Running in quicksand

The week has been gray with massive continents of clouds that refuse to give up the goods and it's hard to tell what time of the day it is without a clock. The only clocks I use are on my computers and I'm not at the computer all the time.

In the darkness I reach for the light just as thumping footsteps stumble around in the attic over my head where the only thing up there is the furnace, the same furnace that last year the landlord had two guys check because it wasn't working and I found it difficult to work wrapped mummy-like in blankets with heavy gloves on my hands. The double split in the marble vanity of the bathroom sink reminds me daily of their visit, as does the still working furnace set at a balmy 68 degrees. The inept burglar that has somehow gotten into the house via the sagging roof and into the furnace filled attic, which is little more than a crawl space, is more likely to be the furnace clearing its morning throat with a rattling, cigarette cough rather than some miscreant bent on stealing my collection of books and boxes.

The yolk of the street light down the alley glares through the waving branches into my eyes and the blackness that precedes the dawn is complete everywhere but here where the spiraled twists of the bedside lamp bulb cast a pallid, but adequate glow across the littered landscape of my bed. Jumbled pillows and books sprawl read and half read across the bare mattress where the sheets have pulled loose in my struggle with nightmare goblins wrestling me to rest in winding sheets before the last battle with the working week. It's Friday, so why does it feel like Tuesday with the long expanse of the week still ahead? It's like running in quicksand.

It's in the details

A dreamless sleep for a change, or at least one in which the dreams were pleasant and easily forgotten upon waking. I should go to bed early every night.

Dreams have been on my mind, not only because of yesterday's tarot post but because of the characters in my current work in progress. It's nowhere near being ready to share, but dreams and little affectations play a large part of what is happening. Not only dreams, but nightmares shape a person's character and inner life, and how they respond to both, and it reminds of me of a book Andre Norton wrote about a professional dreamer.

In a society where dreams could be bought and sold, one dreamer stands out because her dreams are inventive, adventurous and unique, and she controls the dreams. Tamisan is not the usual hive dreamer who gets lost in the dreaming, but an intelligent girl who works only for the best and richest clients, one of whom has been injured and can no longer walk. He is a vigorous man of wealth and taste, but he's is chained to a chair for the rest of his life, an invalid, prisoner of his body, with an active mind and a need to continue to do something physical. His brother, a greed and subtle man, hires Tamisan from the hive to be personal dreamer to his brother and sends his brother on three adventures from which he will never return, leaving the empire to him to use as he likes. It's a small cost to maintain two dreamers, a negligible cost for an empire as vast and wealthy as the one he is about to inherit and control, and the brother pays the cost gladly.

The book is Perilous Dreams based on the short story, The Toys of Tamisan first seen in High Sorcery.

It's strange how subtle clues and tics tell so much about a person, and it's those very qualities that writers use to make characters come alive. A strong and intelligent man who happens to be short or has a scar on his face or one glass eye whose favorite books, plays and movies are based on Beauty and the Beast say so much about who he is and what he dreams and thinks. It's obvious he thinks his small defect makes him a monster, a beast unlovable by any woman. He probably compensates for his perceived defect with jokes and dangles bait for women he finds attractive, waiting for them to take the lead so he doesn't have to feel rejected, especially since he believes every woman would reject him. He probably buys flowers or little gifts for women or makes them something they will treasure to draw attention toward his skills and away from his physical imperfections.

A woman who barely tolerates animals when her husband was alive suddenly falls in love with a little dog, a Yorkshire terrier or poodle or chihuahua, feeding it from her own plate and allowing it to sleep with her. It's her baby. Such a woman, so fastidious and germ conscious she'd never drink out of the same cup or eat from the same utensil as one of her children, cuddles the dog and kisses it. She was never so affectionate with her own children, so why has she changed so drastically?

The way someone constantly checks their makeup, runs fingers through their hair catch loose strands or constantly tugs at the hem of a fairly long skirt are all clues to someone's character and to their inner life.

When a person has nightmares, how do they react? Do they climb in bed or snuggle closer to their partner or do they whisper prayers in the darkness and struggle silently with dream-bred demons? How do they eat: one food at a time, mashed up together, only the white or brown or green things? What kind of partner do they seek? How close were they to their father, mother, brother, sister, next door neighbor? Who do they hang out with? Who do they avoid? Do they talk too fast when they're nervous or clamp up when they're angry?

Everything about a person is in the way they move, speak, listen and act and each action says more than words.

Someone assures you they love you, want to be with you, can't get enough of holding you, touching you, kissing you, loving you and yet they ignore you, never call, seldom write and visit rarely. How do they really feel?

There are conflicting emotions and they struggle with their feelings, avoiding the people and things that make them happiest because they cannot bear to go back to the mundane, painful or depressing life they have chosen to live, but how would you know? By their actions when they're with you. The look of sadness and pain in their eyes when they leave. The lingering touch as if when they let go they'll never be able to hold you again. The long last looks, their eyes on you when they get in their car and leave, glancing into the rear view mirror until they turn a corner and are gone. All these things are clues to what isn't being said and more indicative of their feelings and thoughts than all the words and assurances they use.

When you're out together, does your partner talk to you while his eyes slide over every other female in the restaurant? Does he drop your hand when other women walk by, saying it's too hot or he needs something from his pocket? Does he put distance between you when other people are near or does he look into your eyes and ignore the waiter until the waiter coughs or slaps the bill down on the table? Little moments, little clues, and they add up to so much if you know how and when and where to look.

Whether you're a writer or the average person, it pays to keep your eyes and ears open, to not just observe other people, but really look at them. So much history is written on faces and so many lies and fantasies uncovered right in front of you, if you really look at the people that pass into and out of your life every day. This is a world rich in sensory detail with fascinating and interesting people who can teach us as much about them as about ourselves. Pay attention and they will surprise you -- even in your own family.

I had no idea a cranky and evil chihuahua would soften my cranky and evil mother, but Dink did. Dink gave Mom someone to love who depended on her, something she desperately needed when Dad died. I didn't know how much that little dog meant to her until a couple of days ago when she told me how Dink saved her from depression and madness. It still makes me nauseous when she talks about "her baby," but I don't have to listen long, not as long as I have my bathroom escape. Mom has found a reason to live, so she will probably be around for a very long time, most likely until all that is left on this planet are cockroaches, moths and Mom.

Tarot: Dream a dream and work

After reading zombie stories, it was inevitable they would creep, or rather shamble, into my dreams, waking me up with a pounding pulse and a need to get away. The disorientation lasted a few seconds before sleep claimed me again, adding weights to my eyelids, body and limbs so that I was dragged back into the dream, but I was prepared for them. I changed the dream, shifting people and monsters, going down different roads and heading for more familiar territory until the dream was behind me. It's called lucid dreaming.

Dreaming can be a release, for writers a way to work out plot points and get closer to their characters (whether they want to or not) and a way for the unconscious mind to surface and pick up threads from every part of the conscious mind and memories to weave a fantastic tapestry of people, places and events that can heal, relax and scare the bejeezus out of the dreamer.

And dreams are a way to reach for more in the waking life. Dreams are also a place to start, but not a place to linger or end.



Asleep under a tree, the young man is dreaming, completely unaware of the full cups beside him or the full cup right in front of him. He's more intent on his dream than on what he already has or is given. The squirrel in the tree and the mouse in the grass are more curious about what's in the cups than the dreamer. The mouse and squirrel follow their instincts, but the dreamer is locked in his dream, dreaming his life away.

The young man is a romantic who is looking for something better to come down the road toward him or to find something better over the next hill, around the next corner, instead of seeing what is right in front of him. The Four of Cups symbolizes a quest for order and stability in a perfect world; it does not exist. The Four of Cups shows a disdain for reality, someone who is unwilling to see the gifts he has in plenty and more gifts offered, but keeps looking for something more, the ideal, ignoring the happiness he has and could have because he cannot see the difference the connection between his gifts and realities. There are no guarantees and expecting or demanding a guarantee will guarantee that what is right in front of you will disappear either because they were ignored or because someone with sense will pick them up and take them away.



Blind Justice has no power to harm, but holds the balance of karma in her own hands. Justice stands on the fulcrum between past and present, a guide, not an active force.

Past actions determine the present, but present actions can change the future. You cannot change the past, but you can change course and walk into a brighter future by what is decided at this moment, and this moment, and the next moment. The future is changeable. The past is fixed.

Look to the past to understand what created the present situations and take responsibility for your actions. Use that knowledge to make better choices for a better future. Learn from the errors and make choices based on the lessons of the past to realize and make a happier future a reality.



The Ace of Pentacles is the gift of resources: money, raw materials or time. Use skill and determination to make use of the available resources given and be grateful. Do not give in to the temptation to under value or squander the resources. Some resources are best used when they're offered. Don't hoard them or save them for a rainy day or when you have more time. There is no time like now.

Resources and gifts may seem mundane or not a true gift of the universe, but there are no coincidences and no accidents. As Einstein said, "God does not place dice with the Universe." The Ace of Pentacles offers a straight forward message: the riches of life are yours if you have the good sense to take them and use them. Don't waste time or money or the raw materials of talent or the earth because you only waste your own happiness. Remember the lesson of the weasel, take what's offered and don't look back.

* * *

My mother has always called me a dreamer and my quick response was that without dreamers she would still be huddled in a freezing cave gnawing raw meat from a sated lion's kill terrified of the snarls and growls just outside the cave entrance. Okay, it's a little more descriptive than I used to say, but not by much.

Yes, I'm a dreamer, but, even when it takes me a little while, I do make my dreams come true. I've walked the wrong paths, looking for something better, when I had everything I needed within my grasp. Luckily, I figured it out before I died.

* * *

Daria is a fortunate woman. She met an English duke who fell in love with her and offered her the world, and his heart. She cared for him deeply, but wasn't sure if he was the one. Still, she said yes to his proposal and followed him to his estate in England in the heart of the country where legends of Merlin are still told.

A great oak tree of massive size, centuries old, dominates the landscape. It is said that Merlin still sleeps within and waits for a woman willing to sacrifice everything to free him.

Daria and her duke have an argument and, as she has so many times in the past when happiness was within her grasp, she considers breaking off the engagement. Still angry and in tears, she takes a walk and ends up under Merlin's oak where she decides to sit and figure things out. Falling asleep, dreams of Merlin creep into her imagination and whisper that she is the woman who can set him free.

Awakened by workmen laughing and joking about cutting into Merlin's heart and seeing if the old oak bleeds, Daria begs them to wait until word can be sent to the duke. Daria refuses to leave the tree and convinces the foreman to send one of his men to find the duke. As she waits, it occurs to her that breaking off the engagement would seal the tree's doom and ruin any chance to free Merlin, so when the duke arrives she agrees to patch things up if he will give her the old oak as a wedding gift.

In order to save the oak, she must sacrifice her dreams and marry the duke, giving up any chance to free Merlin right away.

How do you think the story will end?

While you ponder the story and your own dreams, consider returning next week to see what stories the tarot cards will reveal. Until then, don't just dream it, be it.

Two men, same harvest

I used to live across the alley from Eddie, an overall clad, bearded curmudgeon who had a love for and talent with pit bulls. He owned a house built just after the turn of the century with out buildings he turned into garages for his collection of trucks. His yard was immaculate and the chain link fence as silvery and taut as when it was put up forty years before. The short porch that led up to the black-out curtained door sparkled with sunlight from the strings of AOL disks hanging from the eaves. "Keeps the birds from nesting in the eaves," he told me one day as we walked down the alley, he leading his pit bull. When he was outside, the pit bull never left his side, quiet and watchful as she sat on her haunches next to him when we talked over the fence.

"I worked hard my whole life. Had a drinking problem, but I didn't let it get the best of me. Quit when it got in the way of my work."

"Now you're retired and can do whatever you want," I said.

"Not really, not like my friend Bob."

"The guy you have lunch with every day?"

"Yep. That's the one."

"Was Bob some kind of banker or executive?"

Eddie laughed. "Nope. Drunk. Always was and still is."

"Then how does he have more than you do?"

"Government takes care of him. If I'd known working hard, saving my money and quitting drinking wouldn't get me as much, or more, than being a drunk and a bum, I'd have kept drinking, but I had a family to support and I was brought up to earn my way, not expect nobody to take care of me. Just don't seem right somehow."

Work is a habit with some people, and it was with Eddie who was either working in the yard or the house or on one of his trucks. He had a rusty yellow truck for hauling things and running quick errands, a beautiful, sleek and shiny black truck for visiting relatives or long drives, and a bigger, rusty blue truck for hauling big things that would mess up the pristine bed of the black truck, maintaining them all with equal care and attention. Sometimes Bob rumbled up in his broken down Oldsmobile, exhaust belching black clouds of noxious fumes from the back. Bob didn't drive his Cadillac because he didn't want to "mess it up" with road grime.

I saw the Cadillac once and it was a beautiful metal flake sky blue with a deep blue leather landau roof and silvery spoked hub cabs. Bob won it in a contest. The car had less than 1000 miles on the odometer and sat in the garage at his house among the rusted paint cans and tottering heaps of bulging garbage bags protected by a black car cover in a slot just big enough for the car. It looked like the debris, garbage and junk had been shoved aside to make room for the Cadillac and was obvious the rusted, bald tired Olds had never been parked in the garage. The Olds sat in the yard where a rutted track wove drunkenly through clumps of crab grass, stunted bushes and waist high weeds led to an Olds sized patch of yellow and brown desiccated skeletons of anonymous growth.

Eddie curled his thumbs around the straps of his bib overalls. "Always taught in Sunday school that you reap what you sow. Strange old world when you're too drunk to sow a single seed and still reap a bountiful harvest. Good book got it wrong."

Two degrees of separation

My cousin Timmy's brother-in-law, Brand, visited him a couple weeks ago to discuss the headstone for Ruthie's grave and her memorial. Timmy had Beanie's copy of Dad's memorial DVD and showed it to Brand to give him an idea of what they could do for Ruthie. Brand watched the video and listened to me read what I wrote about my father. When Brand saw my name, he said, "That's my favorite writer and that's just how I always thought she'd sound. How do you know her, Tim?"

"She's my half-sister. How do you know her?"

"We've read all her stories in Chicken Soup. The whole family loves her. She's their favorite writer, too."

Timmy was thrilled, especially when he showed Brand my novel. Brand didn't know about that, but it didn't take him long to recover. "I'm going to go straight home and order copies for everyone in the family."

When Aunt Anne told me about all this tonight, I heard her ear-splitting grin through the phone. "Timmy's really proud of you. He always has been."

I had no idea Timmy even thought about me very much and I haven't seen him in over ten years. Aunt Anne told me a couple weeks ago that she planned to give Timmy a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family so he could read my story, "On Esther Time." Timmy has a problem with always being late just like Esther. And he's reading Past Imperfect right now.

That's the surprising thing about all of this. Timmy's in-laws have been fans of my writing for over a year. Aunt Anne said whenever a new Chicken Soup book comes out, Brand and his family check to see if it contains one of my stories before they buy it. I had no idea. But to find out that I have a family of fans who don't know about the novel who are related to me by marriage throws the whole "seven degrees of separation" out the window, at least in this instance.

I didn't expect people to approach my family, or me, until I had made a real name for myself, but evidently, in some quarters, I already have a name -- and fans. I have fans.

Writing on blogs and getting comments, interacting with people quickly this way imparts a strange point of view based on instant gratification. People write. People respond. It's effortless. It's conversation electronic style, and many bloggers have fans. I have one or two. Writing a book or having stories published in anthologies is different. I've had a couple of people email me about what I've written in Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort anthologies, but it's not the same. I know; I'm repeating myself, but it's true. I didn't expect this, not this soon, and not before I'd hit the best sellers lists, but it's so nice to know that even though people haven't contacted me directly they have read my stories and been touched and affected by them. That's part of why I write -- to touch people, give them something to think about.

It's a heady experience, knowing people read and like what I write. I doubt I'll ever get used to it or stop smiling when I remember moments like these. Even if no one ever told me they liked what I write, I'd still write. I wrote when no one read what I wrote, and I still do -- in paper journals. Still, even though most writers write for themselves, they also write for others because without readers there is no reason to fight the current in the publishing stream.

And like Scott Edelman wrote in his story, Almost the Last Story by Almost the Last Man about a writer unable to stop writing as long as he is alive.

"With each part of the Web that vanishes, I imagine that a part of the real world has gone as well. When it all goes, I will be alone.

"Well, not entirely alone. ...Shakespeare is here. And Frost. And Faulkner and Austen and Carver and Proust. All telling me of the worlds in which they lived. Worlds that continued to exit only because I am still here to read about them. ...

"It's not worth remaining in a world without readers, and I doubt that you still exist.

"My world can survive my death. But it cannot survive yours.

"Art for art's sake as never what I was about. Art alone was never enough."

Amazing isn't it, Mary Ann that Scott Edelman's story is about zombies, too?

In 25 words or less

Julia pruned the mini roses and tidied her feng shui relationship corner. Lance walked out with his suitcases. He didn't look back.

That is all. Disperse.

Requiem for a menu change

Taking a leaf from Kaiberie's book, I am getting rid of more time devouring things in my life that slow my writing progress. Nothing that doesn't contribute to a bigger paycheck or move my writing along is going or gone. Everything is being stripped down to basics. I don't have room for anything else, especially not with a big expenditure coming that will move my books to the top of the lists and generate a lot more sales. That's my main focus, along with spending more hours struggling with work.

I emailed my boss yesterday and told her the programs we are forced to use are clunky and inefficient and they waste time, hamper production. I had to explain the concept of integrated programs 3x and I still don't think she got it. She was worried about incomplete dictations because someone closed a document to answer the door or take a break and it being sent back before it was finished. Uh, no, that's not a problem if the job is not finalized and merely closed.

The way the system works now -- or rather doesn't work -- the programs to get and upload jobs are separate and have to be manually activated every time work needs to be downloaded or uploaded. When there are no jobs, getting jobs entails shutting down the program, launching it again and doing the same things over and over and over, wasting loads of time and increasing frustration. In other words, not productive at all. The system I am more familiar with and worked with for 10 years is one that never needs to be shut down, opened and initiated once. It can be set to manual or automatic by the operator to get one job or five jobs at a time, sending finalized work automatically, and downloading new jobs automatically. Less time is wasted. The MT endures a lot less frustration and is hence more productive, which translates to more pages typed and more work done for a bigger paycheck. I'm talking about hours, not minutes. It's such a simple concept.

Her complaint that if a dictation is cut off in the middle and continued on another dictation, then the pieces will not be connected and the job incomplete. That's specious. If an MT is getting one job at a time, finalizes the job and sends it up, and then gets the other half, the pieces won't be connected. It's very unusual for a follow-up dictation not to arrive within the next three jobs and can still be typed, combined, finalized and automatically uploaded with the integrated system, which I explained at length. She said Jason is revamping the system and will take my suggestions into consideration. I offered to work with him; I don't know if she'll take me up on it.

When I finally finished work last night, I was exhausted, aching and tired. All I wanted to do was go to bed, but I checked my email and shut down the browser to find that Patrick Swayze died yesterday. It was not unexpected, but still it's sad. Someone posted a YouTube link to Dirty Dancing where Patrick and Jennifer Gray dance the last dance ("No one puts Baby in the corner.") and I watched with a great big smile and tears in my eyes. Patrick was young and exuberant and so talented in that movie and I am glad it remains as a ever bright memory. That, of course, led me to thinking about Ghost and his touching performance as Sam Wheat, the man who couldn't say "I love you" until he was dead and trapped between life and death because he wanted to find his murderer and protect his girlfriend, Molly, by forcing himself on a psychic conning people who actually was a psychic, Rita, played wonderfully and memorably by Whoopi Goldberg. ("Molly, you in danger, girl.")

And Ghost puts me in mind of so many people who can't say "I love you" or tell people how they really feel, and probably won't until it's too late. Time moves on and few people will leave the legacy Patrick Swayze leaves behind him. He put his heart and soul into his work and his life and left no doubt in anyone's mind what he thought and how he felt. That is a tribute few people can boast. He lived his life broadly and without compromise right to the end and I am so thankful I have even a little bit of his talent and zest for life to remember him. He is one person about whom I have no illusions and no confusion. He was simply a wonderful, loving, intelligent and talented man and I'm grateful to have sat on the sidelines and shared a few happy moments and tears. Can't say that about too many people in my life -- our near me.

It's times like these that remind me most of what is speeding past like a bullet train on anti-gravity rails without brakes and how much time is wasted by waiting for people to wake up and realize what is rapidly slipping through their fingers and out of reach. I have wasted too much time waiting and hoping and am now galvanized for the forward push up the rocky slope. Life is seldom easy, but it's worth every blister, broken heart and struggle to get to the good moments, and there are only moments. It's just as much a waste of time to hang around celebrating when there is another road to cross and another mountain to climb. The heavenly moments are for resting before the next big push, not for sitting around until you're either thrown out or bored out of your skull, weighed down by depression and ennui. To be human is to keep moving, hopefully holding hands, supporting, and being supported by a like-minded companion. The real blessing is finding lots of like-minded companions to share the load and the road, and I've been lucky and blessed, although I miss those who shared the journey for a short time -- too short.

If you do nothing else today, don't hesitate to tell the people you care about how much you care. Don't be afraid to say "I love you" because you might not get another chance. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. The only thing you can count on is this moment. Don't waste it.

Fugue in ouch major

Just when you think you're immortal, or at least not decrepit, your back goes out or an old injury twangs your last nerve, such is the case with me the past few days.

About 20 years ago while wearing heels, I skidded across the slick, tile floor in Sears at Northland shopping center in Columbus, Ohio, ending up on the ground with my right ankle ballooning to Goodyear proportions, which was ironic since I was sitting on the wet floor next to the automotive shop where Goodyear tires were prominently displayed. A cashier rushed to help me up and was followed closely by the chief of security and a very apologetic janitor who forgot to put out the "wet floor" signs. The janitor and security chief helped me to the security office where the store manager met us. He had already called the local Doc-in-the-Box down the street. An ambulance took me to the clinic where an x-ray revealed my ankle was unfortunately not broken, but would have to be casted because the ligaments were stretched and torn in places.

I haven't thought about that incident in year, about 20 years, certainly not since the cast came off and I could drive again. Friday morning my ankle hit me with a wave of pain that nearly turned my stomach inside out; it was a good thing I had not eaten yet. To make matters more interesting, my lower back refused to bear me upright without help, the help being the walls between my bed and the bathroom. I wasn't in so much pain I couldn't breathe, but there was enough discomfort to make every movement an orchestration of dissonant and quickly stifled howls. I had typed most of my pages the night before and decided a few yoga stretches and more sleep would set me to rights. I woke again in enough time to finish my required pages and crawl back into bed for more stretches and sleep and by 8 p.m. my back and ankle had reset their levels to a moderate aching throb.

Sitting up for any length of time provides ample reminders of my ankle injury and the lower back pain from carrying to term four fairly large babies. Standing and walking aren't too difficult once I get going, but lying down and resting after yoga stretches have helped the most and quiets the worst of the muscle spasms. This in turn has had a direct effect on my writing -- I haven't been able to write. I'm saving my energy for the week of work ahead and I am almost clear of the worst of this bout of "Introduction to Age: The Painful Years." At least, I don't have arthritis.

Actually, the cold and damp weather is what brought on the aches, spasms and howling pain, so it's obvious a little arthritis has crept into my bones and must be repelled and set adrift to pirate someone else's life. I have a list of enemies ready for use if necessary.

It's difficult to be reminded of injuries decades after the events, but it is inevitable as gravity and time take their taxes, or rather, balloon payments. I have a couple things on my side: blind faith in my own healing powers and knowing enough yoga to combat the worst of the pain and relax the muscles. After all, it worked with sciatica. Stretches and rest cured the sciatica in two days -- thirty years ago. So, I'm back to blind faith.

Things could be worse. I can't think how right now, but I'm sure something will come to me.

Grammar: How are they dangling?

I debated about whether or not to tackle split infinitives, but decided to try something a little lighter today since I'm knee deep in work, critiques and books. It isn't an unusual state for me to be in, but it's as good an excuse as any to take some time away from work and reading and do a little writing that doesn't require too much work.

A modifier is a word that otherwise clarifies, describes or gives more information about a concept. A dangling modifier is a word or phrase that leaves the subject, concept or word described unclear.

Having finished the laundry, the bed was turned down.

"Having finished" is the action, but the bed (the subject of the main clause) doesn't turn itself down and it doesn't do laundry.

Having finished the laundry, Louise turned down the bed.

In English sentences, the doer is the subject of the main clause that follows, that is Louise. She is the one doing the laundry and turning down the bed. In other words, in the above examples, the modifier left dangling is Louse, the object of the action and the subject of the introductory clause.

Revising dangling modifiers.

1. Determine the appropriate or logical subject of the main clause:




Without asking first, the car was taken.



Who took the car? The sentence reads as though the car needed to ask permission to be taken. Revision:



Without asking first, Marshall took the car.



In the main clause, Marshall is the subject who "took the car" (modifying phrase). The sentence makes sense.


2. Change a dangling phrase into an introductory clause by naming the subject of the action in the clause:




Unless his name is given, it will be impossible to introduce him.



The way the sentence reads now, "it" doesn't know the name to introduce. Who would do the introduction? Consider this revision:



Unless the butler knows his name, it will be impossible to introduce him.



It's a subtle difference, but an important one.


3. Combine phrase and main clause:




To enhance his appearance, the suit was tailored.



Who wanted to enhance his appearance? The suit would enhance its own looks? Combine the phrase and main clause into a simple, complete sentence.



John enhanced his appearance by having his suit tailored.

More examples of danglers:

• Incorrect: After reading the novel, the motivation remains unclear.



• Revised: After reading the novel, I find the motivation unclear.



• Incorrect: When you leave your job, your home should be a haven from work.



• Revised: When you leave your job, you should be able to relax at home.



• Incorrect: The revisions made no sense, not having read the rules of grammar.



• Revision: The author's revisions made no sense, not having read the rules of grammar.

I'll grant you some of these examples seem a bit stilted, but they are obvious in order to point out where dangling modifiers often occur. Check your sentences thoroughly and make sure the modifiers are connected and clear without dangling. Until next week, may good grammar become easier and the grammar goofs rare.

Tarot: A sword divides past and present

The past and the present are tricky. Spend too much time in the past and waste the present. Spend too much time dealing with the present and ignoring the lessons and experiences of the past and life becomes one-dimensional. There has to be a balance, but how do we find that balance?

Today was an unbalanced day for me, but I finally managed to get it together and concentrate on today's tarot post. I am not surprised that Mercury is in retrograde because communications have been on the fritz. It was so much easier in the past, but it's best not to dwell in the past and risk losing what is available in the present, although it's nice to have the option. Or is it?



The Queen of Cups is intensely sensitive to others' feelings and can seem like she's reading their minds. In a way, she is a mind reader because she pays attention to the details. Don't let her romantic looks and the far away look in her eyes fool you. She is focused on a dream and, although she seems slightly tragic and moody, thinking about ill fated princesses in fairy tales, she is deeply concerned for the welfare of others. That is what gives her insight. She has been down those roads and knows what it feels like to be poor, in pain, loved and lost. She has done and felt it all.

The Queen of Cups' heart is engaged with deep concern for loved ones and her own emotional well being. She knows that things aren't perfect, but sees the sensual beauty of the life around her. Her message is simple: Look to the needs of the heart. Don't be bewitched or swayed by emotion and don't let emotion overshadow the truth or reality until the truth is no longer visible.

It's one thing to be concerned about people and another to be so arrogant and controlling that people are no longer allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. That is how people learn, but making mistakes and fixing them. It's a heady feeling playing god/dess, but it's not so heady for those who are smothered by such overly attentive care. Remember the butterfly struggling out of its cocoon. Help it and it dies. Let it struggle and it will be strong enough to feed itself and live to procreate.



In the garden of childhood, before Pandora came with her mysterious box full of hardship, woe and illness, children played in verdant fields and filled their cups with flowers and animals. It was an enchanted time. In the foreground of the Six of Cups is a cat. It is clearer and more real than the idyllic scene behind it. The cat is the present and the happy, laughing children are the past, a memory of happy times.

Memories are tricky. Memories can evoke happiness, warmth and security when life was young and innocent, inspiring us to share the nostalgic, romanticized remembrance of things past. Too much time spent reliving and remembering the past can cause profound sadness and disappointment with the current situation, fraught with the ills and evils that flew out of Pandora's chest of gifts for mankind. In memory, the past is always better than what is available now, but was it so wonderful? Were things so much better? Were there not problems to solve and people and situations that broke the heart?

The Six of Cups reminds us to pick and choose our memories careful and remember that time and distance, and current desires, have a tendency to color the past in soft, water washed colors. The way to deal with the past is to remember the good, accept the bad without question and balance it all with the needs of the present, use logic and reality to show the best path forward. If the past controls all actions, the path will never be clear and life will slip out of control. It's a matter of balance. Isn't it always?



A sharp sword cut through the Gordian knot and solved a riddle; it was the keen edge of intellect and the rational mind, the sign of the Ace of Swords. But with power comes danger. The Sword of Truth will cut through the toughest problems with ease. It is the tool of the complex mind and the mind is the key to controlling reality.

The Ace of Swords is the symbol of communication and the weapon of communication are words, words that can hurt as well as heal. The sword bring the gift of thought, a gift that grants the ability to see the world clearly, communicate effectively and create a happy and healthy environment, a stable reality. Sharp words spoken with unguarded thought can destroy it all. A clever wit is a blessing, but it can be a curse if it is used to hurt or destroy. With the Ace of Swords, the Sword of Truth confers the desire for honesty, and that is its guard and guide in order to know where and how to strike. It's in your hands.

* * *

A man sits at a bar drinking a glass of soda. He doesn't drink alcohol because he likes to remain in control. His world is about to spin out of control.

A group of men come up to him and address him but name. He doesn't know them and it turns out they don't know him. They've made a mistake. Someone with the same name is scheduled to appear and give a talk, but no one knows what he looks like. It's a subject with which he is familiar, and speaking to the group will make it possible to drag himself away from the edge of the abyss of despair and depression. He agrees to talk to the group and has such a good time an idea occurs to him.

His name is common and a quick Google search provides tens of thousands of men with the same name, many of whom are the same age, so why not try on their lives for a while, see what it's like had another path been chosen, and possibly find a life that makes him happier than his own. Research will provide enough background and he can relive his youth when anything in the world was possible before he chose the wrong path and ended up miserable and trapped in a marriage with a wife who doesn't respect him and controls his actions. He had a chance at love, but waited too long to take it. If he can't have love, he might as well have a little adventure . . . as long as no one gets hurt.

No doubt, my mood affects my creative vision today, but it happens. Best not to dwell on it. I still have next week and three new cards to tempt the muse. Where will the muse take you with these cards?

Publicity, Greek yogurt and books

I'm no good at publicizing my work, outside of the usual channels, so I decided to check out a publicist who had been highly recommended. She has put several authors at the top of the Amazon Best Sellers list and even managed to slot one writer at #2. She's impressed with my credentials and resume and wants to work with me, but she's pricey, about $20 an hour, and I have to decide if this is something I can afford. Of course, I am just about to pay off my washer and dryer and that will free up about that much cash per month to be able to afford it, but still... It's a big bite and she doesn't do personal appearances, which is a down side, but overall, if her references check out, I may have no other choice because I need to build some groundswell recognition for the upcoming novels. Tough call, but it's all part of the wonderful world of being published and pushing your own books.

I also have to decide whether or not I want to enter Past Imperfect in the RITA awards. That's another big bite, especially when you add in five -- count them five -- copies of the novel, paid for by me, and the entry fee, which I have been told is not cheap when you include the membership to the Romance Writers of America (RWA). I'm not predominantly a romance writer and I'm not sure I want to be labeled as one when I write across all the genres, including horror and literary. Then again, the RWA covers a lot of territory and includes a whole lot of people who buy books and would buy my book. That's a consideration. Now I know what kills most writers in their first year -- promotions and anguish over contests and costs. I can do this. I'll be poorer, but not much since I am pretty poor already and there's not far to fall.

I'm still struggling with the usual things: work, writing having enough money to buy food -- and frozen yogurt. I actually found one I like that is gritty and horrible tasting: Cyclops Frozen Yogurt. They only have five flavors: banana, coffee, mango, strawberry, and raspberry (my store doesn't carry the raspberry), but it is the best thing I've had in my mouth for a very long time. It's made with Greek yogurt, the best yogurt in the world, and has swirls of pureed fruit (I've only had the strawberry and mango), and it tastes amazing.

Of course, the frozen yogurt isn't a treat, it's a way to repopulate my intestines with beneficial bacteria and flora. I care nothing for taste and yummy goodness. Not me.

I have spent a limited amount of time -- there are only so many hours in the day -- on Twitter and was coerced into buying a copy of Postscripts Magazine Issue 12 with 's zombie story in it. I think Kai and and Mary Ann with their zombie stories have put my reading feet on a strange and wonderful path. Besides, it showed up on Twitter and I was curious about it. Normally, I don't care much for zombies, but when good writers create wonderful characters and pack so much into such a small word count, I can't resist. I'll read anything in hopes of finding something really good, even things I don't think I'll like. Blame my Gram. She told me I couldn't say I didn't like something unless I tried it first.

I have read some great zombie stories, most notably Brian Keene's The Rising. That was the best zombie story I've read in ages. No wonder I gave it a great review. I can be led in strange directions, but only because I want to see what's around the next bend or over the next rise. I'm adventurous that way.

In the meantime, I've had a long nap and I'm up for a few hours, so it's back to writing for me and maybe even a few op reports to get a leg up on the day ahead. I do have a guest coming tomorrow (on Facebook): Cindy Davis, author of the short and powerful You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, an excellent resource that needs to be on every writer's bookshelf. I'm even doing the exercises in the back and I don't do exercises unless there's something in it besides sweat, blood and tears. Arrivederci and good night.

That is all. Disperse.

Life as a political whore

In yet another unprecedented move, the president is taking over the chair at the U.N. Is there nothing this media whore won't do to be popular and attract attention? How about standing in a sealed room with 100 bee hives? How about sitting in the Oval Office and doing your job instead of jetting all over the country and the world with your entourage? You know, work. Do your job. This president has taken more vacations in the past seven months than most presidents took during their terms in office. When will the country wake up and start asking some hard questions instead of being all twitterpated and goggle-eyed because The President is going to be on Leno or Letterman or Oprah or coming to a town hall near you? Less talk. More action. Do the job you are being overpaid to do instead of playing superstar.

No, I'm not cranky, or I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I'm tired of seeing this scene chewing ham and his teleprompter crew everywhere I look. His smirking mug is even on the magazines that come into my house. Thank goodness he's not on Writer's Digest or The Writer. When he is, I'll cancel my subscription to those, too.

Well, three days of critiques, work and writing have not cured me of my desire to dive back into writing, but I must earn a living so that I have the electricity and resources to do my job to continue writing, although I have done pretty well in the past with few resources and I'd rather support myself than have the county, city or state support me. It's just a quirk, but one I hope I never get over.

The good news about my sale of a story yesterday made me feel so good I decided to write something new. I've been kicking it around in my head for a while and decided it was time to set it free. Oops, that reminds me. I have a critique to send out, so I'll keep this short.

The message to stay in school and work/study hard is a good one, but the message should be read. Read everything you can get your hands on and keep reading. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. If you read, you will have in your hands a ticket to anywhere and everywhere, even to the stars. Don't just read fiction, read nonfiction. Read newspapers. Read books on science, math, art, history and everything in between. Read things you don't think you'll like and read things you do. Read when you're bored. Read when it's raining and you can't go outside. Read before bed and when you're sitting on a bus, riding in the car with someone else driving or waiting in line. Reading is the best education you will ever get.

That is all. Disperse.

Prophetic words and news

Now back in 1927, an American socialist, Norman Thomas, six times candidate for president on the Socialist Party ticket, said the American people would never vote for socialism. But he said under the name of liberalism the American people will adopt every fragment of the socialist program. One of the traditional methods of imposing statism or socialism on a people has been by way of medicine. It's very easy to disguise a medical program as a humanitarian project. Most people are a little reluctant to oppose anything that suggests medical care for people who possibly can't afford it.

~ Ronald Reagan on health care in 1961

In other news, I just got word that A Taste of Bittersweet was picked up for the Dreamspell Revenge anthology. A sale is always good news. If I keep plugging away at Memory and have it finished by October, I should have another sale. Then it is on to the next book which will either be a body switching story about Marilyn Monroe or a tale of a house infected with pain and sadness, and a little bit of evil. Am I becoming a horror writer? I've always thought of myself as more of a fantasist.

I have been playing around with a story about a woman who goes looking for her reincarnated husband and it could go one of two ways. She could kill him and the woman he died to be with or it could help her move on. Maybe I'll write two stories. Or I could let her think about killing them and then realize that she has as much right as he to be with the love of her life. Who knows? Anything can happen.

That is all. Disperse.

Grammar: Semi scoping the colon

Are you confused by when to use the colon and when you should use the semi-colon? It seems evident, but everyone needs a little help now and then, so let's get down to business.

If two independent clauses are connected, either by emphasizing or restating the first clause or when they are of equal emphasis, use a semicolon when connecting two independent clauses together. Sounds like Greek to me, but it's much clearer in practice.

Bram Stoker's novels are still popular today; Dracula and The Jewel of Seven Stars have outsold all the rest and have been the basis of several movies.

If using a conjunctive adverb (however, therefore, moreover, furthermore, thus, meanwhile, nonetheless, otherwise) or a transition (in fact, for example, that is, for instance, in addition, in other words, on the other hand, even so) to connect two independent clauses, a semicolon is used.

Romance novels are a thriving business and sell more copies than any other genre; however, romance as a genre remains a niche market.

When the individual items of a series includes commas, use a semicolon.

In movies, Dracula has been traveled to cities around the world, including New Orleans, Louisiana; London, England; Bucharest, Romania; Richmond, Virginia; New York City, New York, etc.

When the second of two independent clauses is emphasized, use a colon.

Roanoke is where Virginia Dare was born and went missing: historians and writers continue to look for traces of her.

Independent clauses followed by lists, a quotation, appositive, or other idea directly related to the clause should be followed by a colon.

Labor Day means a three-day weekend for most people, but for me it means one more day to get chores done: laundry, dishes, cleaning, reviews, critiques, letters and cleaning the toilet. Are we having fun yet?

Instead of hanging out a shingle, she should put up a neon sign: friend, cheap rates.

Lionel Trilling might have been writing about the current health care debate, which is touted as a charitable and Utopian ideal: "We are at heart so profoundly anarchistic that the only form of state we can imagine living in is Utopian; and so cynical that the only Utopia we can believe in is authoritarian."

At the end of greetings in business letters, a colon is required.

Dear Random House Editor: (although it's best to find out the name of the Random House editor first if you want to avoid the slush pile)

Everyone knows about separating the hour and minute with a colon.

5:00 P.M.

Separate the chapter and verse in Bible quotations with a colon.

Song of Solomon 5:8

Well, that was refreshing and short, compared to the comma coma of weeks before, but I hope you learned something; I certainly did. I knew most of these, but there's always a surprise somewhere or a rule I have forgotten because I don't use it much. Until next week, I wish you good grammar and easily fixed grammar goofs.

The cyber touch

Well, I've jumped on the bandwagon, albeit a bit cautiously, and joined up with Twitter, so if you're interested and would like to find out what I think or am thinking, hop on the bandwagon with me. I'm still not sure how it will be working without a net -- a cell phone for the rest of the world -- since I do not have and have no intentions of getting one. After all, I work at home and don't travel all that much, so why add another expense I'll have to lose the rest of my weekends working to support? I'll stay out of that particular end of the tech pool, at least for now.

One quite divine femme wrote about how easy it is to misunderstand a simple flirtation online and turn it into a budding romance -- or first step on the stalker trail. It's something I have lots of first-hand experience in.

My profiles are pretty businesslike, fact-based information with a bit of word play that have been misconstrued as flirtations and come-ons. They have garnered me quite a few propositions and numerous proposals of marriage. I could say I don't get it, but I do because I used to be the voice on the line that spun fantasies and helped men find the orgasm within. That's writer code for phone sex operator. It was many years ago, but a sexy voice, a creative and imaginative mind, coupled with a way with words and it's a recipe for instant romance. Funny isn't it that I really don't care much for hard core romance?

I shouldn't say I don't care for romance because I love romantic gestures and romantic men. I even appreciate romantic women; I'm one after all, bearskin rug in front of a fireplace in a snowed-in cabin is the essence of romance when you add a glass of wine or champagne, fresh strawberries or a decadent cheesecake to share with the lust man of your dreams (or at least my dreams). But to read some of the romance novels that have gone from bordering on soft porn right into hard core porn is a little much and my un-favorite romance is the saccharine sweet kind that drip syrup and relies on a formulaic approach. I'm not against any other kind of romance; the world needs a lot more romance and men need to learn about romantic gestures.

Dracula by Bram Stoker was definitely romantic, but it wasn't the blatant in-your-face romance and sex that hits the top of the Romantic Times Best Sellers list over and over. There's nothing more thrilling, or frankly more sexual and erotic, than being bitten on the neck. Think about it in more anatomic terms. In the 19th century, writing about sex was confined to a very profitable and lively niche called pornography, and 19th century pornography is every bit as racy and provocative as anything written today, even more so, if you want my opinion. Yes, I have read it. Everyone should. Pornography has been around since men first learned that charcoal would make marks on cave walls. Emperor Tiberius was a great connoisseur and consumer of pornography and locked himself away in his villa and gorged himself into a Dorian Gray picture stupor until he died. Dracula isn't pornographic, but it is erotic.

The act of a vampire sinking his teeth into a woman's vulnerable and unprotected neck to drink her blood is very erotic, but you knew that. It is in a way a substitute for sex. The act of intercourse requires the man to sink a part of his anatomy into a woman's most intimate essence, the deep, warm recesses of her femaleness.

Dracula, unlike his more virile and sexually potent modern offspring, wasn't capable of a phallic erection, but his fangs were erect and hard and probed deeply, over and over, and his victim, preferably a virgin, was penetrated, defiled and aroused to orgasm. When Dracula attacked men, his assault was vicious and homicidal. Although he ultimately killed his female victims, he was gentle, taking them into his arms, romancing them into baring their vulnerable necks and embracing him passionately. It was a surrender that eventually led to death, but sex in the 19th century often led to death in one form or another (childbirth, syphilis, rape, Jack the Ripper, etc.). It was beauty and the beast with a new twist; the beast wasn't changed into a handsome prince by Beauty's tears or her kiss. Dracula remained a beast while beauty died. Is it any wonder the book still sells and directors and actors still clamor to bring him to the screen?

What does that have to do with people falling in love with faces and words online? Romance.

It is so easy to fall in love over the phone or online because you get the essence of the person without all the baggage, and because romance is sadly lacking in the world. There are so many demands and claims on attention that an escape, any escape, is necessary to keep people from running wild in the streets raping and pillaging along the way.

The vikings probably wouldn't have been so vicious and blood-thirsty if the Internet existed then. Vikings weren't after romance, not in the general sense, but they were after something to spice up their lives, usually booty, wine, riches and women. There were seldom enough women to go around, not with women dying in childbirth, of syphilis, rape and Jack the Ripper. Even though it seems to us in our modern cyber-connected world to be vicious and antisocial, it was still at the heart about finding a woman to clean the house, bear the children, do the laundry, cook and be vulnerable to their less blood thirsty pursuits.

As a society, people are so locked into work, chores, family and money that they crave something more human, more intimate. The net provides that, and not just in the blatant sex ads and porn sites, or even in personals and dating connections, but in seeing someone through their words that stirs something inside. In the end, we all want the same things, to be seen, heard and touched. We want a connection that has nothing to do with plugs and liquid crystal displays. There are people on the other side of the cyber-chasm and they're looking, too. The farther we move away from each other physically into the world of computers, cell phones and television, the closer we yearn to be physically connected.

Sex and love are born in the brain, but it's the body that is starved for a simple human touch. The human touch is necessary to life and we forget that until words on a computer screen touch something deep inside and make us reach out to make the fantasy into real romance, to touch the flesh behind the words, to feel the heart beating in time with ours, to sink into those deep recesses impaled when we are at our most vulnerable.

Naked dawn

There's something peaceful about the last few hours of night before dawn when the sky is black and fades almost imperceptibly to a deep and profound blue. The streets are quiet and the cool morning breeze smells of dew and flowers beginning to open, waiting for the first touch of dawn when their essence mingles with the dew and warms to be wafted on the morning ripples of air through the window as concentrated summer or spring or fall or even winter. Winter has its blossoms, although pale and faint compared to the glorious buds of spring, the intense greens and primary colors of summer, or the smoke and fire of spicy autumn. Even in winter, there are scents to waken the senses after a long and restful sleep, tickling and teasing the senses to the sharp clarity of a winter morning when wood smoke is in the air and the sharp, clean smell of pine spangled with ice melting with the first blush of morning.

Here in the city it is often difficult to single out the smell of growth and life in the stench of exhaust fumes or pungent refuse on trash day, but it is there, especially after a rain when the earth is wet and its essence rises on violent rain-lashed winds and assaults the senses through the stink of too much civilization.

When I first moved to the city and was out walking after a rain, the aroma of balsam fir enveloped me as I passed near the tree. I couldn't help inhaling its familiar aroma deep into my lungs. I was still a little uncomfortable with all the noise and the feel of exhaust-heavy air on my skin, and that smell, that wonderful exhalation of life in the midst of the city revived me and reminded me that even here there was life to be found and savored. I looked around at bright patches of color struggling upward among rocks and pebbles and the ubiquitous cedar mulch, sunflowers following the course of the sun across the sky springing up from vacant lots and trash-strewn byways. Poppies spread bloody blooms among the withered brown and silver green of desertscapes and roses, glorious roses, of every color, size and shape cast their petals to the winds in a bosomy show of flowery cleavage. Tucked away between busy streets and strolling tourists, bursts of colored petals showered the sidewalks and spread unchecked between the weeds and sterile, rocky paths.

There is life, too, among the bloody rocks and nature tortured faces in the Garden of the Gods. It is a barren landscaped ridged and furrowed with roads, cars snaking slowly along the winding cement ribbons to gape and stare and open-mouthed awe at the weird and bizarre shapes of the rock formations. When I drive out through there, I walk out away from the areas where people cluster, to stroll and wander along the weedy trails. In the quiet, a rustle in the sere grass alerts me to a different kind of life: fox kits trailing their dam, marmot-like rodents scurrying here and there in search of seeds and insects, falcons planing down, riding the thermals, to pounce on prey and the green glittery slither of a snake basking on sun-heated rocks. It's usually too early for the raccoons to be out and about, but their trails are easy to recognize.

Out away from the edges of the city are wonders and life in abundance and I often go to find quiet and be closer to nature. However, my work has kept me penned in away from those solitary trails, but not from the life that slips through my windows and reminds me of what is found just outside the door.

The honeysuckle vines are heavy with red berries and the foxglove is a dry and brittle memory. Vigorous weeds that greened the asphalt are spent in the heat and the lilacs remain only in memory with their purple, lavender and white blooms. The spicy scent of autumn is a faint tickle in my nose and the cold dawn calls me from among the warm, tangled sheets into another predawn morning when the city is quiet, still asleep before the first flags of dawn fly.

This is my time, this silent and empty time pregnant with possibility when my mind is clear and my heart not yet burdened with the demands of the day. This time is mine when I can step to the edge of darkness and watch the world stir to life, limned in rising gold washes of light across the piny hills and waken the first spreading blush across the snowy face of the peaks. This is life, naked at dawn.

Tarot: From Excess Road to Wisdom Palace

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom; for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.

~ William Blake

The fool wonders, the wise man asks.

~ Benjamin Disraeli

How much is enough? Is it really necessary to follow the road of excess to find out?

I know when I've eaten too much or sat too long because my body tells me quite clearly and in very obvious ways. I know when I've gone past the point where the need for rest overwhelms me and I fall asleep no matter what I'm doing, often falling asleep while sitting up. There are times when it's more difficult to tell when I've reached the "too much" stage. How much reading is too much? How much silence is too much? How much loneliness, depression or pleasure is too much? It's less easy to tell.



The Devil conjures images of bodies writhing in torment in the fires of Hell, but the Devil is a Christian symbol, the antithesis of all that is good and wise, cobbled together from pagan gods and demi-gods: Pan, Dionysus, Cernunnos, Baphomet. The Devil card in tarot is indicative of the addict or the victim, which is to say they are the same.

The Devil's horns are exaggerated, excessive, out of balance and he is blind to everything and everyone. He is the essence of repressed emotions, rampant passions and overweening ambition, the shadow side of life. The Devil is reminiscent of the god Pan, from whom the word panic is derived, fear out of control, the frenzy that comes with Dionysian excess -- too much wine, women and song -- but also too much isolation, blindness and fear. Addiction is just as limiting and overwhelming as the fear of becoming addicted, making the addicted a victim of their own demons and dark side, afraid to lose their social standing, their material possessions, of climbing too high, too far, too fast.

The Devil is associated with the earth signs of Capricorn, Taurus and Virgo. Devil is lived spelled backward. He is the stagnation of fear and isolation, blind to the possibility and love.



When I look at the 9 of Swords, I see a woman waking in the middle of the night at the darkest hour when dawn and the sun seem farthest away. Above her nine swords are poised to strike, but neither the candlelight nor the moonlight streaming through the window reflect off the swords. They are not real. They are figments of the imagination conjured at the edge of nightmare. The window is open, only a few steps from the bed where fresh air and freedom await. On the window sill an owl is perched, waiting, ready. The owl is the avatar, the symbol, of wisdom, Athena's companion Bubo who acts as mediary between the gods and man, the conduit where wisdom flows down to enlighten man and relieve the darkness.

The Nine of Swords shows the dark night of the soul. Anguish and despair strike when we are most vulnerable. The woman holds herself, but she is warm and safe. Her body language is closed off and she is locked within herself, struggling with her dreams and nightmares, unsure of what to believe or how to reach out when all she needs to do is unlock her arms and hold out her hands, reach out and take what is freely offered -- wisdom, enlightenment, reassurance. She is not alone unless she chooses to be alone, a victim of her own fears.



Ever since man looked up into the night sky and saw the twinkling light of the stars and was able to see them as more than distant fires, The Star has guided, inspired and filled him with hope. When he looks at the stars, he is looking at the past, at light that has traveled thousands, millions, billions of miles and years to greet him and show him the light of other days. It is in the darkness when the moon is barely visible that the stars shine the brightest inspiring dreams, providing enlightenment and a glimmer of possibility.

We wish upon stars, make promises under the stars and expect that every night, even when they are barely visible through the city's obscuring lights, they will be there high in the darkness shining down. They are there in the light, too, but we cannot see them, and yet we feel their influence, constant, undimmed and ever present.

The Star is a promise and it is wish fulfillment. The dark lady's brow shines with starlight, twin to the star above her, centered on the brow at the third eye, the seat of higher consciousness, through which we are connected to a higher power, to eternity. In her hands she holds two pitchers, pouring their contents into the water and on the land where she kneels. She pours out everything, not afraid of the pitchers being empty because she knows that they will be filled again, filled over and over like Ganymede's pitcher from which he fills the gods' cups with ambrosia, the sweet water of life, the water of immortality.

The Star is associated with the air sign of Aquarius which is ruled by Uranus, the sign of freedom and rebellion. The Star is intellect and wisdom, the tools of the writer.

* * *

On the surface, the cards move from the shadows through fear and isolation and into the light of the eternal stars. They begin with the earth and end up in the air.

In some interpretations, what we have is an addict, a victim of his own fears, who represses his emotions and cannot or will not reach for help. He is locked in his fear, isolated and alone, though the answers he seeks are within his grasp, so close he can touch them. He is afraid of reaching out, afraid that he will find only illusion, but he is already trapped in illusion, the illusion that he is living the good life. He has material wealth, a wealth he constantly guards and fears he will lose, social standing and the semblance of security, but he could lose it all, and that is what he fears. He is unable to see that when you hold on too tightly everything slips through your fingers. It's like trying to hold back water or the sands of time.

Only when we are ready to pour out everything is the cup of life refilled. The pitcher stands ready and full, but in order to fill and refill the cup, he must reach out and take it, but in order to do that, he must stop holding himself back and see his fears for what they are -- insubstantial phantoms, figments of his imaginations. The only way to live is to embrace life, to reach out and accept the help that has always been within his reach.

What story do these images inspire in you?

The hidden secret of Twilight

A smart review that touted the first blush of high school romance and the overwhelming feelings that come raging hormones and the perfect guy, usually older and out of reach, made me decide to ignore the bad reviews and read Twilight for myself. There's good news and bad news.

The bad news is that, as Stephen King said about J. K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer never met an adjective or an adverb she didn't like, and she uses them all, frequently, sometimes many of them in a single sentence, and I won't go into the fact that there are no paragraphs devoid of overwritten, overblown and overused adverbs. The writing is sophomoric at best and needed a good editor. And how many times is it necessary to tell the reader how perfect Edward is? Certainly not in every single chapter or several times on the same page. Please. Now for the good news.

I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep so I continued reading Twilight with the intent of being able to fall back to sleep. Eight chapters in, it hit me, a rush of emotions and memories that exploded as if they were happening all over again. First, it was a trickle and then a deluge. This is where the book should have started, not with all the drivel that went before.

It is that first roller coaster, heart and stomach jostling to reach the throat first and that low down, aching, humming void that threatens to engulf you that Meyer tapped into and wrote about. That's what makes the book so appealing to young girls and middle-aged women caught in the irreversible tide of aging, car pools, teenagers and bills. It's not the writing because that is facile. It's not the evocation of a place or characters that transcend the page. It's that wonder, awe and aching need to touch another human being that is too far above you to even notice a little nobody like you.

I was a sophomore and had fallen head over heels for a senior. He was perfect, from his crew cut and athletic body to his black pants, black silk shirt and thin white silk tie. He radiated confidence and a worldliness that was so powerful I couldn't speak when I was near him, and he spoke to me, invited me to see him in the library where I stood every free period just to listen to him talk, half afraid anything that came out of my mouth would be inane and naive. I was besotted. He noticed me. Talked to me. Spent time with me. He was a god.

We went for a walk in the woods at Darby Park, wandering along the trails until we got to the river. He leapt from rock to rock, urging me to follow him to the island on the other side of the stream that joined the river surrounding the island. He came back for me and I started across. I fell into the water and he fished me out and got me to the island. That's when it happened, that yawning, aching void that opened just below my belly button and sent my blood hurtling through my body.

I was soaked, and so was he, so we took off our clothes, not all of them, just shirt, shoes, socks and pants. We lay down in the warm sunshine in a hidden glade on the island after laying the clothes out on bushes and grass to dry. Clad and bra and panties, I was nervous and shy. He wasn't. Even wearing just jockey shorts, he was impressive. And then he touched me, his hand warm on my chilled skin, and my body went up in flames. His caress was feather light along my trembling skin. He thought I was cold and moved closer, holding me in his arms. I wasn't cold. I was in shock. He touched me.

He was a gentleman and didn't take advantage of our situation. I didn't understand it at the time because I wanted -- more. He wanted more, but not from me. He was in love with someone else, a girl two years older than he who had offered her body to him and he had refused out of fear and awkwardness. He wanted her. I wanted him. His best friend wanted me.

I had the same effect on Paul, two years older than me and a senior, that Dick had on me.

Every time I walked into a room, Paul lost the power of speech. When I got near, I heard his heart drumming in his chest and see the sweat that beaded his upper lip and forehead. His hands shook and he always stuffed them in his pockets so I couldn't see. If I touched him in any way, like brushing off a piece of lint or taking his hand or arm, he trembled, sometimes so violently I thought he had St. Vitus' Dance. The first time he put his arms around me he nearly passed out.

Bella's feeling and reactions to Edward were the same as mine, and Dick's and Paul's, and reading about the two of them in the sunlit glade brought it all rushing back. All those feelings of unworthiness, awe, trembling and that aching void begging to be filled are there. That's what Stephanie Meyer captured.

There are stories that cannot be dimmed by a lack of technical skill and writing talent. No matter how bad the writing, the essence of the story, like a perfect diamond in a pile of muddy sand, shine with fiery clarity. Stephanie Meyer has a lot to learn about writing and a lot of bad habits to break, but she definitely found the diamond in the mud and reminded legions of women and teenage girls that they're not alone. What they discovered they share with millions of other teenage girls and adult women -- the first disconcerting, painful, awkward and reverent blush of love.

Name dropping

Jaye is a friend of my Aunt Anne's and plays the organ at the church where my family attends. She has fallen in love with my book, but mostly because she "knows the author's family." She drops my name into conversations everywhere she goes, offering to loan people Aunt Anne's book instead of returning it to her.

Last night Mom called to tell me what happened at church.

Jaye was talking to some woman named Ann about my book, and about me. She button-holed the woman in a pew near the door and went on and on about how good the book was (not bad news for me) and what all I do (medical transcriptionist, artist, author, columnist, editor, author and critiquing manuscripts). The woman was not impressed and that set Mom off. "She's an old sour puss," Mom complained. "She doesn't like anything or anyone."

I got a flash of Mikey who hated everything, but loved Life cereal.

Mom railed against the old woman and called her a sour puss several times, going on and on about how Jaye drops my name every chance she gets. I'm glad I don't live there.

When I talked to my Aunt Anne last night, she told me much the same thing, except for the "old sour puss" and that Jaye still had not returned her copy of my novel. She is fit to be tied and believes that Jaye has left the book in Texas when she was there for two weeks.

I certainly never expected to be the center of a tempest in a teapot, although I have found myself in the eye of such storms.

I told my aunt that I would sign a copy of the book and send it to her. "That will really make Jaye jealous," she said. I had never heard that tone in her voice before, the unholy gleeful tone of having the upper hand.

Mom has called nearly every day to give me an update on where she is in the book and where the errors are. She at least likes the little airplanes centered in the space between paragraph breaks, so that at least is something.

I had to go to Mountain Mama's for some things and stopped at the deli to see my favorite counter person. She just had to tell me my novel passed her "time test." The question must have been obvious because she went on to explain. She read the book about a month ago and she keeps reflecting on the characters and some of the scenes, giggling at jokes or antics and seeing more layers and textures she missed the first time around. "When the characters and story keep coming back to me after I've read a book, that passes the time test. It's a really wonderful book and I enjoyed it so much."

My cousins and some of my friends drop my name and I can only imagine that the effect is something like dropping a grain of sand in Lake Titicaca, but at least they enjoy being able to say the know a published author. Even a grain of sand creates ripples that expand outward.

Grammar: To Comma or Not To Comma

After reading Cindy Davis's excellent You Have The Power on editing and reading the comma and adverb heavy Twilight, I am happy to finish this series on commas with an entree to colons and semi-colons.

In compound sentences with two independent clauses, a comma is used before connecting words like and, but, for, or, nor, so, yet.

Pride and Prejudice is one of my favorite Jane Austen stories, but it is difficult to choose which adaptation I like more.

The movie version of Pride and Prejudice released in 2005 is the most recent adaptation, and Keira Knightley was an excellent choice to play Elizabeth Bennett.

The lighting in the 2005 version is subdued and ethereal, yet captures a sense of magic and melancholy that is missing in a couple of the other versions.

It is a bit late to introduce the simple and common sense uses of the comma, as in dates and the separation of city, state and country. In a sentence, the month and day are separated from the year by a comma, but a comma is not used after the year unless it is the end of a phrase of clause.

August 29, 2009

August 29, 2009 is a Sunday and nearly the end of summer.

Colorado Springs, Colorado
New Orleans Parish, New Orleans, Louisiana
Eastbourne, England, UK

When two independent clauses are linked, a semi-colon is used instead of a comma. Two independent clauses are linked together when the subjects are connected.

The patient's CT scan was negative; fractures were found on a subsequent MRI.

The statue was carved as though the woman wore a veil; her face was obscured and the contours suggested rather than clearly defined.

The head of a female statue was found intact and well preserved in the ash and mud of Herculaneum; it was painted and the eyes were colorful and realistic.

When conjunctive adverbs, like however, moreover, therefore, consequently, otherwise, nevertheless, thus, etc., are used to connect independent clauses, a semi-colon is used. If the clause following the conjunctive adverb is a dependent clause, a comma is used.


Empty-eyed marble statues look ghoulish to me; however, ancient statues were used as models and historians and artists were unaware the statues had been originally painted.

Modern statues are very realistic; nevertheless, I often wonder what Michelangelo's David would look like painted in realistic colors.

I was enrolled in college courses on painting, sculpting and drawing during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years; consequently, I was exposed to more advanced techniques than the students in my high school art classes.

I doubt my mother would have approved had she known the subject of some of my classes, like sketching nude men and women, thus, my choice not to tell.

And that concludes the subject of commas. I hope you have learned as much as I have and found at least something to make you think or laugh. Next week, we push on with semi-colons and colons. Yes, Virginia, there is a difference. Until then, may all your grammar goofs be edited before they go to print.