The Cure for Lack of Inspiration

There are often times when there is nothing to write about and the thought of putting down nothing or some nonsensical stream of consciousness doesn't sit right with the writer, and so they don't write, waiting for inspiration to strike or a job to come along that will foce them to write. What they should have done was just write. A writer's slogan should be the same as Nike's: Just Do It.

Inspiration may not strike. The muse must be coaxed and cajoled, forced out of hiding by the sheer weight of what may seem like nonsensical verbiage, like this. I have nothing, except for two novels to finish and a deadline on a recap of Mike & Molly, a Monday night television show I agreed to write about for The Celebrity Cafe. It's nothing special, just a retelling in words of what is seen on the screen, a sort of reverse engineering of a television show that began as words before it was filmed and is now to be rendered back into words. All writing begins with -- words. Not brain surgery that, just words and more words.

One way to Just Do It is to join NaNoWriMo and begin the quest for words that make sense, even if it means writing words that don't make sense to arrive at the end of the month with 50,000 words and a novel, a rough beginning of a novel most of the time, but a novel all the same. I've used NaNo a few times in the past to work through writer's block, writer's stasis, and writer's fear of writing stupid and it has worked. I've retooled one novel that became a sort-of romance, Past Imperfect, and worked through a few other novels that didn't quite work and need much more work to be novels, and will work through my writing balking on two more novels -- or at least one of them. I need to get them back on track and out of my head so I can move on to other works, like the sequel to Among Women, which is Among Men. (Seemed like a fitting title to the sequel to Pearl Caldwell's wrongful incarceration and journey of the soul.)

In the end, when writing isn't coming and the muse stubbornly refuses to answer the call to inspire, NaNoWriMo is a good way to put things back on track and write. Deadlines are good, and not just when they go whizzing past.

Saturday coming down -- with something

It is Saturday, which is unnoticeable from any other day of the week, except that the post office is closed earlier today and there will be no mail pickup or delivery tomorrow. I have often thought the post office should work seven days a week during the holidays to keep from falling further behind in delivering the mail. Letters and cards I mailed earlier this week have not shown up at their destination, at least as far as Ohio is concerned. What once took two days now take 3-5 days. This is unacceptable and, if having Sundays off and working a half-day on Saturdays is the reason, they need to work a full seven days during the holidays.

I've a pile of letters and cards to be mailed. T'is the season -- Halloween of course. Did you think I meant Sukkot? No, I'm not Jewish. I call Halloween Samhain (Sow-en), but am not averse to calling it what most people use to refer to that end of the harvest time when the walls between the living and the dead is thinnest. Okay, that might be a little long to put on holiday cards. They would have to be bigger, which would be good for the card companies so they could charge more and for the post office so they could charge more, but not feasible. Most people barely get through the usual simple greetings: Happy (insert holiday) and many more. They don't even add the last line or your name. They are just so cheap, except where I get my cards.

When I look at cards in the store and see anything priced over $1.99 (usually $0.99), I put the card back as being too much to spend on a simple greeting or remembrance. I don't feel that way when I look at cards on Papyrus. I don't even look at the cost, except when there's a sale and there's a card or box of stationery I want. Their cards are lovely -- as some of you can attest -- and are worth the money, even with extra postage. I have become a connoisseur of greeting and correspondence cards and my only regret, now that I'm temporarily unemployed, is that I cannot afford to buy more. I'm running low on correspondence cards and will soon have to restock. The box under my desk is getting emptier.

This week and next are busy weeks. My Uncle Bob's birthday is tomorrow (card and gift already sent), Nonny's birthday is next Saturday (card and gift ready to send), and Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois's anniversary is next Saturday (card ready to send, but no gift). It looks like I'll also be going back to work next week. I start training on Tuesday and will finish out the week on Saturday with a Tuesday-Saturday work week (shorter hours, better pay, and cheaper benefits). I think I need to get back to work to provide some structure to my days. I don't do well without structure. Too much time on my hands is too much time on my hands and nothing gets done. Okay, I did a few loads of laundry and cleared off my desk, took out some trash, heated up some meals, and otherwise lollygagged around reading books and playing games with friends. Sue me. I said I needed structure.

Going back to work might also give me the frustration my muse obviously needs to inspire me to write. She's been elusive this past two weeks and give me nada, zilch, zip, nothing in the way of encouragement, inspiration, or time. She must think this is her vacation, too, except I don't remember firing her when I got fired. Oh, well, maybe she'll return when I am back to being miserable. Anything is possible.

In the meantime, that is all. Disperse.

Literary Therapy

Today has been an early day of uploading book reviews. I should have done them earlier, but got caught up in all the work drama that now seems to be sliding slowly toward a new path. There are worse ways to spend my life, but making more money with better benefits and a whole lot less stress doesn't seem to be one of them. These are the times I go back to basics, one of those being the comfort of an old friend -- a book.

The book is Andre Norton's Moon of Three Rings about a Free Trader (space faring free trader) on a new world caught up in that world's intrigues who ends up wearing fur for a while. The fur is a barsk, a dangerous and violent animal not easily tamed, dying from abuse. The Moon Singer, Maelen, finds and saves the barsk and ends up putting Krip Vorlund in the barsks body, shoring up both spirits since his body has been beaten. Thus begins an odyssey into the interior of Yiktor among the Thassa and a price that Maelen must pay for her actions.

I read Moon of Three Rings for the first time nearly forty years ago and I find something new every time I read it, picking up little details and bits of writing that I missed the first few times. Each time it's a new book, not because I don't remember the story, but because I am coming to the book a little different, older, hopefully wiser, but most definitely changed by time and experiences. I bring a different me to the book each time, as I do to other books I reread. My experiences change me, but they also change the way I view the world and the world within the books. Good books just get better with time, and I was in need of a good book, although I almost opted for the next Disc World book from Terry Pratchett.

I flirted briefly with another Jasper Fforde, likely The Eyre Affair, the first in the Thursday Next series, but decided a good old book was exactly what I needed.

I often wonder if doctors ever think of library therapy for what ails their patients. It should be a required treatment for depression, ennui, high blood pressure, and stress, among other ailments that have accumulated with our modern age. Sometimes the best treatment is slowing down with a good book, not just any book, but a really good book, a golden oldie if possible. There's something to be said for a trip through the pages of a well loved book where the characters are familiar and the environs comforting. It's the literary version, at least in my opinion, of stopping to smell the roses. A vase of fresh cut roses wouldn't go amiss while sitting down and reading and you'll have time to smell the gentle fragrance while you read. Two birds. One stone.

The world changes so quickly and times begins to feel like it's traveling past at mach speed. The vistas change and so do we, but at the core we are the same people who fell in love with a story or an author as children and need a little reminding. I may even dig up a copy of the very first book I ever owned and read it again, imagining myself lying in the sweet hay on clean sheets in the loft looking up at the stars shining into the attic with Heidi. Or I could journey back in time with John Carter or swing through the jungles with Tarzan or even go on an adventure with Conan the Barbarian.

What I really need is a box full of vintage comic books and a Creamsicle or a bowl of popcorn and a stack of fairy tales or 1001 Arabian Nights. Sometimes the world looks better from a fantastical perspective. Thoreau did say to simplify and fairy tales, comic books, and fantasies are the simplest and best pleasures I know.

Simplify. Find a comfortable spot with good lighting and read a book. You can enjoy your lunch in a comfortable chair as easily as at the table or a counter, but bring a napkin so you don't mess up the book. Don't forget the roses.

Review: The Map of Time

In Victorian England, for a fee, it is possible to move out of time and space and see the future or the past at Murray’s Time Travel.

Andrew Harrington, a wealthy young man in love with a common Whitechapel prostitute named Mary Kelly, wants to go back in time and stop Jack the Ripper from murdering her. It is either that or suicide.

Claire Haggerty is a victim of the times, an independent woman with a strong mind who feels stifled in Victorian England. She wants to travel to May 20, 2000 to see the last battle between humans and automatons.

Scotland Yard has its own problem. Someone from the future is traveling through time to commit murder in Victorian England.

Connecting all these tales is H. G. Wells and his marvelous time machine for he holds the keys to the future and the past.

Félix J. Palma mixes science, fiction, and fantasy in The Map of Time to mixed effect. Since the book was originally written in Spanish and translated to English, I wonder if the problems are connected to the translations or to Spanish literary conventions. Spanish writers tend to focus on description and Palma spends a great deal of time intruding to explain and pontificate.

In spite of the uneven pacing and authorial intrusion, The Map of Time is very different, at times funny, shocking, inventive, and somewhat mischievous. Palma gives us his versions of H. G. Wells, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jack the Ripper, the Elephant Man, and many other mainstays of the Victorian age and integrates them rather well. The three connected stories have their own eccentricities, told in three sections of the book, but do offer a fascinating look at what might have been.

The Map of Time reminded me of Time after Time when H.G. Wells travels to the future to track down Jack the Ripper only by using Wells to power the story. Palma does give Wells and the other characters their due, imbuing them with a new reality and a bit of fantasy. The tale slows in several places but The Map of Time is an admirable rendering of the times and the literary and historical characters he uses to wonderful effect. Prepare to be entertained and amazed.

Review: Killer Move

What do a recently paroled murderer and a successful real estate agent in Florida have in common? They have been modified.

Bill Moore is an enterprising person and he wants success in a big way. He has a lucrative job, a beautiful wife, and everything going for him until he gets a message. Modified. Everything changes and Bill’s life unravels around him.

John Hunter was just paroled. Once he leaves the prison, he sets out to break all the terms of his parole to prove he was convicted unjustly. What he finds is that he and Bill Moore are nothing but pawns to a group of men out to destroy their lives--because they can.

Michael Marshall is known for his thrillers, and Killer Move is my introduction to his work. Marshall begins on a slow arc, building the suspense and then unleashing a psychodrama that builds speed and a bit of paranoia in the characters and this reviewer. Told from two different points of view, Marshall piles on the tension.

There are a few soft spots in an otherwise taut thriller and the characters are flat, except for Bill and John Hunter, both of whom are fully fleshed. There are moments when it seems Marshall will be unable to tie all the loose ends together, and some are a bit slapdash, but overall Killer Move is a good example of life turned on its head at full throttle, the kind of novel that will have you racing to change your computer passwords.

Review: The Last Letter From Your Lover | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Jennifer Stirling wakes up in hospital and does not remember who she is—or was—and has trouble connecting to the people in her life. Most of all, she has trouble connecting with her husband Larry. He is solicitous and does not press her, and the doctor tells her not to dwell on things and just live, but nothing feels right. Jennifer does not fit her skin any more and she is not sure whether it is because of the accident or if her body and soul are showing her what her foggy mind cannot.

When she comes across the first letter, she begins to see her feelings are not far wrong and there is, and was, something wrong with her marriage, so wrong she had an affair. She does not remember who the man is, but she is determined to find out.

Forty years later, Ellie Harworth is flailing when she comes across a love letter. She thinks the letter will rejuvenate her career and give her answers to her own relationship. The letters connect both women and Ellie wants to find out what happened to the couple.

In what purports to be a double love story, Jojo Moyes vacillates between Jennifer’s past and present lives as she struggles to find where she fits in. I could not figure out whether Jennifer was remembering the past or Moyes was offering glimpses of the past to move the story forward and create tension and depth for Jennifer and her lost lover, Boot, in The Last Letter from your Lover. I enjoyed both stories and the budding romance, but felt that a chronological tale would have benefited the story and the characters.

Jennifer is fragile and confused and it was easy to warm up to her as her life falls apart and she struggles with where she belongs, especially when Larry tells her that her love is dead, killed in the accident that sent her to the hospital. His bitterness is understandable to a point, but Larry is no saint and not much of a husband. He has money, but little compassion and fewer reasons to be bitter.

Ellie is not as easy to understand or to like. She is all about the job and her drive, while commendable, is more a vehicle to bring Jennifer and Boot’s story full circle.

I enjoyed The Last Letter from your Lover but with reservations. The writing is wonderful when Moyes focuses on the story, but the plot devices and time switches tend to be distracting and less effective. Moyes, however, has penned a substantial romance with all the right tropes, and one that is memorably poignant.

Review: The Shattered Vine by Laura Anne Gilman

Jerzy, Mahault, Ao, and Käinam return to The Berengia in their ship after battling the Washers and Ximen. Ao needs more assistance than Jerzy can give on shipboard and Jerzy needs to return to the vineyard. There Jerzy is stronger and he will confront Ximen on his own turf.

The Washers and the Land-Lord Ranulf, all of whom want Jerzy to combine forces with them, note Jerzy and his friends returning. Jerzy may be Apostate, but he thinks he knows how to stop the darkness that reaches up from the Root to shadow all the land. On the Vineart’s soil is where the friends will make their last stand against all the forces against them.

Laura Anne Gilman ends the Vineart War trilogy with The Shattered Vine, bringing all the enemies and friends together for a last stand that ends as it began with Jerzy at the vanguard. The Shattered Vine takes off on a slow rising arc. It was a bit difficult to find my bearings in the beginning, a problem that could have been improved by rereading The Weight of Stone or even going back to the beginning and reading all three books together, from Flesh and Fire through to The Shattered Vine.

Once the tale began to move forward it moved quickly to the end of the tale, leaving enough room for more stories from other viewpoints. Gilman has ended the trilogy with a subtle power that leaves questions about the nature of religion and magic and the truth of Zatim Sin Washer and what really happened to create the Lands Vin and the legacy that comes full circle with Jerzy. Each of the friends—Mahault, Käinam, and Ao—as well as Lil and Detta and Washer Brion, become fuller and more complex as the final confrontation nears, giving depth and complexity to Gilman’s trilogy and showcasing her writing and world building skills. There is so much more that could be written about the Lands Vin and the Exiles and I hope Gilman will eventually take that task in hand.

The Shattered Vine is intelligent and complex and satisfying. I am glad I had the chance to follow Jerzy’s education and his journey and sad that the tale is ended. Aside from a few minor pacing issues, the Vineart War trilogy is a rewarding and rich experience of high fantasy. This book -- and indeed the trilogy -- is worth keeping.

Simon & Schuster did send me a copy of this book in order to read and review it. It goes well with the previous two books, which I also read and reviewed for Authorlink. The free copy in no way affected the outcome of my review, however, Laura Anne Gilman's writing did.

Wanted: Mail carrier | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

It's no wonder the post office is going broke. I imagine it's because they're paying on a lot of insurance policies from mail carriers being murdered by the people who are supposed to get their mail and don't, or have to use the jaws of life to get their mail out of the box. Whoever decided that bigger was better with reference to mailboxes was an idiot.

For the past two years I have had a running battle with the post office about mail carriers shoving, stuffing, wedging, and otherwise bulldozing packages into my mail box, the one that's half a block away down at the street. I've spent hours over the past two years working wedged packages and crumped, chewed up, and otherwise mangled mail out of the box cursing the mail carrier of the week and vowing revenge. Instead, I call the mail carrier office and ask them again not to put packages in the mailbox, but they persist. I suppose the turnover is too high and the quality of education of the new hires too low to understand that simple request.

I suppose I should be thankful they even deliver the mail, since several times over the past two years they have left a notice saying my box was too full and please arrange to pick up the mail at the post office or request redelivery. I requested redelivery yesterday and was asked if I'd be home. Of course, I am home. I live and work here and am currently not working at all, thank you very much. The supervisor told me they would redeliver my mail that day. They didn't.

In my empty mailbox was a catalog I didn't order along with a notice neatly printed. "Your mailbox is full again. Please go to the post office tomorrow to pick up your mail." In the empty mailbox where I put several letters going, which had been taken, my mailbox was full. Again. And she left a note after I had called and requested my mail be redelivered yesterday. To my house. Where I was at home. Right.

Now I have to go to the post office and pick up my mail If there was another way to get my mail and packages I would. It seems the post office hires people physically unable to walk half a block up to the house and deposit the packages on the doorstep where the mailbox should be. They are physically able to write a note and leave in the mailbox so I can go to the post office to pick up my mail. I'm half tempted to get a mailbox at the post office so I can pick my mail up directly instead of dealing with these idiots, and it also keeps me out of prison for torture, dismemberment, and murder of the constantly changing kaleidoscope of people who play post office with my mail six days a week. I almost wish Clyde has stuck around a little longer, but he got a better route again.

Clyde is the mail carrier who demanded to see my ID when I happened to be on the porch and asked him to give me my mail. Clyde refused to give me the mail until I had gone upstairs and brought the ID back down for him to check. He'd been leaving mail for me in the box or on the bench on the porch for months without asking to see my ID, but he would not hand me my mail without ID. I also had to write, date, and sign a letter that stated he could leave packages and bulky items on the porch when they wouldn't fit in the mailbox. He also had a penchant for leaving notices to pick up mail at the post office, and he threatened to force the landlady to get a bigger mailbox and put it on the street so he didn't have to walk 20 yards up to the porch, climb the stairs, and put notices in my mailbox.

One of my cousins was a mail carrier and he never behaved that way, but he was a decent guy not living by a rule book and growing a beard every winter so he could deliver mail as Santa Claus. He died a few months ago and so did the last mail carrier who understood the meaning of customer service. No wonder the post office is in financial trouble. They're probably paying death benefits on most of the rude, impersonal, and downright stupid mail carriers.

I imagine that people would be lined up around the block waiting to be hired for the post office, but maybe not since the life span is so simple. Then again, what's a little population control by death in the line of duty while delivering -- or in my case, not delivering -- the mail? Talk about your hostile work environment and that's just from the people like me who have trouble not getting their mail.

Woman Bites Dog | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

Woman Bites Dog | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

That Dry Feeling on the Highway to Hell

I wouldn't have thought that a fizzy drink that is supposed to make my muscles strong and work better could affect my sinuses, but it does. Or rather, the lack of the fizzy drink has affected my sinuses.

The back of my throat has that dry feel that presages a bout of sinus infection, or possibly a cold, but it couldn't be just because I didn't mix up my fizzy vitamin and mineral drink for the past two days. Could it? Maybe it is the reason. Time to stop being lazy and mix up a double dose this morning. If it keeps the germs at bay, I'm all for that. I don't like being ill, except when I need a reason to take a day off work.

I was reading tedwords's post about his in-law and outlaw problems with his son-in-law and it reminds me of a similar situation with my eldest son.

Dred Scotty has been a trial since day one. He preferred strangers to me and spent his formative years lurking about and collecting information to feed to my mother so she'd get angry and slap me in the face. His reasoning was that whatever he did was copacetic because it paid me back for punishing him when he, say, climb out his bedroom window on a phone cord after stealing money from my purse to buy a toy I had forbidden at 6 AM or getting up in the middle of the night to pile chairs on the table after pushing the table closer to the door to the kitchen, which was locked with a hook lock to keep him out of the kitchen and away from the gas stove. He still managed to get the door unlocked until we padlocked it with a key lock. That thwarted his middle of the night and wee hours of the morning rambles and kept him from burning the house down so he went back to sticking wire hangers in the outlets to try to start fires and shock the crap out of his hand. As I said, Dred Scotty was a trial.

He continued to be a trial as he played my mother and I off against each other, working through her to control things because I know how he works, like the time he claimed a teacher had sexually assaulted him when the teacher didn't even know who he was, a fact I became aware of when I stormed into the principal's office to have the teacher fired and brought up on charges. The abuse claim came about because he had given Dred Scotty detention for wandering the halls during classes without a hall pass. Yes, my son, is a devious and manipulative fella at best, and you don't really want to know his worst.

He broken into my apartment twice to steal things to sell because I wouldn't give him any money, the last time stealing my first computer on which was kept (password locked, of course) all of my writing and journals transferred from paper. He didn't know the password and no pawnbroker would touch it, so he tossed it in a dumpster "somewhere." All that work, and a couple of books, gone with the foulest of winds. He stole my tool box and money and the usual things one steals when he's deep into the drugs, even stabbing himself in the leg with a pocket knife to prove that he had been mugged and that's why the radio was missing from my car, which I had loaned him to go out looking for a job. I didn't believe that for a second and he finally admitted to it.

I cut him off financially and seldom heard from him unless he was in dire straits, turning on the tears and that tone in his voice that said he just couldn't take it any more. He should've been an actor. He would have had a couple of Oscars and a few Emmies by now. I was adamant. This ATM was closed for business until he grew up and took responsibility for his own actions, and I was not about to be his ATM as long as he only popped up long enough to get money from me. The ultimatum was simple: Either have a relationship with me or stop asking me for money.

Cut to now.

In January he contacted me by letter and sent me pictures of his children and his wife. He was married again (for the third time) and had a beautiful set of fraternal twins, Connor and Sierra. We wrote. We talked. He didn't ask for money, but then I made a mistake. I sent the twins a really nice gift of clothing for their first birthday. I was happy for my son and not a little surprised when a letter arrived with an installment on some of the money he owed me. Then everything fell apart.

His wife Aldonza, a recovering alcoholic, was drinking again and he was drinking with her to keep her company, and covering up the drinking. He can't drink because it's a direct route to drugs, alcohol being his gateway drug. He had his back surgery and returned to work too soon and ended up with more problems. Aldonza got a job and soon lost it because she was ill, but the truth was she couldn't make it to work because she was drunk on too many occasions. They were in trouble and asking for financial help. I refused to help them out that way, but I did send two cases of diapers for the babies, and I kept sending them every month, something I stopped after Aldonza lost the children when she was found drunk and the kids running around the house dirty and getting into everything. She was charged with reckless endangerment two days after Dred Scotty went into a church rehab program to get sober again, falling off the wagon after four years clean and sober. We don't even want to talk about Aldonza's wagon, and it can't be completely blamed on her mother and father, both of whom are career alcoholics. At least her parents managed to keep their jobs and their children, although they did pass down the alcoholism like a bowl of stuffing or cranberry sauce at the Thanksgiving table.

Aldonza was supposed to go into a 90-day rehab program to get back her children. In the meantime, her stepfather took her car, a car she and Dred Scotty had paid for and on, even though stepdaddy's name was co-signer on the loan, which was not in default, and Aldonza took Dred Scotty's car so she could run the bars at night. She was even caught hanging all over some guy she swears she's not having an affair with and denies that the blatantly sexual text messages and pictures of the fella's not so privates were on her phone (she forgot to delete them when she took Dred Scotty's phone and lent him her phone to call someone). What seemed idyllic and working, with a few minor snags, turned into a full fledged five-car pileup on the highway to Hell.

True to form, Dred Scotty called me for help crying -- that snotty-nosed, hiccuping kind of crying -- that was supposed to soften me up. Some friend of Aldonza's was granted guardianship over the twins and her daughter from a previous liaison was with her mother and stepfather, who just couldn't deal with taking the twins, too. I'd rather mummy and stepdaddy not have the twins and infect them with alcoholism, not that it isn't a possibility if Dred Scotty and Aldonza ever get it together and put their family back together, a possibility that grows dimmer every day since Aldonza moved in with the bar guy that she wasn't having an affair with.

Their lives couldn't be more of a train wreck or highway to Hell pile-up than it is, and my son will be 38 next month. Holy hopping hell toads on crack.

It just doesn't get any better than this, unless you add in my larcenous younger son Ajay and his equally duplicitous wife Jack-em-all, but that's a tale for another time.

Even though I seldom talk about really personal matters, I do have them -- in spades.

That is all. Disperse.

On a More Personal Note

I tend to play it close to the vest when it comes to my personal business. I don't mean books coming out or other writing related news, but my very personal business, like losing my job a week ago Thursday. I've been hanging on by a thread for about three of the 6-1/2 years I've worked for the company, ever since they dumped a lousy account on me and took away 30-40% of my income, still demanding I maintain quota while taking away 30-40% of the work that I do. It's all about how many pages are typed and when the pages are not properly paginated, as in the account dumped on me, that cuts out a big portion of the money I earn. Two typed pages become one and you begin to see the problem.

I don't like putting my private business out here, not that I don't trust people, but because I don't want pity or people reading just for the thrill factor of someone else who's in trouble. I prefer to look on the positive side, like seven years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer only to find out, after two months of worry and hassle and testing, that I didn't have breast cancer. The doctor's office mixed my file up with someone else's. I never did find out whether or not they caught her in time and saved her life. I was so looking forward to perky breasts with upturned nipples. Oh, well. The same is true of losing my job.

Long story short: I called off work because the rain took out my electricity and phones -- again -- and I wasn't able to finish the day. I had vacation time coming and my boss took that opportunity to email me with a termination notice and demand I send back their equipment overnight at my expense, an expense that cost me $700, a month's rent and the groceries. I had some money saved and looked forward to my last paycheck and clearing out my 401K, but I should have known that would fall prey to the boss's tender mercies as well. It did. After a 20% bite out of my 401K, taxes, and surcharges, and the loss of all my accrued vacation time, I was little better off than when I had a job. Not a problem.

I filed for unemployment and am now waiting out the waiting week, which is government speak for not getting paid for one week. I wanted to take off six months, enjoy the unemployment and the time to read and write (mostly write), and kick back and relax after so many years of work without paid vacation even when I earned vacation time (she didn't pay me for that or compensate me for the vacation time in three other instances). I find that I need to go back to work and work I shall do.

I was offered three jobs (I'm a hot commodity with great skills and a solid background history) and accepted one of them. Now I need to decide when to start back to work, and it's looking like Oct. 25th, just in time for the Nov. 4th paycheck. It will be slim, but it will be a check and I do have other resources, and another job that pays a guaranteed salary each and every month without fail -- until it fails. It has before.

In a way, writing about my little pot hole in the road of life makes me wonder if I should share that information when so many people I know are either on disability or have been out of work so long their unemployment ran out. How can I talk about my little hiccup when so many others are in much more difficult straits? It seems unfair and needlessly cruel.

Suffice it to say, I always land on my feet and, aside from having to start over at a new job, I will get better pay, shorter hours, bigger paychecks, more vacation time, and cheaper benefits (benefits from the old company cost nearly a month's salary each and every month) with disability benefits. Like I said, I usually land on my feet. I do have to buy some equipment and may have to buy a program or two, but they are tax deductible. It's best to get on with the show. I still have two months off from writing book reviews after nearly nine years of nonstop reviewing and that I won't give up and may extend to three months, going back to reviewing at the beginning of the year, the same time I am giving up handling the PPRAA VE team exam sessions (someone finally stepped up to the plate after four years of me doing the job). Life is not all beer and skittles (I hate beer and don't really know what skittles are, except for the candy, and I know that skittles predate the candy), but it's workable.

That is all. Disperse.

Rain, Sinuses, and Stuff

The breeze through the bedroom window this morning feels like rain, smells like it, too. I haven't checked the forecast, but I do trust my senses, especially my sinuses, which are stuffed, and my head aches, a sure sign that there is rain in the forecast. My sinuses and head are much more reliable indicators about the weather than barometers, thermometers, meteorological gadgets, and weathermen (or women). Ever since I moved to the mountains, I get the weather results on a direct feed to the brain.

This is a weird week since I'm off work and finished four book reviews last night. Those are the last books until December since I've decided to take the next two months off. I need a break. It's difficult finding new words to same the same old things. This is a good, mediocre, awful, wonderful, or horrid book. The details are important, but there are only so many ways to say a book is over written or the story line is flat lined and no amount of CPR or literary fireworks will change that. Dead is dead.

The trick is to find something nice to say about the book. Don't want to completely deflate an ego that has New York Times Best Selling Author across the cover even when they phoned it in. Having written reviews nonstop for over eight years, I can attest to the fact that at times it is an effort to put anything down -- or to have to read one more thriller with the same tired plot and set up or a romance that isn't much of a romance or a literary novel that takes fifty pages to say a character now lives on the other side of the country and is working as manager of a sporting good store since he got out of prison. I get introspection and navel gazing, but no one can gaze that far into a navel that is too shallow to collect lint, especially when lint collects everywhere and anywhere.

At least I'll have something different to do for a while since I signed up to recap Mike & Molly. Now that is pleasurable and something new and I have Christy to thank for that one. She told me Mike & Molly was about a plus size couple finding love together. That was moderately interesting, even though James Coco did a similar sitcom a few decades ago, but what really got me was the public outcry by a blogger who was disgusted by seeing an overweight couple hugging, kissing, and loving each other. I probably wouldn't have checked it out as quickly or been as interested. Give me a good story and some laughs, but to really hook my interest you'd better give me controversy. It was also nice to see that the actress who plays Molly won an Emmy. Now that is progress since she does not fit the starvation ravaged figure that the rest of the females up for awards sported. That's a topic for another time.

Right now, I'm sniffling, sneezing, and wiping my nose while enjoying that rain-kissed breeze coming through the window. Time to tuck in the tootsies and find a good book to read, one that I am not contracted to review and don't have to finish if it turns out to be a dud.

Whizzing deadlines and holiday cards

It's that time of the year to pick out holiday cards for my grandchildren and a few friends. Ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and skeletons dance about in paper, felt, and other materials, delighting and filling me with the holiday spirit. Halloween cards are followed by Thanksgiving cards -- I like to be prepared and hate waiting until the last moment, except for writing deadlines.

Missing or extending writing deadlines never kept me in the church restroom when I arrived late for Sunday school. As a character once said, I love the sound of deadlines as they go whizzing by." I don't really like the whizzing sound, but it sounds good as long as I don't miss them for real. I'm always in that church restroom with my feet up against the wall so no one knows I was late for Sunday school -- or deadlines. Then again, I was writing about holiday cards.

The Thanksgiving cards are pretty unamazing decorated with wreaths in fall colors, turkeys, cornucopiae, food, and trimmings that all remind me of autumn harvest festivals. I found seven cards just right for sending, cards that will likely end up in a dusty box or in the garbage or pasted in a forgotten scrapbook that seemed like such a good idea when it was started. The cards are mostly for the grandchildren and I hope for at least a moment or two they enjoy the sentiment and think of me.

This is the busiest time of year. There are cards to buy, address, and send for four holidays, food to plan and make and eat, and the bustle and tussle of holiday presents to plan and buy and send. The rest of the year is fairly quiet, unless you count writing, editing, and publishing books, in which case there is no real slow time of the year. I'll bet that is why the months flash by like weeks and weeks flash by in a matter of hours.

There was a point to this post when I began and then it got lost among the gathering detritus of holiday planning and buying and sending and knowing that there is still a lot more to do right here and right now with four book reviews to get written, correspondence to catch up on, and writing of other works to do. Just for a moment it was pleasant to think of cool, crisp autumn days and frosty mornings, spices and herbs swirling through the house on a cloud of warmth and deliciousness, and the thougth of soft snow drifting and swirling down to turn the world into a faery land of dreams and possibilities. Other than that, there really is no point, except to say happy holidays, whichever ones you choose to celebrate.

Review: Blind Fury by Lynda La Plante

Detective Inspector Anna Travis has a new case. A young woman was raped, strangled, murdered, and then thrown into a field a service station on the M1 outside London. Three more cold cases are linked to the murder, victims of a serial killer, but something is off. DI Travis can feel it and so can her boss Detective Chief Supervisor Langton, her ex-lover.

The man in their sights works for Swell Blinds. John Smiley is all that he seems and more. No one has a bad word to say about him and he is very cooperative in the investigation when brought in for questioning about his work van parked in the lot at the time of the murders and caught on CCTV.

Although, Smiley looks too good to be true, Langton has a feeling they have the right man. The problem is they have nothing to tie Smiley to the women except being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feelings aren't enough to go on. That's why Langton was willing to send Anna to Barfield Prison to interview a serial killer she helped catch.

Cameron Welsh is obsessed with Anna and she doesn't believe Welsh has anything to add to their case. Anna follows orders and interviews Welsh several times. Beneath the arrogance, Welsh knows more than he says and he continues to dangle the bait to draw Anna closer, and she comes closer than she cares to come to trap Smiley.

Cameron Welsh tells Anna Travis that no matter how careful a murderer is, there's always a witness, which provides one of the main themes in Lynda La Plante's latest thriller, Blind Fury. Witnesses pop up all through the novel and La Plante uses them to good effect.

At first glance, it seems as though Welsh is Hannibal Lecter to Anna's Clarisse Starling, but the comparison doesn't hold. Welsh doesn't have Lecter's calm and pointed clarity nor is Anna the willing student anxious to climb the ladder of success. Anna also lacks Clarisse's intuitive read on Welsh's character. Where Lecter is insightful and shares information that helps move things along, Welsh is frustrated and frustrating, using the interviews as mental masturbation. Welsh does help, but such help as could have been laid out in the first interview.

La Plante lacks the polished characterization used to such telling effect by Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lambs and loses her grip, much as Welsh loses his calm, superior demeanor when he discovers Anna is interested in another man. Welsh witnesses Anna with one of his guards, Ken Hudson, a buff blond guard studying to be a child psychologist.

Where La Plante fails to hit the mark is in the sudden intense relationship between Anna and Ken, moving from tentative first date to sex to marriage in less than three dates. Anna, who has always been obsessed with her work and is an orphan, is too anxious to move forward after her failed relationship with Langton, and jumps into sex and marriage with determined effort. The minor hitches along the way where Anna suspects Ken might be involved in the murder fail to ring true and look like attempts to throw a few roadblocks that never actually work. They are as quickly disposed of as is Anna's single-minded career track, coming off as desperation rather than head over heels love at first glance. It simply does not work.

Where La Plante excels is in detailing the minutiae of a murder investigation, going over and over the same ground mining for bits of information. Blind Fury is a template for how murder investigation are run and the time consuming work done by the officers--and the reader at times. The attention to detail does pay off as Anna gets the killer and finds out how all the murders are committed since the murderer is only too happy to lay out the details.

Blind Fury is less a thriller and more a police procedural, with the emphasis on the procedure. The relationships between co-workers and the main characters is less detailed and there is no ticking clock, although budgetary cuts are mentioned a couple of times. La Plante knows the turf and describes it well, providing an excellent manual on how to proceed in a cold case investigation. The human element takes a back seat to solving the murder and there Blind Fury succeeds beyond all expectations.

The End of the World as We Know It

Monday morning and work beckons. I'm reluctant to answer the call and want nothing more than to pull up the covers and go back to sleep for at least another four hours, the four hours I didn't get last night. I'd rather finish the thriller I started on Friday and had difficulty getting through until late last night when suddenly the story moved on. (I hate when that happens -- taking days to get through a book that should've taken hours and I couldn't chastise myself sufficiently to get it done because the story didn't really interest me and was confusing and the characters were all cut from the same cloth, the authorial intrusive cloth.) I'd rather do anything than have to sit at my desk and wade through another fifty dictations to get enough to be able to stop and move onto better things, like writing. I'd rather . . . you get the point.

So, in my work avoidance and abhorrence mode, I did what I usually do on Monday mornings, check out other blogs and I found a doozy. It wasn't unexpected, these "draconian measures" Anne R. Allen blogs about, and Joe Konrath called it several times in the past few months, and yet I found myself crying, "Foul!"

An author signed to one of the Big 6 publishers has been fired by her publisher for self-publishing a book of short stories meant to help publicize her upcoming novel. Now that is indeed foul. I would have thought that the publisher would be ecstatic at anything an author does to push sales and promote their own work, especially since the publisher would not be dumping oodles of marketing dollars into promoting the author's work, not unless the author had a contract with a six- or seven-figure advance, and yet here is the publisher cutting off his nose to spite his face. (It could be a she cutting of her nose, but you get the point.) This will not go down well with authors and if authors decide to sign with smaller publishing houses, as Anne R. Allen suggests, and the rest decide to self-publish or put up their own website, like J. K. Rowling, who was published by a small publishing house and then set up her own website to publish the Harry Potter books as direct sale ebooks, then the publishers are going to go out of business with a whimper instead of a bang.

I would have thought that keeping writers happy was more important than making writers angry enough to sue the publisher over being fired. Guess now. Look for the Big 6 publishers to include airtight conttracts that allow the writer to do nothing without the publisher's say-so, even if it means failing sales and the author not selling through. It doesn't make sense, but nothing makes sense in the midst of a major flounce, and that's what the publisher is doing, a major flounce. I'm sure hair tossing and having their noses in the air are all part of the flounce out. I'd call it a snit, having a cow, and one of the biggest and most public temper tantrums ever right when the Big 6 publishers need the good will of both authors, who keep them in product, and readers who usually side with the underdog. I don't think there is one of the Big 6 that can be called the underdog, no matter how their marketing department spins this one. Kiana Davenport will tell you all about the publisher's snit, and she's not the only one.

Kris Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith have written about and talked about the slow slide into oblivion that will take most publishers down the tubes and Dorchester, the publishing company that has stiffed notable writers like Brian Keene on their contracts, has retooled and gone into e-publishing only. Joe Konrath has said that paper books will be extinct very soon and some predict publishing entropy by December 2012, just in time for the end of the Mayan calendar. Maybe that's what killed the Mayan civilization, no more big publishers putting out codices and stone carvings and killing off the authors by strangling them with contracts that force authors to give away 75% of ebook earnings in order to get the coveted prize of a $20,000 advance on a contract.

Kris Rusch has called big publishing a dinosaur, like the Tyrannosaurus Rex or Argentinosaurus, that moves slowly and does not change directions quickly or easily. What she means is that a business with so many tentacles engage in so many different areas cannot easily extract said tentacles to put them engage them elsewhere.

Publishers want to protect their turf, but they will not be able to feasibly do so by strangling authors. Whatever they say, publishers need authors to stay in business. Celebrity authors are a dime a baker's dozen and often ghost written by real authors and once again authors are in the mix. Unless publishers want to try the trick of copying, cutting, and pasting past work into new books (and that doesn't seem likely), the only way to stay in business is to compromise and adapt, something the Big 6 seem ill equipped to do.

Add in the fact that literary agents, those people who take 15% of an authors royalties to protect the author's interests, are siding with publishers and we might see the demise of two big chunks of publishing business, or at the very least two big chunks of the publishing monolith that will crumble and fall into the digital sea with a resounding crash, leaving blasted hulks like the House of Usher.

It's a sad situation and one that should be a cautionary tale for anyone entering into a contract with what is increasingly being seen as the Devil. Whatever authors do, they should read the small print and be prepared to walk out (running would be better) if the publisher isn't willing to see reality or logic. Even life guards know that there are times it's best to let someone drown rather than go down with them. It's harsh, but it comes down to a matter of us or them. No one will protect you if you don't protect yourself. 

The publishing world is changing quickly. Don't be caught in the stampede. Stay informed and abreast of the news. These are volatile times and the Mount Etna of Publishing no longer slumbers. Remember what happened to Pompeii and Herculaneum.

 

Spring Thaw

Last night my oldest son called and we got into an old subject: him defending my honor. I could say I've no honor to defend, but that wouldn't be true. I am an honorable person. I could also say that I don't need defending, not against rude children or current spouses of ex-husbands because, well . . . there really is no need to go any further. My son was sincere in his passion to defend me against any and all foul comments, and I applaud him for that even though I am a little sad he felt the need to defend me.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's sweet that my son loved me enough to defend me, even to the point of bruises, blood, and the usual rewards of fighting. I also think it's more about a young boy's need to prove himself in battle and to himself that he is a man, which is some feat for a seven-year-old. I have always believed the need to resort to fists and weapons, the push to war, is ingrained in the male psyche and, after reading some of what an acquaintance is going through with the introduction of testosterone into her system to transition from female to male, it must also be hormonally connected. Take that, fellas. Men get just as hormonal as women; it manifests in a very different way.

Women, when hormonal, get weepy and moody. Men, when hormonal, get homicidal and often sociopathic. To put it in another way, hormones when rising make women go into the house and men out of the house. Women nest and seek answers and men want to mix it up.

I know. It's a very simplistic way of looking at things, but it's also right, at least from what I've seen over the years, and I've seen a lot of years, and men high on hormones angling for a fight. Only a man could have written, or even conceived of, Fight Club. Some women enjoyed the book, as I did on some levels, but they really don't get into fighting for the sake of fighting, even if the end result is being beaten to a pulp and spitting teeth and various chunks of internal organs. Women on the whole just do not get all excited about blood and guts and physical damage.

Having written that, I wonder at my own excitement during Gladiator or other movies where there is physical violence and I can safely say it's more about justice than blood and guts exciting me. Seeing the villain, or villains, getting their due after raping, pillaging, and exercising their hormonal excesses gets my heart beating faster and the blood rushing through my body. It's visceral -- and it's also hormonal. I've been known to get excited when reading a particularly bloody and physical scene in a book when the villain is beaten into the dust and loses a body part or his life. I wince when the hero is mauled. My sympathies are always with the hero. I'm a girl looking for a hero after all.

The human body is mostly water and water transports nutrients and hormones, lots of hormones, all over the system (the body is a system) like the Colorado River at spring thaw. Whitewater rushing from organs secreting hormones infusing the brain, muscles, and tissue until the chemical soup boils over and the mind, body, and soul are poised for action: women inside the house and men spoiling for a fight outside the house, although men have been known to mix it up inside the house as well. Men just want to fight.

I smiled when my son got that hurt and defensive tone in his voice. "I had to protect you, to defend you," he said. I wanted to laugh and tell him he was silly, but he was being true to his feelings and acting on hormones. I didn't want to downplay his contribution to defending his mother, so I just said, "Thank you." Then I explained that I've heard lots of people calling me names and saying nasty things about me and it doesn't bother me. After all, after spending my formative years being told what a waste of space I was and that I was a whore (while still being a virgin) by my mother, nothing gets to me any more, at least not if they resort to names.

My ex-husband's spouse lives in mortal fear of me coming back to reclaim my husband, and she demonizes me in order to give herself a reason to keep trashing me. She's right on one count. I am overweight. Like my mother, she is also wrong. I have slept with far fewer men than advertised and have not spent my life on my back with my legs in the air and my box stuffed. I haven't had the time and well, overweight. The two just do not work or play well together.

One thing I do know, which I didn't tell my son, is that people demonize people they fear and have wronged. It has nothing to do with logic or truth or honor. It's the only way they can justify their hormonal excesses.

When the twins are older and fighting for his honor and good name, he will look back and smile a little because he will finally understand that kids will be kids and the spring thaw hormonal rushes are upon them, and he'll remember our conversations. The wheel of life turns and his position on the wheel will have changed. He was my little boy and one day his little boy and girl will look up to him with that hurt tone in their voices and a glimmer of tears in their eyes while their lips quiver and my son will smile. It's the only thing to do when hormones are in control.

Guess it's the woman's turn to ask her fella, "That time of the month?" when he goes off like a rocket or pushes up his sleeves in preparation for a smack-down.

Review: The Traitor's Emblem by Juan Gomez-Jurado

A novel of revenge, betrayal, and love in the manner of Alexandre Dumas.

Paul Reiner and his mother, Ilse, live in Baron von Schroeder’s home in Munich as servants. Ilse is the Baroness Brunhilda’s sister and the Reiner’s are dependent on Brunhilda’s generosity, what little there is of it. There is little of the baron’s fortune left in the wake of his gambling and that does not change the way Paul’s cousin Jürgen treats Ilse and Paul. Jürgen is a petty tyrant and a coward and vents his arrogant sadism on Paul for no other reason than Paul exists. That changes with time and the revelation that Paul and Jürgen’s relationship is closer than cousins.

As time goes on and Paul and Ilse are thrown out of the mansion, they struggle to survive and, with Paul’s intelligence and ingenuity, prosper in the wake of Germany’s struggle to survive after the Versailles Treaty’s onerous provisions. All Paul wants is to find out what happened to his father Hans and why he was branded a deserter and the facts of his death obscured. Paul will get his chance, but it will cost him dearly.

In the author’s notes, Juan Gómez-Jurado explains that the story of The Traitor’s Emblem is different from what he initially planned and is based upon a story a man told him about a relic from the Hitler, a profane object with which Gómez-Jurado begins and ends the novel, a piece known as the Traitor’s Emblem, long thought to be a myth. While the story surrounding the relic is fascinating, Gómez-Jurado is correct in believing it is not enough to hold the novel together. He does construct a plausible scenario for the main characters and much of it is believable. Unfortunately, the story falls apart in some areas.

Without giving too much away, the circumstances surrounding the breakout from Dachau fails to provide the slimmest glimmer of evidence as to why the Nazis suddenly took up the chase. From all accounts, the imposters had gotten away with their ruse and were driving away when alarms go off, lights flash on, and gunshots riddle the getaway car. After having come so far with success, there is no reason for the camp to erupt and the Nazis to give chase. It makes for an exciting getaway, but seems too convenient and implausible.

The other issues surround a man Paul spends eleven years tracking, the man, Nagel, one of Hans’s confederates, runs for his life, which makes no sense. Paul supposedly has information Nagel needs and Nagel has no reason to suspect Paul plans to kill him. Once again, a nice bit of drama without a plausible reason. Paul wants information, as does Nagel, and Nagel keeps running away, abandoning one profitable business after another to end up back in Germany after a long fruitless chase through South West Africa. The whole piece of business is too pat, although it does put the players in the right place at the right time, and so conveniently plotted. There is also the hint that Nagel was the murderer and not Hans and this fact, thrown out as part of Nagel’s internal monologue, was not cleared up or mentioned again.

Despite the flaws in the story, The Traitor’s Emblem is an intricate tale of revenge, betrayal, love, and the chaotic political scene of Germany in the years between the end of World War I and the rise of Adolf Hitler to power before World War II. The details of life in Munich and the struggles of the German people under the lash of the Versailles Treaty are intimately drawn and provide a dark backdrop for the more personal tragedy between Paul and Jürgen.

Gómez-Jurado has written a page turner with strong adventure elements that is mostly satisfying and exciting. The pluses substantially outweigh the flaws even though the novel should have been longer to do justice to the story and the characters.

Wolf Cravings

Since reading The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan, wolves have been slipping out of the corners, so many I had to resort to the only cure known to feed the wolf -- watching movies.

I started with Red Riding Hood, which is a modern interpretation of Little Red Riding Hood in which Red Riding Hood is neither little nor young and she can understand the growls, barks, and yips of the werewolf. Gary Oldman is in the movie, so it's worth watching just for that reason, but the story is, although not unique, fascinating. There's a blood moon, which is when Mars casts its shadow on the moon, hence the blood part of the moon, that occur every thirteen years and the wolf passes on its legacy to the bitten, turning the bitten into a werewolf on the next full moon.

The story is a simple love triangle. Daughter of woodcutter is in love with a young woodcutter, her playmate since early childhood, but has been promised to the blacksmith's son in marriage. The blacksmith's son is wealthy and the young woodcutter is not, and definitely not good enough for the daughter of a woodcutter when her mother is intent on selling, or rather giving, her daughter to the son of the man she once loved as she was given in marriage to the woodcutter. Add a zealous warrior of the church (Gary Oldman) with a silver sword blessed by the pope, a cadre of torture devices and mercenaries, and silver fingernails perfect for killing wolves, a town in which the pact with the wolf has been broken with Red Riding Hood's elder sister is savaged by the wolf, and the fun begins. It takes a while to unmask the real werewolf, by which time a few townspeople have been murdered, the zealous warrior unhanded, and the woodcutter's daughter, Red Riding Hood, ready to save herself from the werewolf after it kills her grandmother. It's a nice retelling of the old Grimm's fairy tale and visually appealing and bloody.

Since that was not enough to feed my wolf cravings, I resorted to my favorite wolf movie, Wolf with Jack Nicholson, Michelle Pfeiffer, James Spader, and a stellar cast. Now that is what the wolf needed, a good man bitten by what appeared at first to be a dead wolf on the way back from Vermont to sign a well known author to MacLeish House, a turn from vegetarian to carnivore, heightened senses, betrayal by his protege in business and with his wife, a beautiful and screwed up rich man's daughter, and a milque toast turns into a savage man right before your very eyes. I have to say, for all its cinematic beauty and wonderful casting, I never really saw Jack Nicholson as a milque toast for all his acting chops. He is more wolf than mild-mannered man battling a curse, and the way he embraces the wolf at the end is pure Nicholson. Michelle Pfeiffer is, as always, the most beautiful scenery and at her ethereal best.

Now that the cravings have been stilled for now, I can go back to my regular life a little sadder that werewolves don't actually exist and that there is no chance for the bitten to gift me with his wolfiness through his passion. More's the pity, too.

 

Weekends, UGH!

The weekend has finally arrived and I've looked forward to it all during the work week. That's the problem, though, the weekend has arrived and there's no more work week for two whole days.

Why do I call it a problem? For the same reason that kids complain but actually prefer their parents to enforce the rules. I need structure. We all need structure, and I don't mean the kind where every waking hour -- and a few of the sleeping ones -- on the weekend given over to filling the time with as many errands and chores and social engagements as possible, so as not to have to feel guilty about taking time off during the weekend. It's what I always called planning the fun out of life when I was married.

My ex-husband was one of those people who scheduled everything, including his bowel movements, same time every day. If he didn't have his morning bathroom time at the right time, his whole day, and thus his schedule, was thrown off and he was a real bear until he got back on track.

I'm more of a fly by the seat of my pants gal, in writing as in life, and I resent being told what to do and when to do it. I don't mind agreeing to a specific deadline or schedule, as long as I have some input in the process. I don't respond well to orders or demands, and don't even hit me with an ultimatum. That smile on my lips is not a good thing. Trust me. It is a promise of bad things to come.

And yet here I am complaining about the weekend when all I need to do is read, write, and loll about for two whole days. It's exhausting when you get right down to it and I just discovered I almost look forward to the work week so I know there will be a rhyme and reason to the daylight hours, and the nighttime, too. I can -- and often do -- get the urge to blow off work and loll around reading, writing, and sleeping on occasion, but that's only because I get burned out. But being forced (there's that word again) to loll around reading, writing, and sleeping is something else again.

Maybe it's not the lack of structure that bothers me but the idea that now I have to lollygag, as my grandmother would say, about. Yeah, that's it.

Okay, it doesn't make sense, but I don't have to make sense. I'm a writer. It's in the rules.

Review: The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan | JM Cornwell | Blog Post | Red Room

A stunning tale that turns the genre on its head despite literary contortions and acrobatics.

Jacob Marlowe has been a werewolf for one hundred sixty-seven years (a fact he keeps repeating throughout the book) and is about two hundred years old. He has made his mark, accumulated a vast fortune, and has no wish to continue the allotted four hundred years of a werewolf’s life. Marlowe knows the Hunt has killed the rest of his kind. He is the last and he is ready to return to the site of his creation and welcome the Hunters. His friend and familiar, Harley, wants Marlowe to go on living and Marlowe simply wants out. There is nothing left to live for and life feels pointless.

Grainer, the lead Hunter, plans to take Marlowe out personally. Marlowe killed Grainer’s father many years ago and both are ready for the showdown of their lives.

The vampires want Marlowe as well and it will be a race to the finish to see who wins the prize in the end. The difference between vampires and werewolves is all about language. Vampires speak and read and werewolves do neither, except for Jacob Marlowe.

As in The Last Werewolf, Marlowe and Glen Duncan share the same problem, too many words. Add several different writing techniques—lack of punctuation, run-on sentences, stream of consciousness, literary acrobatics—and the result is a mish-mash of styles in an episodic tale that takes a considerable amount of time getting to the point. Duncan’s writing is at times pompous and overwrought as he flexes his literary muscles, much like a bodybuilder posing in front of a mirror.

I considered tossing the book a few times, but Duncan surprised me by throwing a curve and I was off again chasing Marlowe and trying to figure out who was playing whom. As frustrating as the writing is at times, Duncan tells a compelling story and, when he sinks his teeth into it, does so with breathtaking speed.

The Last Werewolf takes the mythology of lycanthropy, throws in vampires, who loathe werewolves as much as werewolves loathe them, becoming physically sick in each other's presence, but need them to conquer their last frontier. The result is an exercise in planned obsolescence and science that fuels a race to the finish, leaving an ending that offers a satisfying sense of hope and promise. Duncan uses the werewolf mythology to good effect, penning a stand-out novel in an overflowing genre rife with copycats and the same-old, same-old.

It's Live

It's not often I get a chance to plug my book, so please forgive me if I plug mine.

Among Women just went live at David Wisehart's Kindle site. Take a look.

Much of what goes on in jails has been sensationalized for movies, television, and novels. What really happens is very different. Orleans Parish prison in New Orleans is jail, despite the name, and Pearl Caldwell was incarcerated there for six weeks, six interminable weeks when she didn't know how long she'd be there or when she'd get to see a judge or a lawyer. Among Women is the story of those six weeks and what led up to being jailed. It is also the story of how Pearl's eyes were opened and her views changed of the kinds of people who end up in jail.

She began writing as a way to maintain her sanity, but became a confidante, a modern Scheherazade, who wrote down the stories of the women she met and came to know. The long hours, the injustices, the tales of the women are woven in and around the core of Pearl's experiences. It's not an easy story, but it one that at last can be told.

The time is late December 1984. The place is New Orleans. The story is Pearl's and the women of Orleans Parish Prison.

Among Women is available at all bookstores in print and ebook. Also available at Smashwords in all ebook formats. Check it out. You'll be enlightened if you do.

Leaves on the Winds

It wasn't an addiction in the beginning. It was an idea.

I had just seen the mini series about John and Abigail Adams and had read some of the background material about their letters, those personal and intimate letters. That is how it began.

There was a little stationery in my cache of goods and all I needed was a little more stationery and a new fountain pen. I bought both and began writing, at first a letter to a friend or two and once in a while to family. Writing letters wasn't anything new. Letters and envelopes had poured out of the printer over the years. Now I wanted something more personal, a piece of myself offered to friends, a trail that led to the heart of me, to the often anachronistic me, in my own hand.

My handwriting had deteriorated after years of neglect, and after years of scribbling in paper journals, most of which are written in a coded kind of shorthand, not to hide information but to make the writing go quicker. Quick writing is seldom legible; it is scribbling. I can read the entries, often with a little difficulty, but I wrote them and I know the code. Letters would have to be neater, clearer, something anyone could read, and so I began.

Handwriting letters causes physical pain, mostly in the hands, fingers, and wrist of the writer, and cramps seized my hand at odd moments, increasing until by the end of the letters it ached. Anyone who says writing doesn't change you is wrong. It changed my hands. I had no idea how out of shape they had become, at least as far as dexterity and strength were concerned. Typing, which I have done a lot over the past 40+ years, uses a different set of muscles and makes different demands on coordination. Bluntly put, my penmanship needed work, a good bit of work.

Taking long breaks between letters while waiting for answers that never came left me with aches and pains and cramps after writing a few letters. The only answer was to write more letters, be more diligent. Okay, so no one was writing back (okay, one or two responded in kind once in a while); that could not be a factor in the plan to hone the art of letter writing. These were my messages written on leaves and sent on the winds of the U.S. Postal Service and must continue whether or not anyone responded in kind.

I flirted with sealing wax but deemed it unfit for letters sent by mail and not by pony express. Letters would jam in the USPS machines and would end up at the other end in shreds or perhaps one small corner in a plastic bag with a contrite message of apology. "Your mail was caught in our machines and we do apologize for your loss." As much as I like the idea and the whole fire melting wax and ornate seals pressed into the heated glob, it wouldn't work for modern machines, so it was out. There was a momentary sigh of loss and lost opportunity, but only a moment's worth.

The stock of stationery dwindled and was replaced with more of the same -- at least until I checked out another stationery site. There were cards: greeting cards, birthday cards, thank you cards, invitations, just because cards, and blank cards. Blank cards with space for writing little messages. That was a good idea, and so a small purchase was made.

The cards didn't last long, what with all the writing and keeping up my dexterity, strength, and writing abilities, so more cards were purchased. A few extra dollars in the budget and off I went to purchase more blank cards and occasionally more stationery. One fountain pen was followed by two and three and more until I owned six fountain pens and a dip pen. A cobalt glass inkwell with a silver lid followed -- there has to be a place to keep the ink since the ink bottles, utilitarian as they are, were not pretty enough, didn't make enough of a statement with the fountain pens and colored inks.

Yes, the switch to colored inks began innocuously enough with a sample pack of all the inks that Levenger offers. One cartridge of sixteen colors were tried and a winner selected. Not blue -- that is so common. A regal purple fit for a queen, fit for my letters. All I had really wanted was an ink light enough to show up on some dark blue envelopes that went with some special correspondence cards (I had added those to my letter writing repertoire) and I ended up with Regal, which is Levenger's name for that royal purple.

I often wonder if the ink is still made with the special shellfish that were ground up and used to color the satins, laces, silks, and velvets worn by royalty in days gone by.

At any rate, the addiction was full blown at that point. Boxes of blank cards and stationery and correspondence cards stacked in spaces once occupied by books and magazines fill the cubbies on my desk. A box of the latest offerings holds another cache of cards.

Such an addiction needs feeding. Birthday cards, get well cards, just because cards, and holiday cards fill out the list and I'm looking and lusting after a Waterman pen that is far more expensive than any pen I have previously purchased. A Venetian Murano glass dip pen twinkles at me and suggests I give it a try and there has been a brief flirtation with a real quill pen and not some modern hybrid with a nib to make it easier to use. A real quill pen will require a pen knife to shittle and shape and of course a supply of quills, should I find I enjoy the effect, may have to be worked into the budget. I can give up more of the clothing allowance and, since I'm on a diet and eating more packaged food (good packaged food), money can be diverted from that, and a second job to fund this addiction could be worked into my already over worked scheduled, but it's writing letters. Personal and private missives that delight the receiver and fill me with purpose and joy. What else can I do but give in?

I never intended to get this far into the whole handwritten letter thing, but I am caught and I want to continue. Few days go by without me choosing and picking up a fountain pen, checking the ink, choosing a card, and writing a little something to my friends and family. I began with a very small list that has become a much larger group of people that every week or two get some little glimpse of my life and my improving penmanship.

Imagining the look of surprise and maybe even the smile that flashes when they receive an envelope addressed to them gives me pleasure, and I am adding to the belles lettres (although probably not quite that belle) in the world. I need no longer look for pen pals or beg some stranger to write to me. I write the letters and look forward to the rare response that comes my way.

The addiction is mine. I own it. I admit it. I'm not going to stop it. I enjoy the time spent with pen and ink and paper. I don't even mind the cost in postage, to which end I have purchases supplies and a program and print out my own postage. It's an addiction that can be as expensive or as cheap as the addicted wants. I prefer quality in my tools and that costs money. So what if I don't have a closet full of shoes or purses and I didn't buy a brand new toaster or electronic toaster oven? I have boxes of stationery, boxes with changing contents, and I write letters.

My cooking might be remembered (it is quite something to remember) and someone might keep a memory of some stray comment or joke I once told, they might even pull out pictures of our times together, but there is nothing more lasting than a letter written by my hand and kept in a bundle, perhaps tied with a ribbon, and some day stashed in a trunk in the attic for some future someone to find, read, and smile over. While all that might be true, it still remains something I do for myself -- and for my friends -- a bit of the past alive and well in the modern world, a part of old technology with new tools, letters sent off on the winds like poetry written on leaves and offered to the fates, a piece of me and my world alive and well that brings someone a smile or a tear. What better way to spend a couple of moments or a quarter of an hour? I can think of none better.

One Trick Ponies

Can anyone learn to write? Yes.

Can anyone learn to be a writer? Not really.

No matter what people and teachers will say, not everyone has it in them to be writers. That's a good thing. Everyone has a talent, a desire to do something or be someone, but not everyone can or should be a writer. That is a lesson that came home to me again this week.

The publishers of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies send me regular call-outs for new books. Since my stories have been featured in six books, it makes sense they want to hear from writers who have been published with them before.

One such call-out came a month ago. The book was for stories about caregiving. While I have taken care of my ex-husbands and children (the kids were much easier), I don't consider myself a caregiver. I have helped out with relatives and friends, but still no real caregiver stories. I did, however, know of two people who had stories to tell and it would be a nice to see their stories in print.

My sister Beanie took care of our father in the last months of his life without the help of my other sister Hoity-Toity and my brother The Mushroom. What began as a bit of resentment for having to do it all alone and put her own life and family on hold, turned out to be a rich and memorable experience full of love and laughter. We are talking about my dad and there was always laughter, even when the cancer was devouring his bones and he was in great pain. That was just Dad. I've written about him before, but this story was Beanie's to tell.

I didn't help out because they all lived in Ohio and I live in Colorado. I wouldn't mind the commute, but I really couldn't afford to fly back and forth every day.

I told Beanie about the book and urged her to write about taking care of Dad, explaining she had until August 31st to get it done.

"That's not long enough," she complained. "Why don't you do it?"

"Because it's not my story. It's yours."

"I could tell you and you could write it."

"Nope. It has to be your story. I'll help with editing."

I could have heard her sigh without the telephone. "You'll rip it to pieces. You always do."

After a short explanation of editing and a discussion about how my ripping her work to pieces helped her earn As in her college composition classes (a required subject), she relented and agreed to give it a try.

My next call was to my aunt. She had just lost her youngest son Timmy and had taken care of him in his final days. Timmy was forty-eight when he died a few months ago. I knew it would be a tough sell, so I suggested it gently. She took to the idea right away and said it might help. (She's been crying for months now and I thought writing the story about caring for Timmy would be cathartic even if it was never published.)

We were off to the races -- or rather they were off to the races and I waited . . . patiently.

Beanie sent me her first draft about two weeks ago. I edited it, suggested some changes and sent the edited version (marked up in red and "ripped apart"). She was reluctant to open the files and finally did. She found out it wasn't quite as bad as she thought it would be. I suggested she add more about what it was like to take care of Dad and she said she'd get to it. "Better yet," she said, "why don't you write it and send it in? I've done the hard part."

"We talked about this and the answer is still no."

That's when the truth came out.

"I worked on that for three weeks. I tried to write it when we went camping, at night when the kids were asleep, at work when there was nothing to do, everywhere. Every time I started writing or thinking about it, I got a headache. I have too much going on and I can't go through that again. Either make the changes yourself -- I'll tell you what I did -- or forget about it."

I really do not and did not understand what there was about writing that gave her a headache. Writing helps clear my head and gets rid of any tension headaches I get.

We went back and forth and finally I agreed to her solution. I'd write what she said and incorporate it into the story. I submitted the story yesterday with her information. She can use the money, but I thought getting a story published would also boost her confidence and show her that she could write. "It's just not my thing," she said. "That's more your turf."

She's right about that.

My aunt was easier.

Aunt Anne worked on the story, did a bit of tightening and rewriting, but couldn't get it printed out. Her desktop computer was ancient, at least ten years old, and Timmy's printer wouldn't interface with it. She told me about it after the fact, but I would have suggested copying the file to disk, going to Kinko's, and printing it out there. Cheap, fast, and reliable.

Aunt Anne bought a new printer. The computer didn't recognize it at all and the printer said she needed to upgrade her software. She wasn't about to pay $129 for a Windows upgrade, so she took her grandson's advice, went to Best Buy, and got a laptop for $298. The new printer installed quickly and she printed out the story, put it in an envelope, and sent it overnight to me. The clock was ticking.

Her grandson told her to get the computer, print out the story, and take the computer back. She wouldn't be out any money and she'd get the job done. The only problem with that idea was she liked the new laptop so much she decided to keep it.

I received the story today, looked it over, and noticed that it needed a little more about what it was like taking care of Timmy. I called. We talked. She answered my questions and gave me the go-ahead to add to the story and submit it, which I did this evening well ahead of the deadline.

Aunt Anne did good. The story was clear, touched the emotions, and there were only a couple of spelling errors. (She couldn't find the spell check on the new computer.) I told her I was impressed and I could hear the big grim over the phone."Well, you're the expert," she said.

"No, I'm just a writer with some experience."

"I'm a one trick pony," she added when I suggested she might like to try writing something else. "I love the new laptop, but I'm no writer. That's your thing."

I teased her a little (she used all caps to write the story) about getting older (she is 77 years old as of last Wednesday) and she laughed and teased me. We're family. She is definitely not interested in writing any more stories, but she did appreciate this challenge because it gave her a chance to write about being with Timmy those last days after he decided not to get the liver transplant, and she had something to share with her other son Jeff and Timmy's children. I learned something, too, about what it was like for her, although I knew because we talked on the phone nearly every day. She lives in Ohio, too, and it's still nearly 2000 miles away.

My sister and my aunt rose to the challenge and got a little satisfaction from writing about their experiences, but Beanie isn't fond of headaches and Aunt Anne only had one story she wanted to tell. They are content with what they've done but they don't want to be writers. That's my thing, as they both reminded me.

No, not everyone wants to be a writer, nor should they. Someone has to read the books, stories, and articles writers create.

I would have welcomed both my aunt and my sister into the family of writers if that had been their choice. It just is not going to happen. I'll keep correcting Beanie's grammar, spelling, and punctuation when she emails and Aunt Anne will keep me on tap to help her get the most use from her laptop. That I can do.

Even though they're not writers, nor do they want to be writers, it's nice to know they appreciate the work and talent that goes into my writing. If nothing else, they understand me a little better. I guess that is enough for me -- and for them.

Connections

I was browsing through The 10% Solution.

I mean the $9.99 book by Ken Rand, not the movie about Sherlock Holmes going to see Sigmund Freud, which is really The 7% Solution since Holmes was in all things careful about his health. That centered on a time when opium dens flourished and cocaine and other drugs were sold over the counter and readily available, when the police only went to opium dens to do the job of detecting, question suspects, and pick up dead bodies and the government was more involved in intrigue and governing the country and not filling the prisons with drug addicts who, they believed, could go to the devil in their own way as long as murder, theft, or fraud were not part of the deal.

They (the British government) also had a strange idea that if the prisons were full to capacity with the downtrodden, debtors, and real criminals who had stolen, defrauded, murdered, beaten, robbed graves, burked people to provide bodies for medical students who needed a cadaver to study, or were mad and shut in Bedlam, among other ills due to the financial disparity between the upper, middle, working, and lower classes (the lower classes driven to crime to feed themselves, their families, and buy gin to get drunk and numb the pain of reality and poverty), the malcontents and miscreants were packed off like chained sardines to Australia where they were out of harm's way, decreased the surplus population, and could drink, whore, steal, drug, and whatever into oblivion away from the increasingly cramped confines of London and the countryside. Australia was also a good place for political prisoners who objected to the poverty, government, and way of life that denied a man all pleasure and sustenance, as were India, the colonies, the Bahamas, Africa, and the other outposts of British control. What's the use of having all that real estate without real Englishmen to populate the lanscape?

Aah, the golden days when the rich got richer and the poor could still get drunk, do drugs, and whore without risking jail. The rich drank, did drugs, and whored, but the likelihood of them seeing the inside of a jail cell was remote. Rank and funds doth impart immunity and privileges. Oh, for the days of opium, a 7% solution of cocaine to relieve boredom and ennui, and plenty of gin, even without the tonic.

I was browsing through The 10% Solution, which is a slim paperback volume priced far too high for the content, about writing tighter, moving the story along faster, by eliminating extraneous words. Those words are mostly connective words, writers' tics, that impede the flow of speedy progress, which is fine in a newspaper report or radio report, but not so fine with regard to the cost and content of books. It's all connected. Everything is connected.

What Rand writes about, in the tone of a sales letter that is long on words and short on getting to the point, is removing words and syllables like And, ly, that, of, ing, but, etc. Those words can provide color and a hint of the writer or character using said words as narrator or in dialogue and are not necessarily obstructive, but Rand believes them to be so, hence the book, which is more an article and less a book without the large type and small size of a less than trade paperback. The cover is nice and so is the introduction by a big fan, and well known author, whose name escapes me at this point.

(Oops, one of those phrases that should be edited out . . . at this point . . . and I do see the point, especially when typing up operative reports in which doctors repeatedly use that and other phrases that basically boil down to and then this happened and then that happened and then and then and then instead of getting directly to the point without all the fluff. "I used a scalpel to cut down through the layers of tissue and entered the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity. The hernia sac contained incarcerated bowel (omentum, muscle, fat, etc.) and was reduced back into the abdominal (peritoneal) cavity, ligated, and closed. Etc., etc., etc. Instead, (another verboten word in tight writing) the doctor goes on and on at length adding as well as instead of and, at this point, instead of moving on or at least using at that point since the text is in past tense, as is the rest of the sentence, and so on. I'd rather have a concise and tightly written/dictated report and lose the pages than have to go on for five minutes -- or up to 20 minutes -- with fluff and garbage. Get to the point.)

To get back to the point (pointless words that do not move the narrative forward), the book is a bloated explanation of a very simple process, something that George R. R. Martin calls sweating the text, which is a screenwriter's term for getting out the fluff and condensing fifty pages to ten, which can be done. I've done it in editing my own work, removing my own writer's tics. Writing tight isn't really my problem since I err on the size of tightness in the first place (self-editing as I write) and usually need to pad the text, only I pad with description and characters and action instead of erm, but, or, at this point, as well as, etc.

Whenever I am forced to listen to, watch, or read reams of text just to tell me a product works with a couple of examples, maybe a testimonial or two, and the price it will cost me to get this miracle, I skip down to the text. When faced with a video scrolling words or a talking head reading said sales text, I shut it down, run a search on the topic, and cut right to the chase.

What I'm am getting around to writing is that, while I do agree with the subject of the over priced book, I don't appreciate paying more than it's worth. Some would say, a little prevention is worth the price of a pound of cure, but they knew the prevention cost less than the full treatment. I'd give Rand's writing tip top marks for the central theme and a big thumbs down for the price. I've bought, read, and written books that didn't cost as much.

I suppose the real point in this meandering post is that everything is connected some way. I started with Sherlock Holmes, moved through scriptwriting, operative reports, and sales letters and came out at the same point where I started. Sort of. I didn't mention the price in the first sentence; that came everything is connected and makes ours a much more interesting life and -- in this case -- a review of a good pamphlet that should not have been a book.

I highly recommend the content. Consider getting the book second hand or checking it out of the library and copying the important material. It's cheaper.

At a Slower Pace

My brain tells me that 87 degrees is not that hot. It's less hot than my body temperature and tolerable. Just try telling my body that. My body feels warm and uncomfortable and I'm considering another long cold shower. Anything to feel cooler, even for a few moments. Perception and reality don't always agree.

I recently read a book where the story took place at an almost glacial pace. At first, it was irritating and I just wanted the author to get on with the story; that was what I wanted when I sat down, a story that moved. As I got further into the book, I realized there was a point to the slow pace. The author was in effect demonstrating the time dilation effect (time carried by a iced snail) and how it appeared to the characters. To have moved at a different pace would have ruined the effect and the story. Some things you cannot race through, and that story was one of them.

At the end of the journey, I was satisfied with what I had read and the pacing, tone, and characters fit together perfectly.

Since I am curious by nature, and by temperament, I decided to check out the reviews on various bookstore sites. What initially irked me -- the pacing -- was something that irked many of the readers sounding off. They complained about how slow the book was and felt it was a strike against the book. The readers had missed the point of the pacing. The book was supposed to be slow so the reader could experience the endless hours with the character, and all the readers wanted to do was race through the book and get it done.

The perception was at odds with the reality of the situation. They perceived the book as slow when the story was told at the same speed the main characters experienced it, and was effect. Most of the readers didn't agree. I felt the same way about Heinlein and Austen when I first essayed their pages. I didn't see the point. Time and experience have given me a much different perspective and reality of both.

There are times when a really good book can't be appreciated because the reader isn't sufficiently educated about the style or at a point in his life when subtleties are lost. Subtlety is not a big favorite in a population where news is delivered in sound bites and movies are all about action, action, action, fitting the story in the brief (all too brief) pauses. Everything must move at the speed of sound, but the speed of light would be better. It seems that so few people understand or appreciate a more sedate pace.

Fast food restaurants, speedy oil changes, rushing to work -- fast, fast, fast. All we do is run. How many times do these high powered people mosey down the trail, meander along a lane overarched with trees budding, in full flower, or blazing with autumn colors, or simply stop and savor each and every bite of a meal -- even if it isn't a decadent chocolate cake so rich each mouthful is a sensual explosion of flavor? Gone are Sunday evenings in the park listening to the local band or taking a leisurely stroll in the garden or down the street in twilight or gathering dark. Gone are the subtleties of life, and those subtleties have been gone long enough that few people reember what it was like to stop and enjoy the moment.

Literature has followed and much of what is written today (thrillers, adventures, crime novels, etc.) are being driven by television and movies, by the blockbuster summer movies full of special effects and explosions and chases and by the holiday movies that contain their share of the same summer blockbusters trimmed with baubles and lights and people racing around trying to find the perfect toy for a child who has a house full of toys and games strewn everywhere. Short attention spans is what are being bred by this fast-paced world and they are so short people have lost the ability to appreciate a story that unfolds rather than races to a breathless conclusion. These are the people raised on time lapse photography that showed the birth and death of a flower or insect or storm in the space between commercials.

Many good books and authors are being remaindered and criticized for a slow pace when the pace is part of the style and tone of the novel. Maybe the readers just haven't reached the point where they can appreciate what these skillful writers have achieved, novels that will endure and continue to find fans who have not forgotten what it means to enjoy a book instead of race through it. They haven't reached the point I have so that Heinlein and Austen and even the often lethargic flow of Faulkner provide meaning as well as entertainment.

I can only hope that somewhere along this race track of life people get a flat or spin out and off the track with a broken axle so that they are forced to slow down and stroll back to the pits and just enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and taste of life.