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.

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.