is far out of line with what the market will and can bear. There is no paper, no binding, no cover and no physical book and yet big publishers insist on pricing e-books at the cost of hard cover copies and far about paperback copies. Paperback books have a shelf life of 5-10 years, depending in how much they are handled and read. They are a product of planned obsolescence. In other words, they are not meant to last so there is a market for replacements. There is no need for a replacement with an e-book as long as there is power and memory and the software necessary to bring up the e-book again and again, and that is what publishers are so upset about. They cannot continue to drink from the same well with the same dipper over and over. The answer is publishing back lists and making e-books affordable and not gouging the consumer.

Authors take their back lists to other publishers when the original publisher fails to promote and market the work sufficiently so they can concentrate on other authors making more money. Billions of books end up in landfills and are pulped and turned into who knows what if they don't sell during the first few weeks. With digital publishing, there is no waste and an unlimited market for books -- if they are priced affordably. With the current technology, e-books can be made available internationally and sell far more than paperbacks or hard cover with a wider distribution. That's where profit can be made. It's time for the big publishers to take a look at their business model and either move with the times or be run over by the digital avalanche.

In the Middle Ages, books were produced by hand and available only to the rich and the clergy. The average person couldn't read and didn't have access to books unless they took religious orders. Gutenberg changed all that with movable type. More books available made it possible for the average person to get hold of books and to learn to read. And the world was changed. Books were still the province of the haves and the have-nots scrounged for what books they could until Benjamin Franklin created the lending library. More people had access to even more books. In the booming economy, more people had access to more books, books they owned and read over and over. That was when books were made to last. As the middle class began to make more disposable income, they bought more books and publishers created paperbacks out of materials that were guaranteed to disintegrate with time so that beloved books must be replaced even with careful use and care.

We have gone from a world where books were the sole possession of churches and the wealthy to a world where anyone can buy a book and publishers are determined to make as much money as they can from the hunger for words and stories and fantasies that can transport the reader to magical worlds and into the realm of possibility and knowledge. It's time to move with the times where publishers realize that selling a book for $1000 is not nearly as important as selling a thousand books for $1. The technology has removed the barrier of planned obsolescence and in its place is a world wide open and ready for more books to read and savor. The answer for publishers is to buy, edit, market and publish good books that may not be available in hard cover until readers clamor for a print copy.

Publishers, either move with the times or stand aside for people of vision who are ready and able to do so or you will end up being swept away by the avalanche.

Calm and changeable seas

Pepper crusted pork tenderloin and red potatoes, green beans, red peppers in a butter sauce with hot cocoa to drink. Simple, but warming meal for a cold winter evening. It's a night of peace and quiet wrapped in a warm shawl and reading Terry Pratchett and watching I, Claudius. It's freezing outside, but very warm inside, and it is to this warmth my friends keep coming, like Bob.

Bob is one of my best friends and has been for many years. We talk about everything. He's happily miserable, or miserably happy, in his marriage.

He is married to a wonderful woman, an intelligent, talented and successful woman, and often he wonders how he managed to get so lucky that she agreed to marry him. He doesn't see himself very well and is a very good man, quite wonderful in his own way. There is one big fly in the ointment--the lack of intimacy. Everything else is perfect, but sex once a year is untenable. She isn't interested and doesn't have any desire at all and Bob has far too much desire. She refuses to discuss it and he considers looking elsewhere to fulfill his needs. I proposed a different solution, one I've proposed for many people: talk it out openly and directly. "I don't like confrontation," he said to me this afternoon.

I'm always amazed that people see confrontation in a negative light. It is basically honesty and honesty does have its uses.

I suggested Bob lay out the situation to his wife, tell her sex once a year is not acceptable and either they seek counseling and she be tested and treated for a hormonal imbalance and depression. The signs and symptoms are clear even at this distance. I explained that he need not lose his marriage over this because so much of it is good and, if his wife refuses to go to counseling or get treatment for the medical and emotional issues, he propose an alternative -- an open relationship that allows him to fulfill his desires as long as he doesn't bring anything home that can't be gotten rid of. He said he'd see. I've heard the same thing from any number of friends and acquaintances. I don't understand why people insist on making things so difficult.

All life is not so complicated or so sad. I received a lovely -- and late -- Xmas card from Ted with his witty and funny crèche. This year's subject was Tiger Woods and it was quite beautiful and funny. I do agree with Ted that it's difficult to tell one blonde waitress from another.

I also received a thank you card from Laura and Jeremy, daughter-in-law and son of the fascinating and lovely Mary Ann, for a little something I sent for their first Xmas together. They were married last summer and appeared quite delirious with happiness in their pictures. I think they are a good match. Laura wrote on real stationery with a distinctly Victorian theme. I do so enjoy getting letters and cards in the mail. This may well be the beginning of a revival of the old art of letter writing, at least in a modest way.

The mail was full of the usual snail mail spam and a catalogues. Included among the debris was a box, my copy of Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My day is complete. Videos, books, cards and thank you notes on Victorian stationery, definitely a good day.

Even with the trials and tribulations of my friends and family, a dose of ancient Roman intrigues and the fun of Terry Pratchett, each day is a surprise. Sometimes the surprise is not pleasant and sometimes the surprises exceed my modest and meager expectations. I'm easy to please. I ask nothing of the world but peace, quiet and the occasional adventure to make things interesting. I don't mind living in interesting times, even when the times take on the dark tinge of betrayal, lies and ill wishing. Life is much like the sea, moody and often dangerous, but well worth the trip.

That is all. Disperse.

Food and literary fantasies

Full of hot chocolate and broccoli and other good things. I don't get as elegant as Bruce Barone when I'm cooking, at least not all the time like he does, but I do put together a few decent meals. I just wasn't interested in a meal last night, so I settled for an omelet with English cheddar on the side, broccoli and a pot of hot chocolate. Since I was out of fresh milk, I went to the backup plan: canned goat milk. Just add water, cream, chocolate, a dash of sea salt and whisk on the stove. Pour into hot chocolate pot already heated and ready, froth and drink, after dropping a vanilla handmade marshmallow in the cup first. Keep refilling while watching Cinderella and The Color of Magic and jotting notes in my journal. It was a quiet evening, but a productive one.

There was also the grocery list to make out before next Tuesday's shopping trip. That always means going through the circular to see what's on sale and through my recipe collection and searching online to decide what to make. Williams-Sonoma online has quite a treasure trove of recipes and I concentrated on eggs: poached, shirred, coddled and made into omelets. The options are mind boggling and, if you're on a budget, the array of egg dishes is enough to make the mouth water. Who knew there was so much to be done with an egg?

There will be one week with no cooking and that's the week of my birthday next month. I'm taking off on vacation, a real vacation, to be pampered, coddled and catered to. I haven't done it in a long time and I'm overdue. As much as I like my cottage, there are times when I need a change of scenery. So I'm out of here on the 13th, Beanie's birthday and I won't be back until the 21st. Late. The destination is a cozy B&B overlooking a castle decorated in Victorian style and near to several haunted spots that will be perfect for the setting of the next book I'm working on after I finish the post-apocalyptic vampire novel. Time to take notes and set the story simmering on the back burner for a while or, in baseball parlance, warming up in the bullpen. Have to keep the stories coming.

That story is a dark tale of lies and intrigue and someone posing as a ghost hunter. Murder, a touch of romance (I can't handle more than a touch), a trail of secrets and all kinds of mystery and mayhem. I thought it was time for a change. I don't like to tie myself to any one type of story or characters, although there's always a piece of me and people I know in all the novels and stories I write.

For instance, in Whitechapel Hearts, one of the villains is based on a real life villain I met and got to know. Some of the most interesting and dangerous people have crossed my path and been filed away for future reference. They stick in my mind in some dark and out of the way corner waiting to fret their moment upon the literary stage. That's the hallmark of an interesting life.

Well, I'm off to the showers and into some clothes because it's cold this morning and I'm going to need all the warmth I can get working in the cold back office that steams in the summertime. I definitely need to see about putting up drapes. The blinds wouldn't keep out a gnat, let alone inclement weather. The roof doesn't keep it out either -- yet.

That is all. Disperse.

Karmic tally sheet

People sit and wait for karma to happen to other people, people they don't like and feel have hurt or cheated them, but karma's already at work and the proof is in front of their eyes. The problem is that they refuse to look or see what there is to see.

Let's take people. Their friends see them as good people and strangers and the rest of the world see them as not very nice people. It's all in the perspective.

The first person, let's call him Luther, called down the wrath of karma on Mark and waits for the hammer to fall.

Over a period of three years, Luther meets a girl, Petra, who is living in her family home. Her family is all gone and the house is free and clear. Luther moves in and settles down with Petra. They get married. The house and grounds are beautiful and they have lots of friends. Things aren't always perfect, but they muddle along nicely. Always the entrepreneur, Luther decides to expand his business and get Petra, and himself, a few nice things, so he takes out a loan on the house. Business is good--for a while--and then it's not. The couple struggle with finances and are soon in danger of losing their home. They work like mad to make ends meet, take on more jobs and put every cent into the house to keep from losing it, even to the point of taking in boarders. After all, what is all that space worth if you can't share it with friends -- for a price. Nothing works. They sink deeper and deeper into debt. The strain works on their marriage and, in addition to losing their house, they may well lose their marriage. Petra doesn't believe in divorce; she married for better or worse, no matter how worse the worse gets. Luther keeps thinking about taking the money (what's left of it) and running. He's been married before and he's not averse to chalking this attempt up to bad timing, different backgrounds, incompatibility. There's always another Petra down the road.

Mark struggles, living from paycheck to paycheck. He's careful with his finances and doesn't indulge in many luxuries. He's frugal and diligent and spends his twice yearly vacations working on other things that bring in money. He can't afford to take a real vacation. It costs too much and his meager finances won't stretch that far. He doesn't live in a house or have cable TV or the latest electronic gadgets (cell phone, camcorder, spiffy and expensive computers) nor does he go out to eat much. He only orders pizza once every few months as a treat when he has a little extra money. Mark lives alone and doesn't have a partner to help get things over the rough spots or smooth out the lumps. It's not important because Mark is building a future, working toward owning a business of his own, one that will free him from wage slavery and give him the wherewithal to take a nice vacation once in a while or go out to dinner, the theater or take a long weekend somewhere nice. The day finally comes when the answer comes. Mark's plan has worked and his business nets almost $10,000. He pays off all his bills and his debts to people who helped him when he needed it and he buys a few necessities and a couple things he's always wanted. The rest of the money goes into savings and he keeps working. For the first time in years, things are going in his favor. He is cautiously optimistic. One of the things Mark learned is never to count on the cards to come; he plays the cards he has and makes the most of them. It has been a long, hard climb and there are other peaks to scale, but life is good and Mark can breathe again.

Luther expected Mark to crash and burn in an ugly and horrendous way while Mark put down his head and kept working. He missed Luther for a while, but then decided that the constant drama and lies and manipulations weren't worth what Mark thought he lost at first. Luther keeps tabs on Mark, but Mark's too busy to care about keeping tabs on Luther. Besides, Luther makes sure Mark gets word of his successes while he hides his failures and his crumbling life and marriage. Mark keeps on working; he has a life and a future to nurture and enjoy.

You tally up the karmic scores.

That is all. Disperse.

The day has arrived

Great Love Letters Valentine Contest

Unafraid to appear silly or be seen as vulnerable, Elizabeth Barrett wrote to Robert Browning, "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach."

From Winston Churchill missing his wife Clementine or Napoleon Bonaparte longing for Josephine, separated by distance, war and circumstances, lovers put their longings, feelings and thoughts on paper. In Past Imperfect, my heroine took five years and a lot of pain and heartache before she made her feelings known to Adrian Cahill in person. John Logan, who was my heroine's friend and companion, kept his love to himself until he is about to lose it and her. Their story would have been much shorter if they had written their love in a letter.

In honor of Valentine's Day, imagine a time without telephones, cell phones, and email and write a letter to your great love and capture a prize. Use your great love's name or keep your great love a secret like Beethoven's Immortal Beloved. Write what you cannot or have not been able to say and follow the rules to the letter.

From January 5, 2010 to February 5, 2010 is your chance to join the great lovers of history. In 100 words or less, pour out your heart and soul in a letter to the great love of your life and send it to me at fixnwrtr@gmail.com by midnight Mountain Standard Time on Feb. 5, 2010. On February 14th, Valentine’s Day, the winners will be notified by email and the winning entries published on my blog, Cabin Dreams.

Prizes & Rules

All entrants must include a signed release to publish their love letter if chosen as the winning entry. The following prizes will be awarded:

First prize: A $75 Visa gift certificate one copy of Love Letters Of Great Men And Women: From The Eighteenth Century To The Present Day by C. H. Charles, 22-pc. Godiva Dark Chocolate Truffle Gems and an Autographed copy of Past Imperfect by J. M. Cornwell.

Second prize: A $50 Visa gift certificate, 22-pc Godiva Dark Chocolate Truffle Gems and an autographed copy of Past Imperfect by J. M. Cornwell.

Third prize: A $25 Visa gift certificate, 22-pc Godiva Dark Chocolate Truffle Gems and an autographed copy of Past Imperfect by J. M. Cornwell.

Rules:

1. All entries must be original and less than 100 words included in the body of an email with Great Love Letters Valentine Contest in the subject line with first name only at the end of the love letter, and include a digitally signed and dated release form. Entries found to be copies or plagiarized will be immediately disqualified.
2. The release form must include full name, home address, date of birth, phone number and email must be clearly printed or type on the release form only, and attached to the entry email. Entries without this information will be immediately disqualified.
3. Entrants must be 18 years or older on 01/05/10 and live in the United States, U.S. protectorates, Mexico or Canada. This also includes U.S. soldiers with APO and FPO addresses.
4. All love letters must be written to a person. All entries written to an inanimate object, animal (other than human), food or place will be immediately disqualified.
5. All entries must be dated by midnight February 5, 2010 U.S. Mountain Standard Time. All entries received after that time will be disqualified.
6. All prizes are awarded as is without substitution.
7. Family members of J. M. Cornwell and employees of Creative Ink, LLC are prohibited from entering the contest.
8. The winning entries will be published on Cabin Dreams on February 14, 2010 and winners will be notified by email.
9. All prizes awarded will be mailed by March 1, 2010.
10. All questions or comments may be addressed to Great Love Letters Valentine Contest at fixnwrtr@gmail.com
11. No profanity or explicit sex. Keep it clean and PG-rated.
12. Void where prohibited by law.


Release

Release Form and Copyright Transfer

The entrant hereby grant and assign to J. M. Cornwell and Creative Ink, LLC the royalty-free rights to publish the love letter created for the Great Love Letters Valentine Contest if the undersigned is the winner of the contest. This assignment of copyright grants J. M. Cornwell and Creative Ink, LLC the exclusive right to publish the winning entry to the contest on the blog, Cabin Dreams. All rights subsequent to initial publication remain with the author.

The entrant acknowledges that this work is original to them and has not been submitted elsewhere. The entrant further acknowledges that the work is not libelous and does not infringe on any copyright or other proprietary right. The entrant are responsible for obtaining permission to use any material that is not their own.

The winning entry will receive compensation as outlined in the contest rules. This is the only compensation that the entrant will receive for contributing their work to the Great Love Letters Valentine Contest.

All entrants must sign and submit this release form with their manuscript to:
Great Love Letters Valentine Contest 2010 at fixnwrtr@gmail.com by midnight February 5, 2010 in order to be eligible. Entries without this release form will be disqualified.


Name:____________________________________Date______________
Date of birth:___________

Change is inevitable, life happens

Change is inevitable and even I cannot stand against the inevitable if I wished to do so, and I don't. Last year was full of change and surprises, not all of them good, but definitely interesting and the changes continue.

First of the changes in the new year concern by novel, Past Imperfect. I have had several requests for autographed copies, so I've made it easier by adding a PayPal button to the left side of my LJ page. Orders will be processed within one business day.

The other major change coming within the next few days is a contest with prizes that include Visa gift cards, Godiva truffles and books. You know there have to be books. Details will be posted on Tuesday, January 5, 2010.

Another smaller change is the number of the year and my seeming inability to remember to put '10 instead of '09 on my paper journal and all correspondence. Give me a break. It's only the third day of the year. I'll get it eventually, probably by June or even August. You just never know.

The semi-annual bonus and report of statistics came yesterday and I wasn't too unhappy with the results. The bonus was my usual bonus, but my error rate had dropped and I missed being first in the company by 3/1000 of a point. The winning employee had a 0.046% error rate and my error rate was 0.049% over a six-month period, covering more than 10,000 pages of operative reports. I wonder of the winning employee does anything more complicated than admission and discharge summaries. I think the statistics should at least take the difficulty and technicality of the work done, but then I always do.

More changes are on the horizon, not the least of which is publication of more anthologies and novels with my name on the cover, but it's best to wait until the times come so that I don't bore you with repeating details.

Unlike many people, I will not post an overview of the past decade until New Year's Eve 2010 since that will be the end of the first decade of the 21st century. Who knew it would fly by so quickly? Two and a half years closer to the end of the Mayan calendar, but it is not the end of the world or the end of humanity, unless someone does something really stupid, and that's always possible as long as there are stupid people in the world in positions of power like presidents, premieres, ayatollahs, etc.

As always, I am a work in progress with several works in progress and that will not change until my hands are stilled, my eyes blind and breath no longer fills my lungs or brain functions. Life is change and I'm not ready for the ultimate change yet. I have things to do, people to meet and love and places to see.

If you want an autographed copy of Past Imperfect, click away.

Options

Book $15.00 Priority mail $20.00

Personalization

That is all. Disperse.

Countdown to contest time

Just 2 days to the big announcement. Keep your pens, pencils and keyboards close for your chance to win.

That is all. Disperse.

Contest news

With the new year barely begun and sights set on Valentine's Day, I've decided to put together a contest with good prizes -- really good prizes. Interested? Stay tuned for more information. Contest launch will be January 5, 2010.

That is all. Disperse.

Year end of line

The battle of the e-readers is over and I have chosen the eBookwise 1150. I was about to buy the Kindle when I went to the site this morning and found the price had been raised to $259. I also discovered the Kindle does not come with a cover; that costs another $29.95. The refurbished Kindles were $219, but I'm not about to plunk down that amount of money when there would be an extra cost for the cover. At that price, they should have thrown in the cover and 100 books. End of game. I don't really need the global wireless. If I do find that a necessity in the future, maybe Amazon will get smart about the price and bring it down.

New Year's Eve was quiet and I just now finished my traditional New Year's Day lunch: pork ribs and sauerkraut with a side of fresh sliced avocado. Traditional dinner complete.

Today is an off work day and the weekend ahead will include considerable work. I have things to finish, a submission to get ready for Algonquin Books and a full two days of operative reports. Nothing like getting on track and staying on track for the coming year. I have a lot more books and stories to write, submit and sell.

Last year ended on a positive note. I sold two stories, Seeing Pink and Curiosity Kills More Than Cats, for an anthology about body image: Wait a Minute, I Have to Take off my Bra. There's an interesting story behind the submissions. I didn't realize I had sent two versions of the same story to the anthology, the first one when the first call came out called The First Full Cup. I revised the story, gave it depth and texture and renamed it Seeing Pink. The editor emailed me Wednesday and asked me which one I wanted to use since both stories were very similar and I wrote back: "Whichever one you like the best and will publish." Seeing Pink was a contender and that's the one they chose. Then, last night, I got the word they were taking two stories. Can't beat that for a way to end a semi-successful year. It bodes well for the future.

In other news, I have twenty copies of Past Imperfect. If you'd like a signed copy of the book, comment or email me and I'll send the details.

All but one of my Xmas gifts were delivered. The gift I sent Uncle Bob went to Florida and when I called to check on it, I found out they were still in Ohio. Luckily, the post office will forward the box to them in Ohio, but they'd better hurry since Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois are headed to Florida within the next two weeks. The gift to my grandson Jordan wasn't even sent until Wednesday and he won't get it until tomorrow or Monday (hopefully) at the latest. Everyone else received their gifts.

Last year was full of ups and down, the ups outweighing the downs, and the buzz about the coming year is good. I have no doubts the last year of the first decade of the 21st century will be even better than the previous eight years have been. I'm looking forward to the coming year. It won't be perfect and there will be ups and downs, but I have no doubt the ups will once again outweigh the downs. May the coming year be as generous and full of happiness and joy for you.

That is all. Disperse.

In an electronic literary quandary

I'm increasingly leaning toward getting an e-book reader and have checked out several types and platforms. The eBookwise 1150 is still the top contender, but I'm being drawn to the dark side and considering the Kindle. I said it was the dark side.

While investigating the Kindle a little more I noticed something nefarious interesting. The newer, bigger and more expensive Kindle has limited wireless, only in the U.S., while the older 6-inch model, which is also cheaper, has global wireless. I think it should be the other way around, but I'm strange that way.

I have Internet access with my computers and don't really need the wireless since USB or dial-up access are just fine, but I worry about not being able to download and read all the books I'd like to have, and then there's the size of the potential library: 1500 versus 100 books, hence the quandary. The reviews on the 1150 have been overwhelmingly good and they are mixed with Kindle. Both have had their bugs and fixes and it all boils down to what works best in terms of battery life (15 hours for the 1150 and a week for the Kindle). I cannot imagine not being near an electrical outlet that charges while I read or being able to enjoy a week-long literary orgy, but then again.... So, now I turn to you, my audience, to ask for your experiences and opinions. I am waiting and listening.

That is all. Disperse.

Melting the meltdown

In between running around on errands, sending books out to family and friends (signed of course) and working, I finally sat down last night and watched Julie & Julia. It was very good.

I loved watching Julia Child cook on TV with Jacques and others, but she was the draw. It wasn't her high nasal whine of a voice, but her love of the art of making art with food, food that was wonderful, flavorful and just plain good. The movie showed that, but it also showed the main character, Julie, taking her cue from Julia's cooking. Making 524 recipes in 365 days was indeed a feat and it was well done, but what surprised me the most was when Julie had a meltdown when things didn't go right. The cream and liver stuffing fell out of her poulet (chicken to you and me) and she ended up in a crying, messy heap on the floor. The aspic failed to jell and she blamed her husband. Another meltdown. Julie seemed like a fairly histrionic female and a bit always on the edge of a meltdown, never a good thing whether the person is a cook or a writer, and one I've never dealt with. When all else -- or everything -- fails, start over. That's how I deal with disaster, like last weekend's first foray into homemade cinnamon rolls.

The recipe was one I hadn't used before (got it online), but I wanted to make cinnamon rolls and couldn't remember where I found the recipe the last time. Oh, yes, it was in a kit I purchased from King Arthur Flour online. Not enough time to buy it and get it here for the weekend and cinnamon rolls were on my mind and lingering like a ghost at the edge of my taste buds. To the Internet for research and I came up with what I thought was a good recipe -- until I tried it out.

Four cups of flour into the recipe and the dough didn't feel right. Kneading it was like punching Mike Tyson with pillows -- before he got into ear biting. My arms were getting sore and I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back from the bathroom, hands suitably washed, I punched and kneaded the dough some more, but it wasn't getting soft and smooth and elastic and my arms were sore and tired. I turned it into an oiled bowl, put a cloth over it and sat down to rest my weary arms. More than an hour later and the dough sat there like a lump of . . . dough. It hadn't risen, at least not as far as I could see. I had wasted the eggs, milk (and there wasn't much of that left) and the yeast, not to mention the time, but these things happen. I covered the bowel and set it aside as I sprinkled more yeast over warm water and assembled the ingredients once again. I was going to take another stab at it, and I did. The recipe was wrong and I stopped at three cups of flour when the once sticky dough became soft and pliant and kneaded like a dream. Once it was smooth and warm and elastic, I put the dough into an oiled bowl, covered it and set it on the stove, which is the warmest part of this house in the winter. The front room is so drafty and cold most of the time, except in summer when it's hot and sticky and uncomfortable.

At any rate, 1-1/2 hours later the dough had risen to 3x its original size and was ready to be rolled out and covered with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and then rolled up. Lacking string or kitchen shears, I used a sharp knife to cut the dough and place it into the greased stoneware 9x9 pan to rise one more time before I placed it in the oven. When I finally pulled away the cover, the result was beautiful puffed coils of brown sugar and cinnamon rolls ready to be baked. Soon they filled the house with the scent of butter, cinnamon and melting, oozing sugar and I could hardly wait to spread on the thick, creamy vanilla-laden icing.

As I sat down with my warm, fragrant cinnamon roll to call my mother, I cast a thought toward the recalcitrant lump from the first trial. I could either use it as starter for sourdough bread or put it down the garbage disposal. Either choice was good and it didn't really matter. I had a gooey delicious cinnamon roll to savor, and savor them I did for four days. I went a little overboard on Sunday and had three, not at the same time, but spaced out over the whole day.

That first trial was a disaster and the recipe needed adjusting. Less flour and more time to bake. Things don't always turn out the way I think they should the first time, so I give it another go and rely more on my senses than sticking to the recipe. Cooking, like life, is fluid and changeable, so is writing.

A draft can start out horrible and end up magic if the writer is willing to adjust, retrace and rewrite. It's not a disaster and there's no need for meltdowns. Nothing is a disaster unless you make it one. For instance, next time, instead of using melted butter, I'll use soft room temperature butter, mix in the cinnamon and brown sugar and spread it over the dough. I'll get a better result. The recipe is a starting point. The Ultimate Cinnamon Roll recipe wasn't tested and retested by Julia Child who, in the movie and likely in real life, made several bowls of mayonnaise, changing the ingredients and the mixing until she had the right combination. I found the right amount of ingredients and the perfect method for me and for the environment where I live (high altitude and organic ingredients) and will make the cinnamon rolls again. Nothing is without hope or without the need for a little tweaking. If I had given up after the first mistake, I wouldn't have been able to taunt my mother with homemade cinnamon rolls, and I'd have nothing to write about now. Even in the midst -- or on the far edge -- of failure, there's something to be learned.

In writing, as in cooking and life, sometimes the best results come from failure, providing you don't give in to meltdowns and negativity. Every road leads somewhere and detours often provide more than a scenic route; they provide insight and sometimes a better way of getting where you're going. Without failure, there would be no progress. Don't be afraid to fail. Try it some time. The results may surprise you.

To e-book or not to e-book

Taunting my mother has its perks, like being able to taunt her at all. She has so much already that it's hard to find something that gets to her. Yes, it's a silly game, but it's a game all the same. Taunting her about gifts is easy, and I do that with everyone when I have their gift far ahead of time. Makes the waiting easier. I found, however, a new way to taunt Mom, a short term perk: baked goods. Not just any baked goods, but homemade, ooey, gooey cinnamon rolls with rich vanilla-laden icing, also homemade.

When Mom called Saturday afternoon, I was waiting for the dough to rise. She asked me what I was doing and I told her, "Making cinnamon rolls." She wouldn't do anything like that unless it came in a tube from the dairy section at the grocery store, or better yet from the bakery already to eat. She doesn't understand why I like to bake bread and rolls and cook at all. "Nobody here but me eats," she complains, and then tells me her chihuahua Dink is getting fat from eating the same things that Mom eats. Mom has so many preservatives and GMO foods in her that she'd probably die if she didn't eat all that junk, but the dog doesn't have nearly 80 years of junk food in her. Dink's not even three years old yet, and that's barely 21 in dog years.

When the cinnamon rolls were finished and sending their sweet spicy aroma throughout the house, I called Mom just as I sat down with one still hot from the pan. "Guess what I'm eating?" She guessed, called me a few names best not repeated. "You'll eat the whole thing," she complained.

"Uh, no, I won't. I'm having one and the rest are for the coming days."

"How can you eat just one?"

"Easily. By stopping when I'm finished and leaving the rest for tomorrow and the other days." Mom has no control, as evidenced by her recent binge on circus peanuts when she ate three bags a day for weeks.

Here it is Monday morning and there are still cinnamon rolls in the pan. I already had one when I got up this morning. Mom always said I had no will power. I guess I still don't.

But it's Monday and the three day weekend is over and I must go back to work for four more days before I get another break. As much as I love the holidays, I have to say that the planning is off. There should be at least one three day weekend in every month, paid for of course by my employer. At least there will be an extra week of vacation this year as I celebrate my fifth year of employment with my employer in February. Three whole weeks of vacation and four extra days (two personal days and two floating holidays). I think I can do something with that.

One thing I'll be doing this week is deciding if I want to break down and get an e-reader. I really don't see the need since I don't go out that much and have plenty of books here, but the idea of having a lot of books and not having to wait for them or pay shipping and handling does have it's up side. Beanie got a Sony Pocket eReader for Xmas and we spent a good part of the weekend trying to figure it out. I found the customer service number and had her call them to get her started and then we spent yesterday looking at books and figuring out why an e-book costs so much money when there's no paper and no cover. It's a subject that has consumed several writers and readers over the past year or so.

It makes no sense to price an e-book at the same or slightly discounted price as a hardback book. It doesn't even make sense to price it the same as a paperback. There is no huge cost of production or formatting since that is all part of the package when the book is initially published and the book should be priced accordingly. Yes, a small price would net smaller profits, at least on the surface, but in the long run it's a question of selling a book for a thousand dollars or a thousand books for one dollar. The outcome is the same, but the numbers reached are significantly more. Keep pricing books in that range and there will be a path beaten to the e-bookstore to buy even more books. In a strapped economy with technology like makes books portable and fairly easy to read, it makes more sense to price the books lower and therefore sell more books. It would also make more sense to get the old back list out and bundle them to revitalize sales and keep readers coming back. If the price makes it possible to buy one hundred books as opposed to buy three or four, what would the bottom line look like then? Common sense and good fiscal sense. One day publishers will figure that out.

I don't need a lot of bells and whistles or Internet capabilities. I have a laptop and a desktop PC for that. I do need a reader that is efficient, easy to read and use and doesn't cost a lot. I can't afford to spend two hundred dollars or more for what is basically a small library. I'd rather spend the money on books, which is why I looked at the 1150 offered by Barnes & Noble. The reviews are good and, even though the 1150 is the Cybook remastered and retooled, the price is right at $89.95. I might be able to swing that and a few books. The only hangup I see is in the book pricing.

Beanie and I looked at some James Patterson books, specifically his science fiction trilogy. The Lake House was priced at the hardback price and it's seven years old. Come on B&N, even though you offer an instant discount that takes the book down into the five dollar range, it's still over priced, and your scheme of leaving the rebate on the books to buy other books, is too much like accounting and bait & switch for my taste. Read the above and consider a different sales tactic, like pricing the book at two or three dollars and bundling it with the rest of the series for under ten dollars. That would make more sense and you'd find more readers with e-book technology coming back for more until Amazon would be worried about their sales and follow suit. Someone has to lead the pack, so why not Barnes & Noble for a change?

Oh, well, technology is a big part of my life these days and on that note I will sign off, shower, change and begin another day while I decide whether this whole e-book technology is for me or not. I have plenty of paperback and hardback books to keep me company after the holiday haul, so I'm not hurting for reading material.

That is all. Disperse.

The Xmas That Almost Wasn't

Every year Mom says she doesn't want a gift and every year my siblings and I go together to get her a gift. Last year it was the entire Forever Knight collection and this year it was Tour of Duty. Mom called yesterday to wish me a merry Christmas and say thank you for the gift. I reminded her that she didn't want the gift and would have to give it to either Jimmy or Carol since Beanie already has the entire collection. "You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands." So much for not wanting a gift.

The gift I got Beanie is too big and she specified medium and doesn't have any pockets. Luckily, she can exchange it. For her birthday, I'll give her a gift certificate for books. She got a Sony Pocket Reader from her husband. She's also having trouble setting it up. I tried to help but Stacy, her evil alter ego, was out today instead of Tracy, and was not very cooperative. It's all Stacy's fault that I gave her the wrong directions. She did say Randy got her a Kindle and those were the instructions I was walking her through. It wasn't until later she said it was a Sony and then didn't know which version it was. "It's silver," she said. That's helpful, Stacy, they all come in silver. It's one of those days.

I am, however, reminded of a Christmas long ago when I almost didn't get anything. It wasn't that my parents couldn't afford to buy gifts; the others got lots of presents. It all goes back to an incident that started with an offhand comment.

I love puzzles, challenges and riddles. Always have. The weeks before Christmas always provided riddles, puzzles and challenges in the form of finding the gifts and figuring out what they are. There were always a few token gifts under the tree, but they were mostly camouflage and usually contained uninteresting things like socks, underwear and clothes. The trick was finding where the good presents were hidden and I was exceptionally good at the game, which is why Mom always hid them at Grandma and Grandpa's house when we lived near them, until the year we moved into the big house on Terrace. That house had a basement with rooms and doors that locked the original owners stored canned goods and root vegetables. The bins and shelves were still intact when we moved into the house, although they didn't last long once Mom decided she wanted a family room in the basement. That's another story for another time.

Mom knew Thanksgiving day I had already begun searching for hidden gifts. "Are they at Gram's?"

"They're here." My eyes glittered with mischief and excitement. The hunt was on. "You'll never find them," she said.

"If they're in this house, I'll find them."

"You're welcome to look." Mom considered the subject closed and my curiosity squashed. Anyone who knows anything about curiosity knows that all she did was heighten my desire to prove her wrong and ensure that I would keep looking. A hidden cache of gifts was like waving catnip in front of a cat. I'd find them and unwrapped would be nice.

As the oldest of the four children, I was often tasked with babysitting when Mom and Dad worked or went out. During the week, I was the one who got everyone off to school since my parents had to be at work early. Friday evenings, I was usually the babysitter from the time I was eleven (my grandparents lived a phone call and eventually a few blocks away). Twice a month on the weekends, my parents drove up to Lockbourne (renamed Rickenbacker) AFB to the commissary for groceries and it was during those extended absences I searched for the gifts, especially since the other kids usually went with my parents and I was alone in the house.

One Saturday morning not five minutes after they piled into the car and headed off to the commissary, I began my search in earnest, starting with the basement. I seriously doubted there were any gifts hidden on the second floor since all three bedrooms were occupied by children. I started in my parents' room on the first floor and it didn't take long. They didn't have a closet; there were no closets in the downstairs. Before I headed to the basement, I briefly considered the back port utility room where my father had his beauty shop and the room on the back of the garage, but dismissed them quickly: not enough room. The gifts had to be in the basement and so to the basement I went.

The basement was a warren of rooms with a toilet stall on a raised platform behind a swinging door, a place where kissing games were played during parties, a clear space for the twin tubs and washer and dryer beneath the laundry chute that opened next to the built-in cupboard in the dining room above, and three rooms with locked doors, one of which used to hold the coal when there was a coal burning furnace in the basement. Patiently, I worried at the old fashioned locks on the doors until they opened. A few brittle looking, cobweb-shrouded jars of corn, beans and amorphous contents swimming in murky fluid were scattered about the shelves, but the room was essentially empty. The coal room was equally empty, except for a meager supply of coal for Christmas stockings. Only one room remained.

The lock was easy to open, but the block or time gnawed wood that pivoted on a nail was not quite so easy to open. There seemed to be some kind of trick to getting the simple antique low tech lock to work and yet I couldn't figure it out. It just would not budge. I didn't dare scar the wood by using a screwdriver or other tool to pry loose its wooden grip and give away the game and so I opted for brute force.

My heart thundered in my chest. I was certain the gifts were behind the door, and so I continued my assault. Little by little I managed to loosen the block of wood, inching it upward with patience wearing thin as the sun moved relentlessly across the cement floor. Suddenly it shifted, a mere sliver of wood lying between me and success, and stopped moving. Nothing would budge it from its position. I couldn't move it back into place or out of the way. In frustration, I took off my loafer and banged it with the heel of my shoe and . . . it spun around drunkenly as the door fell open.

I had imagined Fibber McGee and Molly's closet from my mother's description, but what I saw boggled the mind. An explosion of colors in all sizes and shapes lined the shelves and spilled out onto the floor in an avalanche of toys and dolls and . . .. My heart stopped. Gravel crunched in the driveway. They were home. I had exactly two minutes to get the door closed and locked and up the stairs before I was discovered.

I slammed the door and spun the wood into place and it fell away, swinging loosely in gravity's grip. It was broken. No! I held the wood in place and banged on the nail with the heel of the loafer I still held in my hand, my heart pounding, drumming, thundering so loud my ears were full of the sound. A rock clinked to the cement floor and I picked it up, wedged it in the crack of the door behind the wood bar, forcing the wood against the loosened nail until it held, locked the door and raced for the stairs, dropping to my knees and crawling across the first landing so my parents wouldn't see me in the window, crawled up the first few steps and lurched to my feet to burst through the door, running at full tilt through the dining room, kitchen, Dad's little shop and banged out the back door to leap to the ground next to the grape arbor. Without stopping, I ran beneath the grape arbor and out the other side and then shinnied up the cherry tree into my favorite spot not daring to breathe until I was safely ensconced. I panted, gasping for air, streaming with sweat, my hand against my chest over my laboring heart, ears pricked for every sound. None came. False alarm.

My skin prickled in the frigid autumn wind as the sweat cooled and my body shivered, teeth chattering. No coat. I climbed out of the tree and went back into the house, rubbing my naked arms where the hairs stood on end above the goose flesh that covered every exposed inch of skin, avoiding the basement door as though it led to plague ridden darkness full of unknown horrors waiting to pounce, because there were if I was caught.

My parents got home an hour later. Groceries were unloaded and put away and grocery sacks were folded and placed under the kitchen sink between the dish soap, cleanser and the wall. Mom watched me carefully when I got up to do the dishes after dinner without a squawk even though it was Carol's turn. She knew something was up and was no less tenacious than I when it came to ferreting out secrets and satisfying her curiosity, although her curiosity only extended to what her children were hiding. Her nose twitched, smelling something off or just slightly wrong, and she had an excellent sense of smell. She could even smell vodka under Listerine and Colgate toothpaste hours old (Dad not me -- he never did take to being a teetotaler in spite of Mom's conversion). She smelled the distinct aroma of hidden knowledge and the beginnings of fear of being caught on me, and it didn't take long to discover the source of my fear.

The tiny pebble in the hand Mom held out to me was familiar. My pulse raced as I looked straight into her eyes and said, "It's a pebble." Heat rose in waves from my blushing cheeks and my hair swung down to cover the burning tips of my ears. "Guess where I found it?"

"In your shoe?"

"Don't get smart with me, young lady. You know exactly where I found it."

I opted for smart aleck mode. "On the ground no doubt." I never saw it coming until her hand cracked against my cheek, rocking my head sideways and imprinting the red outline of her hand and fingers on my hot cheeks. I didn't expect what came next either.

"Now that you've seen what you're getting for Christmas ..." I didn't dare contradict her or explain that I hadn't actually seen the individual items, just the overwhelming presence of mass and color. "You won't need to unwrap any gifts. There won't be any for you. That's what your snooping cost you."

No Christmas. No gifts. And I knew her well enough to know she'd make me sit down and watch my brother and sisters open every single one of their gifts.

"Your gifts will go to someone else, someone whose children don't snoop."

I lived in a hell of anxiety and fear that she would make good on her threat for the next three weeks, each day an eternity marching down an endless hall into the arms of death. No Christmas. No gifts. For the first time in my life, I dreaded Christmas morning.

The night before Christmas, a night I have never been able to sleep through, the seconds crawled by on broken legs. The moon stood still above the trees and refused to move as my sisters squirmed and shifted in their sleep, mumbling incoherently. The clock on the mantelpiece in the living room echoed through the house. The room was still dark when first Tracy and then Carol woke and whispered, "Is it Christmas yet?" I pretended to sleep. They tiptoed past me and met Jimmy coming down the hall, whispered briefly and tiptoed like a herd of wildebeests down the stairs to the first landing. The click of the light in the foyer echoed like doom. "Wait until your father turns on the lights. Carol, go get Jackie." I would not be spared, not today. Carol skidded to a stop as I opened the door. Taking my time, I shuffled to the bathroom and closed the door. "Hurry up. It's Christmas." For you, but not for me, I thought.

"Go downstairs. I'll be there in a minute." I splashed cold water on my tear-stained cheeks and hoped no one would notice my red-rimmed, puffy eyes. I plodded down the stairs where once I would have raced, taking two and three stairs at a time and even sliding down the banister in bolder and less mature years. I had aged centuries over the last three weeks.

Boxes in bright primary colors festooned with ribbons and bows and glittering in the light of blinking and stolid Christmas tree lights spilled out from under the tree. Carol, Jimmy and Tracy begged me to hurry as they waited, dancing from foot to foot and jumping up and down in the foyer outside the living room. Dad stood guard with his movie camera, flood lights beaming across the room and dimmed by the glory of Santa's emptied pack while Mom sat in her chair, a queen surveying the hungry rabble. The time of punishment had come. "Jackie, you hand out the presents," she said, twisting the knife in my still beating heart. I picked up packages in either hand, swarmed by my avid siblings, working my way in toward the tree.

Gifts were grabbed from my hands before I finished the first syllable of the name. I walked down the cleared path, picking boxes and bags from both sides, holding them briefly before they were snatched from my hands. In a daze, I moved toward the tree. Mom smiled and exclaimed over each toy, book and doll held up and tossed aside while the next gift was unwrapped, admired and replaced with more and more gifts. "Get the small one," Mom ordered. I reached for a small red foil wrapped box. "Not that one, the blue one." I picked it up. Jackie. It was my name. I looked over at Mom and she nodded her head with a small self-satisfied smile.

Ignoring the whining and begging behind me, I carefully opened the package, slipping trembling fingers beneath the tape and sliding off the paper undamaged. Inside the white box in a square nest of cotton was a pair of earrings, real earrings with real amethysts. Carol crawled past me, almost knocking me over. "This one's for you. And this one." Tears swamped me as I sat down on the floor while Jimmy, Carol and Tracy piled gift after gift around me. Numb with shock, I stared dumbfounded at the growing mound of gifts until Tracy put one in my hands. My name sprawled unevenly across every blank space on the gift card in green crayon, folds and wads of tape sticking up all over the box. "It's from me," she said, crawling onto my lap. "Open it."

There were many Christmases when the presents spilled out from the tree and we had to work our way outside the room in and Christmases when there were fewer presents under the tree, but the Christmas that almost wasn't is still as clear now as it was that Christmas morning in 1967. The only gifts I remember are the easel, canvas, pastels, brushes and paints and the earrings. Nearly being excluded remains indelibly etched in memory. Did it change my yearly hunt for gifts?

No, I'm very good at hiding my tracks.

Impromptu verse and impatient organs

'Twas the night before the night before Xmas and all through the house
not a creature was stirring, just the mouse.
The stocking was hung on the doorway with care
in hopes that the neighborhood kids wouldn't dare
fill it with sticks or coal or contempt
offering me a present of silence instead of trying to tempt
me to get my shotgun or sell them for rent.
A very happy holiday full of joy and warmth.

Just a little impromptu something I wrote for a good friend, but it's a good segue into the important stuff, like why I am plagued with erotic dreams when I am tired and worn out from too many hours at the keyboard. Must be because my resistance is down and I'm diving into the deep waters I stay so carefully away from lest they swamp me.

Last night's dream, or maybe it was this morning's before my bladder rescued me with an inordinate amount of "I can't wait any longer" pressure, was about a presence, a ghost of sorts who could corporealize, coming after me. He had ravaged several willing young ladies; I was not one of them.

He had information to impart and I had successfully avoided his firmer offerings, until someone attempted to lock me in the basement with him so he could have his wicked way. I turned the tables on her and locked her in the basement anteroom, made it up the stairs and locked the door on the entity before he could catch me. Someone let him out and he appeared in the bedroom to accost me, offering different shapes and races for my erotic delectation. When he appeared as a well endowed, light, bright and nearly white black man, I burst out laughing. "I've had better looking and darker men." He backed away as I accosted him, protecting himself from my laughter as I controlled the situation, and then he disappeared just as my fella came to save me. The best defense against such demons it to confront the spirit and laugh him away. Then, just as my fella was heating my erogenous zones and synapses before engaging the field of play, my bladder threatened to spill its guts.

So here I am feeling groggy and not a little irritated at being interrupted, typing away like an idiot when I should be back in bed pursuing my dream lover, or at least embracing the sandman an hour or two more before I must get up and pound the work keyboard to make my bread . . . milk, eggs, cheese and meat. Oh, well, I'm never very mentally together when I haven't had much sleep. Maybe if I hurry up and finish . . ..

A holiday card for everyone

Since I don't have everyone's email or snail mail addresses, here's a card for everyone to enjoy.

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Merry Kwanzaa, Merry Yule and Season's Greetings.

That is all. Disperse. Go see the card.

Of computer mice and mien

Since everyone seems to know about the Tiger Woods' babes, except for me, I thought I'd share a little of the Tiger love.



There. Don't you feel better now? I don't, but that's only because I have to work.

I was up until past 11 p.m. last night finishing a review book that needed to be reviewed and sent in this morning. I fell asleep reading, which is not that uncommon, except I don't remember when I turned out the light. No, it's not burnt out; it was actually turned out. I just don't remember doing it. After a day of typing an extra 60 reports, amounting to 150 pages, I am entitled to a little fugue state now and again. However, the book, Leaving Gee's Bend, which is probably a YA novel, is actually quite good and it will go to my granddaughter Savannah to add to her growing collection of books. The other book, a fantasy novel, the first in a new series, Flesh and Fire was surprising and innovative. The author, Laura Anne Gilman, used the story of Jesus Christ, turned it on its head a little and created a world where the magic is in the grapes and the magicians, Vinearts, wine makers who imbue their spell wines with specific properties, like healing wounds, staunching blood, creating winds, mending bones and even setting fires that burn on what they are told to burn. There's a good deal of the wine making art and the oenophile's sensuous savor of the taste and flavors/aromas of wine, but that doesn't detract too much from the main story. I recommend both books.

I've a few minutes left before I have to shuffle back to my office and dig in for another day of typing op reports and getting stiffed on the page counts, so I'll keeping wandering aimlessly through my thoughts in hopes of finding something worthwhile to write.

Or not.

At least I'll be able to stop this insanity early on Thursday, although probably not. I just won't get paid for it until next year because the office closes the books early on Thursday to make sure we get paid next week. I'd keep thinking of the money if only I wasn't so tired and achy and feel like I could drop off to sleep sitting at my desk in the midst of an involved and technical cardiothoracic surgery or penoplasty (that last one is cosmetic surgery of a kind on penises -- there have been a lot of those lately. Don't they grow normal penises any more?). Nothing like resurfacing the shaft of penises, glans wings and aortic valve replacements to make life interesting.

Or not.

That is all. Disperse.

In death there is freedom

There are times when people can (and do) surprise me and this morning was one of those times. I reached out to someone and they reached back.

I had some news this weekend that has hit me sideways. I didn't really know what or how to think, although my first emotion was disbelief, followed closely by relief. Through it all, I keep remembering something I've heard many times. When a free man dies he loses the pleasure of life, but when a slave dies he loses his pain. Does that hold true when a slave's abuser and tormentor dies and he is finally free?

There was a story about Adolph Hitler that comes to mind. When Hitler's father died, a man who had ignored and abused him emotionally all his life, Hitler grieved and cried openly as he had not done for his beloved mother. It's said that he grieved so hard and so long because the man he hated most in the world was gone and he had no one left to hate -- except for the Jews and the rest of the non-Aryan world.

I don't hate my abuser and tormentor; however, I do feel sorry for her. Despite the many privileges and wealth she has known, she is a small, petty and mean person and has led a narrow and constricted life, a life she narrowed and constricted. Instead of love, she gave spite. Instead of hope, she made dreams dirty and insignificant in order to make herself feel better and more important and worth more than the person she abused and tormented. She is jealous and mean-spirited and hateful because she doesn't have everything she wants, in this case a soul. Living with the outward appearance of goodness wears thin when people get too close and look too far beneath the surface, which is why she has never let people get too close -- even though it seems she does. She has no friends and no trusted acquaintances because she cannot trust anyone who would be able to see behind the facade to the emptiness and darkness within.

She is failing. Time and the abuse of her own body are catching up and she may soon be gone. What I feel is complex because the situation is complex. One thing I learned a long time ago is that the opposite of love is apathy and not hate. You cannot hate someone or something you have not loved. And so I will miss her in a way, but mostly I will feel relieved, unshackled and free. My servitude to a mean and hurtful taskmaster will be over. All the pressure will be gone and I can breathe without fear of being caught enjoying myself. There will be no one to run me down or inject a hint of poison into my joy in order to debase the golden coin of success and happiness. I cannot, like Hitler, grieve because I no longer have anyone to hate because I hate no one. So, the question remains, how will it feel to be free of torment and abuse? I keep returning to the lines above. In death, a slave loses his pain.

'Twas the weekend before Christmas

If you haven't seen the BBC's Merlin yet, you should. The show was a little silly and played around with the mythology of Merlin, Arthur and Camelot at the beginning, but it has definitely grown. It is no longer what one of my F-list friends called "The Once and Future Prat." Oh, Arthur is still a bit of a prat, but the show has depth and heart and Arthur is growing out of the prat stage. Consider watching it. Start at the beginning, but stay the course all the way through the second season; the finale is moving. I can hardly wait for the third season.

Yesterday wasn't a great day in many respects, but it did bring some surprises. The grocery delivery didn't happen and I wasn't happy, but I got dressed and went out to buy my own groceries and found a great tree that didn't cost a bundle. Putting it up has turned out to be a bit challenging since tree lots no longer nail bases to the trees, but I found an ingenious way to stand it up without a tree stand. Then on to the decorating while my computer burned DVDs. A package arrived, the result of a gift card spending spree and I dove into Terry Pratchett's Wintersmith only to be hauled up short by responsibility. I finally got the box of review books sent two weeks ago and put away Wintersmith in favor of Flesh and Fire, magic in wine. Once I got through the mythology part of the book (a huge takeoff on power, wine, sacrifice and blood), I had little hopes for the book getting any better, but I was wrong. I'm halfway through already and Gilman has put together a fascinating mythos and world with just enough mystery to fuel plot and imbue characters with interest. If nothing goes wrong and the writing doesn't go downhill, this has the makings of a really good trilogy.

The rest of the evening was punctuated with chores, reading, changing disks to be burned, labeling and putting burned disks into cases and watching the movies waiting to be watched . . . and, oh, avoiding temptation. That was the other good surprise yesterday -- a drive-by gifting. Someone I've not seen in ten months drove by to drop off a gift bag full of holiday joy: books. More Terry Pratchett books to be exact. Three of them. If I wasn't so interested in Flesh and Fire, I doubt I would have been able to put the books away after reading the first few pages.

Hint to drive-by gifter: some kind of camouflage is essential to keep the gifted from looking in the bag and being so excited they couldn't wait for the big day. Good thing my big day is tomorrow at the solstice or I'd be in agonies of guilt (not).

Tomorrow is also my nephew Cody's 19th birthday and I can hardly wait to call and wish him a good one right before I chide him for not getting busy and getting his driver's license.

On the solstice, the longest night and shortest day of the year, at dusk, I will finish opening the rest of my gifts while the rest of you wait for the jolly white-bearded man in the red and white suit Friday (or Thursday night if you're the anxious type). On that occasion, I shall listen to carols and follow Dickens' Scrooge (Alistair Sim) through his annual peregrination to discover the meaning of Xmas while drinking a cup of egg nog, nibbling gingerbread and cookies and listen for sleigh bells in the snow. Nearly fifty years ago, I stood on a stage in a borrowed, pinned together navy skirt and a brand new white blouse reciting A visit from St. Nicholas with several other children in the first and second grades, a poem that is forever engraved in the folds and whorls of my brain, not only because it was one of my first memories, but because my mother had me recite it every time we visited family, no matter what I wore. It didn't seem so surprising to me that I could remember the entire poem by heart because I worked to memorize it for the first Xmas play I was in. She didn't have me sing the Hallelujah Chorus or recite the words from all the plays I have been in, which is a mercy because that's a lot of plays and concerts. I remember bits of dialogue and it doesn't take long for me to get up to speed on the words in all those plays, as long as you don't expect me to remember all the articles, stories, books and poems I've written as well. And I didn't have to perform all the dances I learned either, another blessing.

At any rate, I still remember the poem and I still feel the excitement I felt as a child on Christmas Eve when I couldn't sleep and the night stretched to an infinite distance when the sun would never rise, hence forcing me and my sisters and brother to wake my parents long before dawn. We didn't understand the sun wasn't going to be up until eight. We only understood that we couldn't wait any longer sitting at the top landing peering through the banister rails in the shadowed darkness trying to figure out if Santa had visited and left the space under the tree full of presents or if our bulging stockings, which we couldn't see, were full of sticks and lumps of coal as our parents had cautioned. I was always the instigator on these forays, although I didn't have to work hard to wake my siblings, not even Jimmy who slept like a hibernating bear full of Valium and vodka, and I led them to the stairs, keeping them as quiet as possible while I with my sharp eyes inured to the darkness counted shadowy lumps bulging from beneath the tree and holding them back as long as possible before going down to wake our parents and ask if it was Xmas yet. Aah, the memories that populate the silent nights as the big day draws near. How clear they are.

May all your days be bright and all your Christmases be white. Happy Holidays and season's greetings.