Face plants and police sirens

Wednesday night, I called Aunt Anne to wish her happy birthday and to find out how Timmy was doing. His wife Ruthie died a couple weeks ago and he is finally back to work after months of caring for her. He's doing better, but not too happy about all the condolences. Aunt Anne told me they make him feel worse and, while he appreciates the sentiment, it just makes things worse for him.

It reminds me of an episode of All in the Family when a doctor told Archie to be nice to Edith because she was going through the change. Nice isn't Archie's strong suit and he was nearly strangled every time he stifled the urge to rail at the dingbat. Archie's nice and polite attitude frayed Edith's last nerve and things didn't go back to normal until Archie lost his temper. Timmy losing his temper at work isn't going to go down well, especially not at the post office. I think he'll have to endure it a little longer.

Aunt Anne and I talked about a lot of things, like whether or not her friend Jaye was going to bring back her copy of Past Imperfect she took with her on her annual two-week vacation to Texas. Aunt Anne is not happy. If Jaye has damaged her copy in any way, she can kiss any thoughts of a copy signed by the author (that would be me) for Xmas goodbye and buy Anne another copy.

On the up side, Jaye wants everyone to read my book. On the down side, Jaye loans out Anne's copy instead of encouraging people to buy a copy and read it. She has no business sense. I admire her generosity, especially with something that doesn't belong to her, but there are times when there is no substitute for a copy of your own . . . said the author who won't get any royalty checks if people don't buy their own copy.

I bought a copy of a great little writing book, You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, written by Cindy Davis who happens to be my editor. I've read the first 2-1/2 chapters and it's really good and very helpful. Due to my bungling the event planner on Facebook, Cindy appeared a full two weeks early on the Writers Talk / Q&A I've set up. Luckily, Cindy is a very nice person and agreed to go through with her previously scheduled appearance on Sept. 9th and talk more about editing your own writing. Anyone who missed her talk on pronouns will forgive me and show up in two weeks to comment, question and learn from Cindy -- I hope.

I also received my copy of Dead Worlds: Undead Stories and plan to wander through the zombies to find Sabrann Curach, otherwise known as . I also broke down and got a copy of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer and so far I'm not impressed. I'm waiting for the fan girl hype to live up to the reality. It has not happened yet. The only good things I've gleaned from the first couple of chapters are future grammar posts, and one of those will be posted later today.

After a long and protracted, and fruitless, tussle with a software program on Goodreads, I have finally been recognized as the author of my own novel. I had to call in reinforcements and get an actual person to respond because the software program on the site was too stupid to figure out that my name and the author's name are the same. That's been fixed and I have been accorded author status. I had no idea life could get so complicated. Weren't computers supposed to make our lives easier? Doesn't it take a human to screw things up this completely?

Dinner last night was pleasant since I had some company, but I'm afraid I was not at my sparkling best. I was tired and cranky and doing my best impression of Archie being nice between periods of abject weariness that had me nearly nodding off. There is nothing so funny or frustrating as having a conversation with someone whose head keeps bobbing toward the plate in imitation of one of those birds that dip into a cup of red fluid. I avoided a full face plant into my steak, but couldn't keep up with the thread of the conversation. I did apologize and promised a rematch dinner on a night when I was more awake and alert.

The kids are back to school across the street, but they seem subdued and quieter than last year. I wonder if it's because the rowdier and livelier kids graduated to high school or if exuberance has been outlawed. The police presence of late has been more apparent, but so has the joy riding idiot that has roared down Pikes Peak going from zero to 140 between stop signs. He was followed, about 30 minutes later, by a police cruiser whoop-whooping his siren as he neared the cross streets and a helicopter about 15 minutes after that. I doubt they caught the speed demon since he was long gone before they appeared on the scene, their siren saving me from that face plant into the steak. At least they were good for something. Catching speed demons wasn't it.

I am going to take my weary and rumpled self to the showers and get cleaned up for another day in the salt mines. This is one day getting irritated at doctors learning English on my shift and mangling words until the occasional vowel and rare consonant surface in their chewed up melange that is supposed to pass for intelligible speech will be welcome. It should keep me awake.

Writing, it's not for wimps

There must be something in the air or serendipity just keeps catching up, but I've had more people lately tell me they have always wanted to be writers. It isn't as if I haven't encountered this comment before -- usually every time I tell someone who asks what I do that I'm a writer -- but it's beginning to get ridiculous. I have a stock response for everyone who tells me they want to be a writer, but just don't have the time.

"Do you watch TV every night?"

"Yes," they always respond.

"If you give up 30 minutes of TV every night and write, then you'll be able to finish a book in a month, or a year if you write slowly."

"Really?"

"Really."

The glazed look in her eyes tells me all I need to know. She likes the idea of being a writer; she doesn't really want to be a writer.

After that, they beat a hasty retreat. Give up 30 minutes of TV to write? It's unthinkable, inconceivable.

These people aren't writers, they are wannabes. The like the idea of being a writer and they have ideas, but don't know how to translate them into a book or short story. Writers don't usually have that problem. Doesn't mean writers don't get stuck or suffer from writer's block, but knowing how to write isn't the problem. The problem is getting past the hurdles and into the zone. Once there, the writing flows.

As I read Page after Page by Heather Sellers, a gift from , I read again the chapter on being a writer and it said the same thing I've been saying for years about the 30 minutes of TV.

Writing is hard even when a writer makes it look easy. It's not a job or a career for the faint-hearted or those who cannot handle rejection. Writing isn't just something you do as a hobby or because you think you have a story to tell. It's much more complicated and intense than that. Writers think about writing when they're not writing, stories, characters, dialogue and scenes brewing in their minds even when they're doing something else. Writing is hard work. It's not easy, even when the writing flows, because there's the inevitable crash of expectations when it's time to rewrite, edit and re-edit until you think you're going to scream. It's reading the same words over and over until they blur in front of your eyes and then reading them again to make sure you got all the mistakes. It's living with your characters until they become more real than the people around you. It's knowing the intimate details of a character's life until you know them better than you know yourself. It looks easy and it seems like a lot of fun -- writing in your pajamas, keeping your own hours, being able to do whatever you want and go wherever you want at any time -- but it's not always fun. Slogging through reams of research to find just the right bit of information to make a story come alive and layering texture and depth takes time. It's work, hard work.

It can be fun, too, but it's a solitary life that drains the energy out of you so you can pour it into whatever you're writing until the writing is as much a part of you as the blood in your veins and the sinew and muscle that move your bones and body.

Being a writer is sacrificing whatever gets in the way and keeps you from writing or sucks the energy out of the work. It's giving up television or having a spotless house or sleeping in on the weekends, or any day for that matter, when you suddenly figure out what's wrong with the story and knowing how to fix it. Being a writer is working at whatever job will pay the bills and keep you going until a book is finished and beginning to sell so you can go back to the job you hate to keep paying the bills while you writer another book, and another, and articles, and marketing the books that are already out so you sell enough to get your next book published.

From the outside, being a writer is being a dilettante, but that's because people don't see what really goes on and what sacrifices a writer makes in order to keep writing. It's like watching a swan glide effortlessly and gracefully across a lake. You don't see the furiously paddling feet below the surface or how awkward and ungainly the swan looks when it steps from the water and walks on land.

Does this mean I am sorry I'm a writer? No. I wouldn't want to be anything else because this is who I am and who I always have been. I think about writing all the time, picking up bits of life and storing them for later use. Writing is more important to me than almost anything else and it makes sacrificing whatever I must to keep writing worth while.

It's a thrill to see your words printed in a book and your name on the cover of a book that took months or years to write. It's also sobering because in order to keep seeing your name on the cover of books and on bylines of articles and stories, you're not done working yet. There's another hill to climb to get to the mountain beyond that. There are valleys and plateaus where you can rest, but the work goes on. It never stops. That's the curse of being a writer -- it's also the blessing and amazing magic of being a writer. There are always more words to use and more stories to create and more lives to be lived by the intrepid adventurer who ventures into writing. It's a never ending life that takes almost as much as it gives and it's worth more than giving up 30 minutes of TV every day.

One thing I have learned is that if you want something badly enough, nothing and no one will stand in your way. You are willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to get what you want. If you don't feel that way about writing, you're not a writer. If you are a writer, you will find a way and the time to write. It's as simple as that.

Tarot: The Midas Touch

The cards I've pulled lately have to do with success in one way or another and today's cards are no different. Success is a fleeting thing, as well it should be.

It's in the cards

The High Priestess is contradiction. She obscures and she reveals.



Clad in a diaphanous gown, she floats above the waters of consciousness with one toe barely skimming the surface. Crowned with a diadem of stars that represent the nine planets of our solar system, she hangs between two pillars capped with machines of unclear purpose, impossibly intricate and logical and yet enigmatic. The night sky behind her is a poetic mystery comprised of the logical course of the stars and planets while the music of the spheres is a haunting refrain just out of reach on the edge of understanding.

The High Priestess is beguiling, promising knowledge that can prove dangerous. Accept her energy and wisdom with caution. The knowledge she offers is beyond logic, a wisdom that should be guided intuition. Understand that science is but one path to wisdom, a path illuminated by the other senses. Inspiration is useless without action. Honor the muse, but don't be here slave.



The 4 of Pentacles shows a wealthy man dressed in rich robes and holding a shining pile of pentacles. He takes pleasure in his wealth, much like King Midas, caressing his hoard as though a lover, jealous of anyone or anything that comes between him and his prize.

Wealth is an abstraction. It represents the ability to obtain the necessities of life. In and of itself, wealth is static, pretty to look at, but not useful unless it is traded for services, food, clothing and shelter. Wealth is beautiful, a shining pile of gold, silver or coins, a bank balance ending in lots of zeroes, but it is not real.

Like Midas who loved his gold and was granted the golden touch, he found that gold is tasteless and provides no nourishment. Gold was an anchor that weighed him down and destroyed everything he touched, even the golden curls of his beloved daughter. Midas learned the hard way that gold must be shared, a resource that renews itself only when it is put into circulation.

Like Midas, writers must learn to use their resources and not hoard their writing like gold in a vault. Writing must be shared and practiced in order to flourish. Even mushrooms that grown in darkness, must have nourishment. Writing can grown in darkness, but must seek the light in order to evolve and mature and grow.

Midas learned the hard way by losing what he valued most. Writers cannot afford to lose if they are to succeed. The wealth of inspiration and ability is nothing, an unfulfilled future, unless it is used wisely and well. Don't give everything away until you have nothing left. Use your wealth wisely.



The World is mastery. A woman holds a wand in each hand, surrounded by the laurel wreath of victory, balanced and assured. The wands represent the balance and mastery of will in tune with the conscious and unconscious. Now is the time to celebrate great accomplishments, to be recognized by the world and the self upon completion of a hard won accomplishment. The woman is in unity with the universe and knows mastery over herself that is natural and effortless. She moves to the rhythms of nature and her own heart. But beware the false sense of security.

The woman does not rest on her laurels. She is in motion and knows that success is temporary. In order to grow, she must move forward, evolve and experience life and the world. She takes a moment to enjoy the freedom success provides, understanding that once a task is completed and the goals accomplished, it's time to move onward and upward, take the next step to a new level. Life is a learning experience and learning requires action to absorb and to build on.

***

In vampire lore, the vampire is a static force, locked in stasis, a relic of an ancient past. Anne Rice characterized it by vampires turning to marble when they couldn't not evolve and move with the times. That is why Lestat chose to make Louis. He needed someone who understood and moved easily in a world where Lestat was an anachronism.

An mid-list author learns from his doctor he has less than two years to live. There is a book the author has been meaning to write, but has put it off many times. Now that he knows how much longer he has, he decides to pull out the manuscript, finish it and get it published, using his terminal illness as a way to push the book through the slow moving publishing industry and to promote sales. The book is an instant success and the author becomes a very wealthy and famous writer. He enjoys his success, but as the last months of his life wind to a close he finds out that he's not going to die.

What will he do? Will he choose to die and leave a success or will he admit the truth and continue to write the stories he has held back, stories that would have made him famous without the death sentence.

How would you finish this story?

Until next week, may all your stories be successful.

Numbers don't lie

I suppose it is no surprise that the world is currently focused on America and the health care debate, especially from countries where socialized medicine is a given. I didn't, however, expect to be attacked en masse for defending my view that socialized medicine is not necessarily a good thing or that taking a stand against socialized medicine makes me a heartless and selfish bitch.

Some of the comments ranged from viciously personal to calling my intelligence into question and every one of the comments bordered on, and was often colored with, outright hostility. I finally had to delete the comments because nothing new was said and the same old lines were used to bludgeon me into abject submission. However, anyone who knows me at all knows that I may occasionally back out of a heated discussion, but that does not in any way constitute abject submission, merely a breathing space to marshal some facts and figures of my own.

It may seem callous to fight against anything that is supposed to be for the good of all or to not want to extend full medical coverage to illegal aliens, but the situation here in the United States is different from that in any other country.

To begin with, most people in other countries, and even here in the U.S., have no idea the scope of the problem or the size of this country. They know the United State is big, but not actually how big. I checked out some numbers to clear up any misconceptions.

Now for the facts and figures

The United States encompasses a physical area of 4,459,726 square miles/11,550, 690.34 square km and has 305 million residents (legal residents). This does not include visitors, tourists, foreign diplomats, ambassadors and their staffs, illegal aliens or immigrants seeking either asylum or holding green cards. Now let's put that up against some of the countries touting their systems as more workable and better.

• France:

  Population 64,057,792

  3,794,080 sq miles / 9,826,630 sq km



• United Kingdom:

  Pop. 60,943,912

  94,600 sq mi / 60,943 sq km



• Australia:

  Pop. 21,007,310 (population concentrated mainly along the coastline)

  2,967,909 sq mi / 7,686,884.31 sq km



• Canada:

  Pop. 33,000,000

  3,559,294 sq mi / 9,218,571 sq km



• Israel:

  Pop. 7,411,000

  8,522 sq mi / 20,770 sq km



• New Zealand:

  Pop. 4,173,460

  103,737 sq mi / 268,021 sq km

As you can see, none of these countries have the total area or the population in the United States. Our problem is much bigger and more complex, especially when considering how to pay for socialized medicine that would cover every individual in the country without stinting on medical services to at least some portion of the population. We do have a system in place that has been covering the uninsured and indigent portion of our population, in actuality two systems. They are called Medicaid and Medicare. It comes as no surprise to Americans that Medicare is almost broke and working in shifting sands with the high tide coming in.

I read an article just yesterday that stated there would be no cost of living raise for Medicare recipients for at least the next two years and the fees for medications, which are paid for by the recipient, are going up. Both of these actions mean that everyone on Medicare is getting less and being charged more. Medicaid, however, will continue to percolate since it is covered by taxpayer dollars and taxes have not and will be abated.

It would seem that, with a much bigger population, there would be more money to spread around, but that would be in a perfect world where government hasn't grown beyond the bounds of reason and common sense and hasn't been picking the American taxpayers' pockets for a very long time. You see, the taxpayers pay for those cushy government jobs and all the benefits that government employees receive, some of which continue to the end of the employees' lives, as in the case of presidents, vice presidents and members of Congress, which also includes paying for their premium health care.

One of the other factors in the well oiled machine that is socialized medicine in all the countries listed above is how they pay for it. Obviously, taxes subsidize a good portion of the health care costs, but all of those countries get a boost from -- you guessed it -- foreign aid from the United States of America.

• France: $10,168 billion


• United Kingdom: $12,217 billion


• Australia: $3,038 billion


• Canada: $4,577 billion


• Israel: $2,250 billion


• New Zealand: $355 million

Puts things in a different perspective. And let us not forget all the aid given to Germany and France in the wake of World War II, none of which has been repaid.

One of the misconceptions that the rest of the world has about the U.S. and its lack of cradle to grave socialized medicine is that there are millions of people dying in the streets for lack of health care, dying of treatable illnesses. While there are 46 million uninsured people in this country, which comprises about 15% of the population, there are services and free clinics in place to cover most of their health care needs. However, that doesn't mean these people don't die of treatable diseases.

Most of the time, the uninsured don't seek medical treatment because of the costs, but that is a small percentage of the 46 million uninsured. The people who don't seek treatment are not aware that medical care exists that will take care of them, and has always existed. There are free clinics and community health care centers that charge on a graduated basis, but most people don't know they are out there because they have not been educated or made aware of their options.

Almost all of the free clinics and community health care centers are funded by -- wipe that surprised look off your face -- the rich and by the upper middle class, the very people whose pockets the current administration seeks to pick to spread the wealth around. During times like this when socialized medicine is being debated and talk of redistribution of wealth is rampant, those very same benefactors stop contributing to the free clinics and community health care centers.

The increasing numbers of people applying for and being granted Medicare and Medicaid show that the system does work, albeit slowly, but do you really believe that a government run cradle to grave health care system would work any better? Did you forget that the government currently runs Medicare and Medicaid and Medicare is nearly, if not already, bankrupt? And you want more of the same?

As long as insurance companies have the country by the throat, and the pocketbook, the cost of health care will continue to rise. We don't need a new system or to add more government agencies and employees that the taxpayers will have to support, in addition to taxes and surcharges for socialized medicine. We need to fix the system that is in place and put it back within reach of the average person. It's insane to reinvent the wheel when all that is needed is to fix the broken axle or replace the missing and dysfunctional spokes, and that is what the proposed health care plans, each and every one of them, are designed to do.

We do not need more government and we don't need to redistribute the wealth. What we need are intelligent people in office who are working for the common good and not for their own vain egos or to line their pockets. We've paid enough, and, by we, I mean the American taxpayers whose voices have been ignored once their representatives get into office.

Funding socialized medicine in a small country with less than half the total legal population of the United States is child's play compared to dealing with a country the size and complexity of ours, especially when you're being underwritten by the United States.

Most of the world resents the United States' involvement in their affairs, and I think it's time we returned the favor. I, for one, resent the world telling me how our country should be run when they are accepting our money to keep their systems afloat. If you like your system, please feel free to keep it -- and your noses -- out of our debate. We had no say or comment when you decided to socialize your health care, so you have no say in how we do or do not run our health care.

To believe that tens of millions of Americans are dying in the streets for lack of affordable health care is naive at best, and gullible at worst. You've obviously not heard of hyperbole or scare tactics, both of which are being used to stampede Americans towards the socialized abyss. To equate an American tourist to Canada who becomes ill and is taken to the local hospital for care with our health care debate is disingenuous and fatuous. An American tourist in any country is spending money, thousands of U.S. dollars, and likely will pay for the health care received in your country. If a Canadian tourist, or indeed a tourist from any country in the world, became ill and was taken to the hospital in the U.S., they would receive quality care, too.

The United States has the best and most advanced medical care in the world. If not, why would Russia send their prima ballerinas to the U.S. for surgery if their socialized system of medical care could handle a delicate and highly technical operation like ankle surgery so that a national treasure could return to dancing?

Our system isn't perfect, but if the politicians and administration get their collective heads out of their collective backsides long enough, or lift their snouts from the trough long enough to hear the voice of the people, we could fix our system and get health care costs back in line with what they should be. It takes time, but it also takes wisdom and the willingness to see beyond the end of their greedy snouts that the answer was a simple one. Fix the wheel, don't reinvent it.

In the meantime, how about this? The United States will no longer subsidize the rest of the world with foreign aid and keep the money to fund Medicare in perpetuity and keep health care costs low so there are no more millions dying in the streets of treatable diseases and the rest of the world will no longer have any need to debate our fate.

That is all. Disperse.

It's all about me

Yes, I'm going to promote Past Imperfect again, but only by way of the interview I did with Laura Fabiani of Nouveau Writer. Take a look. If you have any questions, please comment.

That is all. Disperse.

Money shots

Last week was a difficult and challenging week and a few things slipped past my radar, at least in terms of putting them up on LJ. Two of those slip-ups involve reviews of Past Imperfect reviews. I warned you that I would get positively obnoxious with all of the book stuff, so be forearmed.

In order to keep the obnoxiousness to a minimum, I'll only post the money shots.

First, from Ruth Shelton, aka , "...The deft handling of Diana's contradictory emotions makes "Past Imperfect" a believable tale, and her character one that will resonate with everyone who's ever fooled themselves about what they wanted, and why they wanted it in the first place.

I only gave this 4 stars rather than 5 because I wish Logan's character had been more deeply developed. Dare one hope for a sequel?" .

I must commend Ruth on her correct use of the comma in the last paragraph. Bravo!

This morning's email list contained a review from Coffee Time Romance reviewer, Matilda, who ends her review with "...Past Imperfect is a pleasurable read, one that will touch your heartstrings and even complicate you on which man Diana should be with. Smooth flowing dialogue makes this a story you can breeze [through] without losing a thing. This is a book worthy of the shelf space.

There have been random reviews from gentlemen of my acquaintance who read the book out of friendship and were surprised -- pleasantly, so they tell me -- that they "thoroughly enjoyed" the book and the characters. They even related to the men, but I won't say which ones. That will remain their individual secrets.

One reviewer emailed to say that the book didn't hook her and she didn't feel she could review it since she couldn't get into it, but that is to be expected. I am not so naive as to think that everyone who reads Past Imperfect will like it or won't damn it with faint praise. If everyone liked only mysteries or nonfiction biographies, there would be no room for the diversity that currently abounds in the publishing and reading worlds. That's a good thing, a very good thing.

That is all. Disperse.

Grammar: Introducing the comma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use a comma:

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



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



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



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

Do not use a comma:

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



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



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



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





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





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

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

Passing friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tarot: Beggar's victory

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Religious calling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A painter's tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jealousy.

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond drama in the zone

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

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

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

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

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

Regional flavors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Messy, wonderful and heartbreaking life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What goes around comes around.

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

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

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

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

Grammar: Here a comma, there a comma

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

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

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

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

When I lived in Panama dependent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tarot: Drunk on the moon

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

Nice segue, don't you agree?



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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Lashing out

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

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

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

That is all. Disperse.

A Facebook event on marketing fiction

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

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

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

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

See you there.

Halley's comet filled my sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is all. Disperse.

Bike riding hell spawn

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

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

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

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

"Why? Is the dirt yours?"

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

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

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

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

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

That is all. Disperse.