C'est la vie et la vie à écrire

I have never been so frustrated in my whole life, but I'm young yet.

After going over some changes suggested by one of my critique partners, a whole section of new writing was lost. I finally found it in an old file and it took a while to find the right place to insert it. I've decided to lengthen the story by spinning out more of the time, adding details and back story. The book is better for it, but it's still frustrating to have to keep going over the same territory so many times. This is my least favorite part of writing -- rewriting and the seemingly endless editing. I wish I could simply write a book and not have to go over it more than once with the editor, but(the writing life).

In the rest of my life, things are moderately out of whack because I've spent so much time in my writing life, but there are worse ways to live. The lines between lives have been pretty blurred lately, but that is temporary -- I hope.

Judy from Mountain Mama's deli called me today to tell me she had read the first three chapters of one of my works in progress twice. She said there were lots of hooks and she wanted to know when she could expect more chapters -- like tomorrow. She's worried the heroine isn't going to make it and will come to a bad end. I've decided to keep her in the dark. If she's interested enough to read it twice and demand more chapters, then it's a good bet publishers will do the same. She did mention that one of my characters is very spiritual and it's odd that I didn't see that aspect of the character. It happens sometimes when a writer is too close to the story. It's a good thing, though, since that means the characters are evolving while I take dictation.

I received the last pages of the horrible novel from the Italian author who writes chapter long monologues and I'm so glad. Thirty-three more pages to go and I'm done with him. Elaine told me that when she started doing critiques she knew she'd have at least one good manuscript in every 25, now it's more like 1 in 75. Since this is my first one, I have 73 more bad manuscripts to go. Oh, joy!

Fringe is off the air for another two weeks and that's another reason I don't like commercial television. I'd rather wait until the series is over and on DVD. Then I can watch the whole thing and curse the producers and networks for canceling the show just when it's getting good and leaving the characters--and me--hanging. After all, it is all about me and networks should take that into consideration. I'm also waiting for the other three Doctor Who special movies that were promised at the beginning of the year. So far, there has been only one and the BBC never said anything about the Highlander and "The Gathering."

Well, that's enough for now. I have an autobiography to read and review and the last pages of the Italian's manuscript to critique and I'd like to get a little sleep tonight. With the way things have been going, I'll probably get very little sleep.

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot: Sharing the wealth

When the moving finger writes and the Wheel of Fortune turns, it always comes around again -- as does karma. What you reap is what you sow and what you are given is multiplied. Now it's time to share.



The man in the Ten of Swords looks dead -- or just beat and at the end of his strength. A timid deer moves closer to take a look and overhead crows fly. Crows are psychopomps, guides of the dead and carriers of the spirit. They are flying away, so the man is in no danger of dying. Since the deer moves closer, it is obvious the man is no threat. The deer is also the symbol of purity of purpose, its nimble feet carrying it into the light that shines from the swords hanging above the man's body. The deer is also a symbol of strength and longevity. The race is not over, just this part of it.

The Ten of Swords is a message that it's time to hang on when you think you cannot go another step. The tide is about to turn and the Wheel of Fortune has come around. With a little bit of hope and determination, you will find you can go one more step, and one more step is all that's needed to gain solid ground because the reward for which you have worked so hard is at hand. Just as the swords glow and shed their pure light on the man, holding back the twilight sky to light the way, so does the Ten of Swords signify that your time is at hand.



Five men contend with other, pitting their strength and skills against each other, but the Five of Wands is not a battle to the death, but a time of scrutiny and attention to detail. These men are learning from each other and sharing their skills and experience with each other like brothers at arms training to battle the foe. In the grass beneath their feet, butterflies flit among the cattails and two mice seek food in the grass beneath the late afternoon sky.

The butterflies are the symbols of metamorphosis, grace and balance and the mice pay attention to the smallest details, assessing strengths and weaknesses.

This is the time to help yourself, like the butterfly that must battle its way out of the cocoon in order to strengthen its wings and earn its survival, a time to know yourself and reach your ultimate potential as the mouse knows where to find food and how to squeeze through the smallest spaces to get where it wants to go. Although the men compete with each other, each is also competing with himself. As you learn about yourself, take the opportunity to grow and help your companions grow and get better.

The Five of Wands reminds me of Jacob wrestling with the angel to earn the right to found a nation. Jacob was given a new name to honor his struggle. One thing Jacob was aware of was his motive; he dreamt of taking all he had learned and earned and making the most of it, of creating a new life and sharing what he had learned with his children and his people. That is the message of the Five of Wands. Improve yourself and society and use what you have learned to build, not destroy, for surely as you use your knowledge to destroy others, you will be destroyed.



An open chest overflows with bright pentacles. A ferret looks into the chest with a smile on his furry little face while below in the grass a turtle moves methodically and slowly on his way, unaware of the wealth falling around him and unconcerned about anything but the task at hand. Who has left the chest open and why is it unattended. Doesn't the owner care that someone will steal what he has gathered? No.

The Ten of Pentacles, like the Ten of Swords, is the end of a cycle. At the beginning, the Fool started with a single pentacle and through hard work and wise investment he has increased the gift he was given tenfold and now he is ready to repay his debt with interest.

I am always reminded of the biblical tale of the two servants and the ten talents when I look at the Ten of Pentacles. One servant buried his talents in the ground to await his master's turn while the other servant took the talents he was given and multiplied them, returning the original ten talents to his master along with the fruits of his investments. He shared the wealth while the other servant merely hoarded what he had been given.

The Ten of Pentacles reminds us to share the wealth, to give something back to the Universe. Whatever talents or gifts you were given and have increased by practice and wise investments should now be shared. Like the ferret whose sharp intuition and acute sensitivity give it the edge in knowing what and how to make the most of the least, make the most of the gifts you have been given by sharing them with those who need it most. My motto has always been that knowledge is wasted when it isn't shared.

The turtle in some cultures is viewed as an invitation to share blessings of heaven and earth, providing a doorway between worlds, between what was and what could be. All you need to do is walk through it. As always, with the four elements, ten symbolizes the end of a cycle. It's a time to rest, re-evaluate and share what has been learned and earned. Now is that time. Don't hold onto anything you can't use; spread it around.

* * *

A woman has reached the end of the trail. She is tired and foot swore and doesn't feel she can go another step. She falls to the ground, worn to the nub. What she doesn't realize is that the end of her journey is just beyond the trees that close in around her. She has learned so much on her journey and she brings help and knowledge back to the people of her town, but in order to fulfill her task and share what she has learned, she must get up and walk one more step through the trees. Just one more step is all that's left of her long and arduous journey. One more step and she can rest.

What was the reason for the woman's journey? What did she seek and what knowledge has she earned? What hurdles did she face and climb? What has she learned? Will she fail or will she succeed now that she is so close? Will someone come looking for her and help her get home or will she rouse herself for one last push? What story do the cards tell you?

* * *

One thing I have learned is that the Wheel of Fortune keeps turning whether we succeed or fail. Throughout our lives, especially as writers, there is a time to learn and a time to share what has been learned. Maybe it's time to share what you've learned, so find someone who is need of what you know and share it. Be sure your motives are pure and you are ready to move forward. Until you give a little of what you have learned back, cast your seeds into the fertile ground, you cannot move on. Will you stay down, weary of the struggle, or will you get up and take that final step, open your bag of tricks and share your treats? You can either bury your talents or increase them and share the proceeds. It's all up to you.

Until next week, give the tarot cards a chance to show you the stories they contain. The Fool's journey is the journey of every character and your journey as a writer. Take a leap of faith, trust your instincts, and use what the Universe has given you no matter where it leads you.

Win a book and stretch your writing muscles

There was a box on the porch this afternoon and it was from Simon & Schuster. Yes, the latest Chicken Soup book(All in the Family) is out. The box contained ten books. I had promised several to family and close friends and autographed those, but I have one more book left, other than my own copy, to give. I didn't think I'd go through eight books so quickly, but there is actually a demand for the book.

So I've decided to give the book to the person with the best reason for why I should send it to them. Make me laugh. Make my cry. Tug on my heart strings. It's your choice. I'll sign and send the book to the person with the best story. Neatness and grammar count. You have until Halloween, October 31st, to tell me why the book should be yours. I'll announce my decision then.

Since I'm feeling generous and there is one more copy of Past Imperfect left, I'll offer a signed copy to whomever gives me the best reason why my novel should be theirs. Same rules and deadline apply. Let the games begin.

My days and nights have begun to blur together a bit and I'm feeling a little out of sync, but that will pass -- I hope. One thing I have learned is that a spirited discussion with people of like minds, especially writers, goes a long way to stimulating the little grey cells and making the evenings much more interesting. Case in point, a discussion I had this evening with one of my favorite people about point of view and writers who don't read outside their chosen genre. In short, they're narrow minded idiots.

Too strong, you say? Not at all.

The example I used was composers and musicians, like Andrew Lloyd Webber (See? I did remember.) who has used children's songs (School Days for Music of the Night) and other folk songs and classical music to build an impressive and accessible body of work. He's not the first nor will he be the last. Musicians and composers use whatever appeals to them to create new music. During the 17th and 18th centuries many composers used common folks songs as a basis for more complex and what is now called classical music. Chopin was a past master at this, as was Beethoven, but most of the composers did the same thing. If you prefer a more modern example, take jazz, which borrows riffs from all types of music to create a new type of music with the old music as a seed at the core.

In writing, it's no different.

Take an outline for a story or a chapter by chapter synopsis. Lay out the characters and traits, the plot and rising and falling actions and give it to five different writers. Using the same starting point, each of the writers will come up with completely different stories, even though they started from the same material. Not only that, but how they write the story (the voice) will be completely different and unique to each writer.

I'll give you a contemporary example. Jane Smiley took Shakespeare's King Lear and turned it into A Thousand Acres, borrowing the plot, characters and motivations and turning it into a much different story. Shakespeare's play is evident in the basics, but the resulting story Jane Smiley wrote has its own unique voice, style and actions. The motivations of the characters are toned down a bit, but there are jazz riffs all through the story that bring it from a different place.

Think it's a lot of fancy talk? Try it. Take a story by any writer. List the characters and write a synopsis of the plot and motivations, then write the story from your point of view and see where you end up. You will find though the basics are the same, the story is uniquely yours.

I read that Jane Smiley studied the classics and read widely in literature from all parts of the world, including a Japanese classic book, The Tale of Genji. Stephen King write in his book, On Writing that a writer should read and read widely.

Don't read just in our own genre. Read nonfiction. Read fiction of every stripe and category, including literary fiction. Read the classics. Read plays. Read commentaries, but read. Read everything you can get and don't stop reading. Don't be afraid it will taint your work; it will do just the opposite. Reading widely will refine your technique and give you a wider and more comprehensive view, not only of writing, but of how other writers create worlds and stories.

And don't be afraid to experiment with point of view. Use them all. Get out of your comfort zone and stretch your writing muscles. Your writing and your understanding of how to write will improve faster and better than with all the writing how-to books in the world. You will find your writing will become richer and more interesting and you will be a better writer. Don't copy another writer's style, but learn how they accomplished what they did. Take it apart. Analyze it and then read it again for fun.

Herman Melville worked on whaling vessels to learn what happened on such voyages. While he worked on one whaler he laboriously copied, word for word, a book from a writer he admired. No one was allowed to touch his copying. When he was finished, he tossed his work overboard. One of the other whalers asked him why and he said it was because he learned what he needed to know -- how to write.

You don't have to copy another writer's book, but you should take the time to read and learn from successful writers. Find out how the trick was done. Then experiment and find out what you can do with the same tools and basics.

Writers who don't read outside of their genre are wasting their time and putting themselves in a very narrow pigeonhole. It's scary moving out of your comfort zone. Try it anyway. You can always retreat back to your narrow world, but I'll bet you will be changed -- for the better.

That is all. Disperse.

Treaties and treatises

Have you missed me? Good.

Work has been crazy busy this week and I've been playing catch up with little success. Now it's the weekend and I still have a load on my schedule, including finishing revisions and edits on a novel I have to send to an interested publisher on Monday. At least it's never boring here, not even when I'm comfy in bed in my own room. Spiders have decided to break our treaty and have moved in en masse.

Not your little spiders, but big gray and brown spiders that spin webs and hide under window sills and in the covers of my bed. Not cool. And not tolerated. When Mary Ann and I were on the phone the other night, one of them raced across the bed and over the book from under my covers, covers that had been on my legs. Two nights ago, another one raced across the bed toward me and the safety of the covers and I stunned him with a book. Ha! Gotcha! I thought I'd killed him until I slid a magazine under him and he stirred. Oops. I crowned him with a bigger book several times and appendages went flying, after which I scooped him and his severed limbs onto the magazine and dumped them all into the trash. I then went after his mate hiding under the window sill and let her broken and smashed corpse fall to the floor to be picked up with the vacuum.

Tolerating spiders isn't a problem and I welcome them, especially in the summer when they feast on ants and other vermin that wander in through the gaping spaces around my doors, but my bedroom is off limits. I have a no tolerance policy for spiders in my bedroom and this is the second time I've had to enforce it ruthlessly and without mercy. I do have my limits and it's best not to test them or go beyond them because termination with extreme prejudice is the result. After all, if I don't enforce the limits, spiders will take my reticence as an invitation to join me in my little sanctuary. That's not going to happen.

I'm tolerant of many things, including deadlines, but as I get older I am less and less willing to tolerate what I consider to be generous limits, with the except of spiders and vermin in my bedroom. For a year I have reminded the landlord the roof over my office leaks and nothing has been done, so I keep reminding him each time I send my rent payment. For eight months I have waited for him to fill in the hole in the planter and cover up the sewage system, but the dirt mound remains, getting smaller and smaller with each rain as it washes out across the parking lot and into the street and with the neighborhood boys on bikes who feel the hill is an invitation to ride over it an jump their bikes. I'm half tempted to fill it in myself and pay to have the roof fixed and take it off the rent. I may still do that. If I can't get him to do it, then I will have to do it myself. It's how I got the toilet fixed in February -- by calling Roto Rooter.

In the meantime, I will likely be more absent than present here in LJ because I do have to finish the revisions on one novel and begin writing the next two novels. I have been stuck on the post apocalyptic vampire story because I didn't have a clear motivation, or hurdles, for that matter. Then I did what most writers do, I talked to another writer and asked a question. I chose Mary Ann because I consider her an expert on vampire lore. It was a short conversation from my question to her answer. As we were really getting into it, she had to go because dinner was ready. Like she said, there's nothing worse than eating cold quiche. I turned to my journal, as I do when I need to work things out (personal, financial and literary). As I wrote, building on what she and I had discussed, it all came clear. I had not only resolved the problem with the motivation and hurdles, but I have moved in a direction that will make one or two more books possible. Bonus!

That conversation led to something else I was working on, a murder/mystery/ghost story/romance (light on the romance), and solved a small problem on that one, giving me everything I need to write the book. I'm still waiting on one piece of information, having requested assistance from a specialist in the field. Now I have a new problem.

I have revisions and work to do (the job that pays the bills) and all I want to do is get busy on the new books. I can have both of them written within a month now that I have all the problems and kinks worked out. But I have other obligations. That's what I hate most about having a day job: having to put my writing on hold to earn a paycheck. At the end of the day, I'm so wrung out it's difficult to muster the energy to write. I've expended it all on work. That's why weekends are so important to me and why I end up refusing a lot of invitations, especially lately. It's the only time I am not bound by obligation and responsibility, except to my writing. It's also the time I use to read books I need to review and do critiques, both of which add money to the coffers, much needed money.

All of this is really a long-winded explanation of where I'll be in the next few days and weeks and why I won't be able to devote as much time to LJ as I normally do. I'll still make the tarot posts on Wednesday, or thereabouts, and try to at least drop in to read, but my posts may be scarce. It depends on my writing and whether or not I need to take a break to clear my head and writing gears. In the meantime, I'll be happily ensconced in the zone, intent on putting out another two or three books by the end of the year and finding homes for more of my short stories.

Find your bliss and let nothing get in the way of making it yours. That's what I intend to do.

That is all. Disperse.

Look at the size of that thing!

Magicians don't make things disappear, but they are very good at focusing your attention away from what they're really doing, with jokes, pretty girls in skimpy costumes, flashy patter or a flair for showmanship. It's all about keeping your attention away from what they're really doing. The only magic is in the gullibility of the audience. Media outlets and politicians have learned the art of misdirection very well as anyone who reads or hears or sees the news can tell you, or at least they would tell you if they weren't so caught up in the trick.

When I was a child, the favorite prank was to shout out something outrageous (Look! That guy is naked!) to make you look away right before they poked, slapped, pitched, etc. you while laughing and saying, "Made you look. Made you look." It was funny if you weren't on the receiving end. The only ones who didn't look for their chance to even the score were either repressed or made-to-order fall guys.

One thing as a child I looked forward to as an adult was no more "Made you look. Made you look." while rubbing a sore arm or leg. No such luck. My arm and leg aren't sore, but my sense of justice is still smarting. Welcome to the grown-up world of "made you look." It's all about focusing attention on issues guaranteed to get your blood boiling and your sense of outrage tuned to a fever pitch.

It didn't start with O.J. Simpson's lawyer Johnny Cochran, but I'll start there. Instead of focusing on the issues -- a man accused of murdering his wife and a friend in cold blood -- Cochran focused on the race issue. It's all about a black man who married a white woman. Uh, no. It's about a man who plotted and murdered his wife in cold blood. By focusing on race, a real hot button, Cochran managed to keep the prosecution and the jury off balance in order to get his client off on a murder rap. The legal profession has always played "made you look" in order to rake in the bucks.

It works for law enforcement, too. Since the police were in Al Capone's inside pocket and the FBI were unable to make murder, drugs, prostitution, boot legging and racketeering on shifty Al, they got him on tax evasion. Made you look!

The left leaning side of the political scene has spent the past two years playing "made you look" in order to elect a nobody from nowhere as president. The campaign was never about the issues, but about race. If you opposed the Democratic party's nominee for president, you were a racist. I think a lot of people voted for Barack Obama not because he had a great record in politics or government or economic and social reform, but because they were afraid that if they didn't they'd be racists. Funny how that worked out. The President keeps playing that race card any time opposition to his plans and schemes becomes vocal and focuses on issues and the results of disastrous legislation and political moves. Made you look! It's an ongoing game that will get a lot of play in the next three years, and it's being played in other ways, too. The economic downturn, inflation and rampant unemployment is not due to the stimulus package or the other disastrous legislation signed into law by the President; it's George W. Bush's fault. Made you look!

The latest non-political game of "made you look!" is being played out over Roman Polanski. How many people have actually taken the time to look at the reason Polanski is being expedited? How many reporters for the media have focused on the real issue? None. All media attention and most people are caught up with the issue of whether or not Polanski raped, sexually abused and sodomized an 11-year-old girl under the influence of drugs and alcohol. It's a heinous act, but that is a topic for another post. People have taken sides. It's over already, they say. He paid the girl $500,000 in 1992 and she doesn't want to relive the nightmare and have him prosecuted. Made you look!

Polanski's extradition has nothing to do with the rape. It is a result of the rape (and, yes, Whoopi Goldberg, it was a rape-rape; she said no), but not the issue. Polanski plea bargained his case and was sentenced to undergo psychiatric evaluation for 90 days. The doctors were convinced that Polanski was not psychotic or dangerous and finished their evaluation in 42 days. Polanski was out on bail and slated to go before a judge who was to determine where and how Polanski would serve out the remaining 48 days. Fearing that he would be in prison for years, Polanski jumped bail and fled the country and has been on the run ever since, avoiding any country that had an extradition treaty with the United States. His mistake was going to Switzerland, that bastion of neutrality, to pick up an award for one of his movies where he got tagged. Made you look!

The Swiss judges refuse to let him out on bail because he is a flight risk (ya think?) and await extradition proceedings to proceed. Now the movie and arts communities are up in arms because Polanski has been in prison all these years, suffering for having sex with a minor under the influence of alcohol and drugs. They point to the girl, now a woman, who doesn't want to dredge up the past (or lose what's left of the $500,000 Polanski gave her in reparation for raping and sodomizing her) and has forgiven him. Guess what? It's not about a woman who was raped and sodomized as a child; it's about Polanski jumping bail and fleeing the country. That is a felony and he is right to worry about spending a few years in prison.

By focusing on the rape of a minor, a done deal as far as the courts are concerned, the media stirs up people's emotions and outrage and keeps them from seeing what's really going on. It's the ultimate "made you look!" Whether or not Polanski has made peace (paid off) with the rape victim has nothing to do with his extradition or his pending jail term. He jumped bail and fled the country over serving another 48 days and condemned himself to a lifetime of running, albeit in the best hotels and restaurants and resorts while making millions of dollars. He could have dealt with this years ago, come back to the U.S. and cited temporary insanity. He would have served maybe a year in prison, but most likely would have been sentenced to community service or something equivalent. Instead, he compounded his mistake of failing to serve the remaining 48 days of his sentence and turned the world upside down defending and reviling him for a rape that was already a closed case. It's not about the rape; it's about jumping bail and fleeing the country. That cannot be said too often. Not rape. Jumping bail and fleeing the country. Keep saying it. Repeat it often. Use it whenever someone brings up the fact that Polanski has suffered over his indiscretion (rape and sodomy) with a minor. Focus on the issue. Jumped bail and fled the country. Felony flight. Needs to pay for that.

Unless Polanski is willing to fork over a few hundred billion dollars to the U.S. government (they can use it), he needs to be a man, come back, face his punishment and stop playing games. This is one "made you look!" that needs to end.

As for the size of that thing . . .

Made you look!

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot: The alchemy of theory in practice

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune... are always in flight to your location -- and mine. Doesn't it seem like as soon as one problem is solved another is queued up waiting to hit you with another shot? That's life. C'est la vie. And all that stuff.

For writers, you're only as good as your last book and that may be the root of the problem, topping one moderately or wildly successful book with another and another and another and . . . well, you get the idea. Sometimes it feels like the only way to get ahead is to stay behind, except if your first book fails, no one is going to queue up to contract another book with the idea that the next one will be better. Publishing doesn't work that way.

You could rely on workmanlike prose and stories that are consistently mediocre and produce good consistent sales with the occasional literary and popular spark of brilliance, and that may be the way to go, even if you never reach above good consistent, mid list sales. It's a living and a living that the bulk of writers make. Mid list writers are the fuel that keeps the publishing engine running while the wildly successful breakout books garner all the attention and the bulk of promotional dollars. Still, publishing remains a "what have you done for me lately" kind of business and one that writers, real writers and not dabblers or amateurs, can't and won't give up.

About the only thing that keeps writers down more than disappointing sales and okay to bad reviews, is the writer himself, paralyzed by fear of success or simply paralyzed by the blank page. So many ideas to choose from and so little time to write because it always seems like the deadline that was years away is looming closer and closer and you, the writer, are standing in the middle of the juggernaut's path like a deer frozen in the headlights of an onrushing truck. What's a poor writer to do?



The fagged out Knight in the Four of Swords lies beneath three sharp and glittering swords poised to strike him dead center in the heart. Instead of danger, these swords are the problems waiting him when he gets up to fight again. Actually, the war weary soldier is safe from the battle behind the impenetrable stone walls of his chamber where he can take a break before facing the next challenge afresh. In this stable and secure sanctuary, the soldier will be able to marshal forces and resources to solve the looming problems. The situation is difficult, but more problems will arise if he doesn't take a step back to get a fresh perspective, meditate and weigh his options and find his center while recharging his emotional, physical, spiritual and intellectual resources. He has carefully built a solid foundation and can rely on that to support him when he is rested and refreshed. The one thing he cannot and should not do is ignore the problem; it won't go away, and ignoring it will not solve anything. Once he is ready to plunge back into the fray, he must do so with single-minded focus and avoid distractions.



When I think of Temperance I think of old stories of Carrie Nation and her crusade against alcohol. For Carrie and her crew, abstinence was the only way and moderation merely a slower path to destruction. That is not the meaning of Temperance in tarot.

This fiery-haired, passionate and strong willed woman holds two cups in her hands. One is gold and the other silver. From these brimming cups she mixes the contents to produce something new, blending until she gets the brew just right, tempering extremes in behavior, belief or feeling. She tempers life as a smith tempers iron in a white hot fire, mixing in air and charcoal to produce a strong and flexible sword to win battles and maintain order, maintaining and expressing passions perfectly. This wondrous wench is an alchemist who knows that in order to live well one must live life fully with one's internal beliefs in perfect harmony with external action and with the world around him.

Temper life physically, spiritually, emotionally and intellectually, mixing and blending with skill and wisdom so that life is a blend of elements in perfect balance. Beware extremes in behavior and don't let fear of making a mistake lead to inaction or stasis in which nothing is gained or solved or lived. Choose action or inaction appropriate to the current situation.



The Page of Swords is a youth in the first flush of knighthood. He has not been tested in battle, but he has spent years practicing and honing his skills, learning battle strategies and etiquette and how to wield his sword with strength and bravery. He masks his fear with an air of confidence and pride that borders on disdain. He knows it all. He can do it all. He is an old hand and nothing surprises him. However, anyone who meets him can clearly see his apprehension and his doubts. They know he knows his trade and how to use his sword -- in theory. He's not been tested in battle.

He is ready to face new challenges and turn theory and logic into practice, but behind his bravado is fear. He is scared. What he doesn't know is that fear is understandable. Everyone is afraid before their first encounter, yet he also knows there is no substitute for experience, an experience he lacks. The only thing he can do is put on his armor, sharpen his sword and plunge into the fray, trusting what he knows and has worked so hard to achieve. Battles are fought with sword and muscles and intellect, but it wouldn't be wise to over analyze his opponent or strategy.

Swords in the tarot cards symbolize the intellect. The message of the Page of Swords is that too much thinking and planning will paralyze you. The other meaning of the Page of Swords, as with all pages of the court cards, is that a message is coming that usually deals with a current problem, issue or belief system. Basically, don't think too much, take things as they come and trust what you know.

* * *

Rest. Reboot. Temperance. Trust.

Life is a series of problems to be solved and wisdom to be gained and Francoise is no exception. She has worked hard to reach the top of her profession as a clothing designer, learned the essence of style and knows the way fabrics, color and embellishments work together or fight each other to a fashion nightmare standstill. She is an apprentice to a world class designer who has suddenly fallen ill and will not be able to helm the coming show for the new spring fashions. As his second-in-command, she understands his vision for the season and she is suddenly thrust to the forefront to finish the designs he began and create the rest of the designs in time for the showing. She's afraid she doesn't know enough and that she has not had enough time to prepare. Her career will be made or broken in one month and she's terrified. How will she manage?

In addition to her problems at work, her relationship is on the skids and heading for disaster. If she doesn't act quickly, the love of her life will walk away. She is being pulled in two directions: work and love. Both are important. Her relationship works best when she is caught in the fire of creation and her creative juices flow best when she is happy and in love. Everything is spinning out of control and time is running out.

You decide. Will Francoise rise to the occasion or fall flat on her face? Will this opportunity be a chance to make her mark or will she, after all the years of hard work and honing her talent, analyze herself into a professional coma? If she spends too much time on work, she'll lose George, and if she spends too much time with George, she won't be able to work. It's your story and your choice. What will you choose to illustrate?

* * *

Life is all about choices and using learning as a springboard to bigger and better things. Sometimes the best way to handle a problem is to take a step back and a deep breath, close your eyes, summon your courage and everything you have learned and take a leap of faith, trusting in what you know. Facing the blank page is difficult, but you'll never get a single word down if you don't face the page and trust yourself. The good thing about writing is that you can always revise, edit and revise again before committing your vision to print. Luckily, even after the contract is signed, you can revise, edit and rewrite again and again until everything works just right.

Once the editing is over, your vision is out there for everyone to see. Don't worry so much about how your writing will be received, get busy on the next book, story or article. It's like being thrown from a horse. In order to conquer your fear, get back up in the saddle and do it again quickly before fear paralyzes you. Trust what you know and remember that writing, like life, is a learning experience that always leaves room for more experience. Trust what you know and don't be afraid to try new things. That's how writers grow and evolve. Lay the groundwork and layer in texture bit by bit. There's always room for improvement.

Boobies, blushing and books

There are few things that embarrass me. While wearing hot pink silk panties and playing flag football in front of a gaggle of guys, my shorts were ripped off and I ran half the length of the field half naked, flag intact, to make a touchdown. The touchdown eradicated any embarrassment I felt when I realized I did it in my undies. I've slipped on wet tile floors in Sears and fallen on my backside, trailed toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my heels while wearing a very sexy dress through a crowded restaurant, conversed with celebrities unaware of a bat in the cave and endured the darndest things coming from the mouths of children and I'm still here. About the only thing that brings a blush to my cheeks is a heartfelt compliment; I've had little experience of those in my life, especially in person. So, I am not shocked or worried about revealing my sister's love/hate relationship with boobies for an anthology about breasts and self image. The phone call and discussion are exactly what people need to read and understand. Mom doesn't agree.

"Carol would be mortified."

"Why? It's just a story."

"At least change the names."

"I think by now people know that I have two sisters and it wouldn't be hard to figure out which one it is."

"Then you shouldn't write about it. It's embarrassing."

"It's interesting and funny and illustrates the point so much better than any story."

"Well, I can't tell you what to do." (You just did.) "I think it's in very poor taste, but you'll do it anyway. I know you." Mom hung up at that point. I'll have to bring this subject up again in case she's getting wise to my bathroom excuse for getting off the phone.

Beware: Anyone involved with me in any capacity is likely to end up as a character in a story or the subject of articles, columns and books. If you don't understand that, it's best to get out while you can.

The boobie story I'm writing for an anthology about breasts and self image is a perfect illustration of being careful what you wish. Beyond that, it shouldn't matter that Carol is my sister or that she seems a little shallow and ridiculous. It's not like someone to whom she's introduced will snigger and give her the "oh, you're that Carol, the one with the boobies" look. They might think it, but my sister and I travel in very different circles. Besides, I thought that any fifteen minutes of fame would do. Better to be known for boobies than for having drug addicts and thieves for children or some of the other things I could name, like turning a large bedroom into a closet because a regular closet wasn't big enough to hold all her clothes, shoes, purses, belts, hats and jewelry or constantly whining about being broke while working two jobs (one that pays $45/hour) and owning three properties, two of which bring in rent. We won't even go into the cars and truck and other necessities of life or the boyfriend who, after more than ten years, refuses to commit because he'd have to share his millions, or her four divorces. There are far worse things to detail than boobies.

As I told Aunt Anne a couple of weeks ago, it's better to push the skeletons out of the closet to make more room for books and so the skeletons can't come back to haunt or embarrass you.

That is all. Disperse.

Segue to promoting grammar

There's snow on the roofs this morning, as there was yesterday morning. It's cozy in here, but that's only because I keep under the covers and wear clothes for a change. The snow is no more than a light dusting of sugary crystals, blue grey in the dawn's light, matching the color of the sky. The green leaves of the leggy weed outside my bedroom window haven't yet realized they are not long for this earth and cling stubbornly and strongly to the branches. Only some wandering ivy has gone crimson as it weaves in an out of the lilac bushes leaves, obscuring the sign that says the parking space next to the cottage is exclusively for my use.

The honeysuckle has gone to berries, dark purple berries, drops of thick heart's blood on the slender tendrils of brown and green that are all that remain of the honeysuckle's perfumed and petaled glory of the summer past. It is truly autumn and yet feels more like the stirrings of a long and cold winter. The hoary, craggy head of Pikes Peak stands proud against the blue-grey sky, a monolith to immortality that will one day be worn down by the constant freezing and thawing that cracks the very foundations and will some century bring the mountain peaks low. But not today. Today it is strong and tall and immortal, visible from every point of the city and far across the eastern plains. Even on the other side of the pass, Pikes Peak dominates the eastern horizon.

Books lay littered across the bed, inching toward the crevice between mattress and wall, my constant companions. They wait silently and patiently for me to notice and pick them up once again when work and responsibilities are finished and put away, and they are the resources for much of my mental gymnastics and pyrotechnics, offering new ideas for old.

An old idea given a new form is up at Suite 101 after long and tiring labor, finally birthed and waiting to be read, all about the use of quotation marks in direct quotes.

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot: Passion's Journey

After spending most of my life traveling, I still balk a little when it's time to set off, often leaving some things until the last minute just in case I change my mind. Once I do make up my mind and take that first step, there is no hesitation and everything is done quickly and efficiently. Sometimes I think I need that moment of doubt, a chance to change my mind or wait just a little while to be sure I know what I'm doing and why. It's impulse control of a sort.

I am a spontaneous person about many things, at least on the surface. When it comes down to it, the spontaneity has an element of careful thought, weighing and measuring the options and the effects of what I am about to do -- or not do. Even with passion, I think about what I will and won't do before I lose myself in the moment. No one sees it, but it is there. I am always aware of it. And I have learned not to let my careful thoughts derail the passion or rein it in too much when I finally let go. It's like making sure there is a net or the safety harness really is adequate for the task.

The Knight of Wands is ready for battle: armor polished, lance sharpened and ready, horse and knight both rested and anxious for the next adventure. The Knight of Wands is confident and sure of his purpose and his stance and colors denote passion and bravery. He is an accomplished knight ready for whatever adventures he finds and his passions move him quickly onto the path because he's excited about what he's facing. He has no fear and the adrenaline sings in his blood as it does in his fiery steed's blood as the horse prances toward the next grand adventure. If adventure doesn't find the Knight of Wands, he will find adventure.

Our Knight is a dark-haired romantic who is witty and can be quite flirtatious. He also tends to be fierce, short-tempered, impulsive and often impetuous. He is a spiritual wander, a traveler and adventurer who needs to learn that the prize he seeks is not always the goal. Sometimes the mission provides nothing more than change and transformation of who he was and will be.

The Knight of Wands' Achilles heel is his passion. He needs to be aware of a tendency toward recklessness and keep it reined as closely as he reins his horse during a charge. Passion and bravery are fine attributes, but like a nocked arrow or a couched lance must be aimed. It pays to be careful.

The man on the shore in the Three of Wands is a man of substance and wealth, a man who has succeeded in nearly every endeavor. He watched the ship in the bay sail away on the tide and now he must wait. He has invested well in the past, but there is no telling whether or not his current venture will be a success. He can only trust to the winds, the weather and the competence of the sailing master to bring the ship back laden with riches. It is out of his hands and no amount of worry or second-guessing is going to change the future. He has no control over anything but what he has invested and what he carefully planned and put together.

This is a time of gestation, not action. The choice is made and nothing he does or feels or things will change the outcome of this venture. The situation will provide him with a good opportunity to learn patience and control and let the forces he has set into motion follow their own course.

He should rely on the strength of the venture he has put together and the insurance he has had to foresight to put in place. He has done his job to the best of his ability. Nothing else is required of him, but that he focus on the next task or venture.



The richly clad young man facing the rising full moon at the start of a journal in the Eight of Cups has it all -- or at least looks like he has it all. He has tasted the fruits of his rich life and found them missing something. There is a void inside him that cannot and has not been filled by his present life and he feels empty, so empty that he needs to do something, go somewhere, find something to fill the void inside him. It can't be filled by what he already has, so it must be "out there" somewhere beyond the life he has created.

Looks can be deceiving. A man who looks like he has it all doesn't always have very much at all. Life is not all about houses, bank accounts, jobs, financial security and family, especially when the family is little more than a paper family. This man lives in a house, but it's not a home, no matter how much he does to make it comfortable and keep it well maintained.

The Eight of Cups is about temporary success, waning interest, troubled relationships, abandonment and fear of commitment and depends on the cards that precede or follow it. The mole in the lower right corner signifies blindness to the truth, to surroundings and to what really drives a man to abandon everything and look for more outside the life he lives.

It may well be that he has been blind and most likely has chosen to be blind to his surroundings and relationships. As he faces the rising of the full moon lighting up the darkness, he opens his eyes blinks and must acclimate to the brilliant light shining down on him. He feels something pulling him out of the darkness and into the light toward the dawn that colors the far horizon. Will he be able to face the full force of the sun or will he close his eyes again and retreat back into the darkness where it's safe?

He has a choice to make: follow the voice inside him that urges him to turn away from the shallow comfort and empty silence of his present life or remain willfully blind and unfulfilled. He must be careful. His restlessness may be no more than a desire to run away from his responsibilities or it may be the true calling of his soul. One thing he must do before he turns his back on his empty life is to clean up his mess and set things in order. The Eight of Cups does not tell him to run away from his problems or find temporary solace somewhere else, but to face up to his mistakes and past choices and walk into the light unencumbered by the past to follow the calling of his heart and soul, to fill the empty aching void inside himself.

* * *

A dark-haired man who has worked hard and become successful finds that he has lived a narrow and confined life. He has done everything he was supposed to do -- work, make money, marry and have children -- but something is still missing. Once upon a time he chose the safe path and now on the verge of retirement he wonders if he hasn't wasted his life and his resources.

He owns several homes and is financially secure and his neighbors and colleagues see him as a successful man with a happy life. It's all a sham. He has given up everything, including his self respect, to maintain the fiction that his life has become, spending his whole life providing for others instead of himself. Oh, he has done some of the things he wanted, but always at a high personal cost.

Inside he feels empty and hungry for something more. He is a passionate man who has curbed his passions to keep the peace, but what about what he wants? Can he turn his back on everything he has built and find happiness? Does he even deserve to be happy if he makes others miserable?

What do you think? How would you tell his story?

* * *

Until next time, pull out the tarot cards and see what they show about the motivations, dreams and possibilities for your characters.

He gave me music

Someone reminded me of how music connects us to each other and to the memories of the past, so I went back in time and pulled this from my memories.

"If music be the food of love, play on. Let me have surfeit of it that I may sicken and die." ~William Shakespeare - Twelfth Night

Music and love, interconnected. Informing and reforming. Music of the spheres -- celestial and human.

He gave me music.

Whenever our paths crossed he offered a new song, a new offering of love. We were in the moment, the heat of love and desire where it's hard to see or think. Thwarted desire clears the vision and let's you see the truth hidden in the lines.

Music swirls through your mind and heart, firing emotion and kindling desire. The meaning of the words are colored and distorted.

In disappointment you shed tears of loss and loneliness and sing the words while the music wraps you around with memories of thwarted love. Through the tears and pain the words take on a new meaning. You see the truth.

They weren't for you. They were words of his pain, his loneliness. They were meant for someone else. He offered them to you because he wanted to feel those emotions, feel that fire again. But it was a lie. You were a substitute. It was never meant to be.

The music was a gift, an offering of love, a remembrance and a plea to save him from loneliness, a dream of the past when love was innocent and young, new as the first crocus that pops its head above the snow with the first blush of color. A promise of the bright fire of living summer and the blazing death of autumn fighting for the last moment of sunshine and warmth.

Youth and innocence can be remembered. They cannot be recaptured. Experience and life change the color and music of innocence. Pain and loneliness mark innocence and youth. It is in the eyes, those deep windows to the soul. It's in the music when you listen. Desire and memories are in the music, too.

He offered me his heart, scarred by disappointment and loneliness, lost love and hope. It wasn't for me. We had changed too much. Innocence was gone. Time and tide battered our souls on the rocks. We needed understanding and were caught up in need and desire. It was an illusion, a mirage. An image of desire in the heated desert of loneliness. Reaching toward the soft shimmering shapes of our heart's deepest desire, we forget the desert, the relentless heat of the burning sun, the dry taste of defeat. It isn't in us to give up until we have been so battered by the pitiless sun and crushed by the waves of chance and circumstance all hope is gone.

Through the tears and pain I finally saw the truth. I was his first love. She was his last and still held his heart hostage. He didn't see it. He was caught in the mirage, the memory of innocent love past.

It's hard to forget your first love. Time softens the hard edges and mutes the glaring colors. It's harder to forget your last love because it's imprint is fresh and deep, hard and harsh and blinding. We look away from the glare toward the softer light of innocent love, first love. Last love, mature love leaves an indelible mark on our soul. It's there in the words wrapped around with pain and music.

He offered me music -- her music. He offered me love -- the love she spurned and he still carried like a torch in his heart. I kept the music and returned the love. It belongs to another. I still have the first love. She has the last. And I have my last love, mature love, the one I have waited for all my life.

Pain sweeps away innocence and leaves you scarred and raw. Pain also remodels your heart and makes you ready for the future. Pain opens the deep places where true love will take root and flourish. You can't plant the seed until the earth is wounded. Raw and bleeding it accepts the seed, nourishes it and gives birth to life, a flush of color that deepens and blazes with time until it produces seeds and roots to bring it life again and again until there is no more nourishment in the soil or the life giving sun of regard.

I remember the innocent love. I cherish the last love...mature everlasting strong and resilient true love.

The quality of literature is strained

So that was fairly painful. I've never had to revise an article so many times and all to include keywords and links and keyword phrases. How do I avoid using the same phrases too many times when the article is about punctuation and quotation marks. It's not like I can use a euphemism or marks of quotations to make my point and avoid being snuffed by the web-bots that grade key word and phrases. This whole Suite 101 idea may not be a good one. I can't be personal and I can't use the words you, I, we, they, them or your, so all my cute titles are out the door. Definitely need to rethink this. All I wanted was a wider forum and not a job writing keywords and phrases. And I have to search out and upload clip art for each article. Yeah, that's really possible for punctuation and grammar. Could it get more complex? Wait. Forget I asked because as sure as I ask, it will get more complicated.

I finished my urban alien story and submitted it for the Apex Halloween Contest. I've considered sending it in for the annual Writer's Digest short shorts fiction contest, but I have to cut about 400 words first. I have time since I don't have to submit the story to WD until December and the Apex contest will be decided before then.

There are a few more stories kicking around in my head begging to be let out to run and play amongst the other fiction floating out in cyberspace and in print and I at last feel like I have a fairly good handle on the fiction for a change. I do believe I've broken the fiction barrier that kept my work from being published. My romance novel helped, but having two more lining up to be published made me feel a lot better about writing fiction.

Nonfiction has always come easily, as evidenced by the hundreds of thousands of words that I've regurgitated onto these cyberpages over the past seven or eight years, but fiction was more difficult. I don't know if it's because I tried to hard or because I spent too much time getting into the characters' ways by being literary. From what I've read recently, it's not an uncommon problem and one that has the science fiction community in an uproar.

Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaiden's Tale and Oryx and Crake, undoubtedly science fiction novels by everyone but Ms. Atwood, says that science fiction is "fiction in which things happen that are not possible today". Ursula K. LeGuin calls the definition "...arbitrarily restrictive definition . . .designed to protect [Atwood's] novels from being relegated to a genre still shunned by hidebound readers, reviewers and prize-awarders. In short, if it looks like science fiction, acts like science fiction, and happens to be good, it's not science fiction, but something higher and more elevated. It must be Literature.

Before having thoroughly alienated and tweaked the noses of the science fiction community, Atwood said science fiction is needed, although she called it speculative fiction. Of course that was in 2005 and this is four years later when the term science fiction is guaranteed to keep good literature from being awarded prizes and lauded, and that is the point -- getting awards.

By the current definition, H. G. Wells and Jules Verne were not a writers of science fiction. In their day it was called scientific romance, but words change and so do the meanings. Invaders from Mars and submarines powered by atomic energy are not science fiction, at least in modern day terminology.

According to Princeton's web site, science fiction is literary fantasy involving the imagined impact of science on society.. Notice the use of the word literary, as in literature.

I was taught, and most publishers agree, that a story in which the science does not play an integral part is not science fiction. For instance, take the atomic sub out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and everything falls apart, and the same happens to beings that turn blue when they are sexually aroused, as in Oryx and Crake, not to mention the whole genetic engineering that lies at the very heart of the story and makes it all possible. Take away Victor Frankenstein's experimentation with electricity and animating dead flesh and there is no story. Even in The Handmaiden's Tale, a dystopian story that is definitely science fiction, if there had been no nuclear war, there would be no need for the handmaidens, and thus the whole story falls apart. No, it's not science fiction, it's Literature.

What myopic idiots people have become, throwing away perfectly wonderful books and refusing to acknowledge them because they belong to that niche called popular and commercial fiction. Anyone who has read Stephen King's The Stand can immediately bring to mind the images of the "sweet treat" and Larry's personality like "biting tin foil." That, my friends, is literature, not because it's popular or sells millions of books, because it's unforgettable.

Literature doesn't have to be tortured prose stylings and stories that have no easily understandable context or meaning. Literature can be enjoyable and clear. Literature doesn't need to feature convoluted plots that jump forward and backward and sideways until the reader's not sure exactly what happens when. Literature can simply be good. That's what makes it popular.

I've enjoyed Margaret Atwood's stories, but sometimes come away with a feeling of having been through a mental ringer. Given a choice, I'd rather read Andre Norton or Brian Aldiss or Frank Herbert or Ursula K. LeGuin or Robert A. Heinlein. Give me a great story with memorable characters and good writing and to me that is Literature, and the judges who give out awards be damned. Come to that, give me any writer in any genre (even romance) who does all that, and that is Literature.

As a reviewer, I have had to review Booker and Pulitzer prize winners and I have to say I wasn't always impressed. If I didn't have to read the whole book to review it, I would've stopped after the first chapter or two. It's a good thing I didn't have to eat it as well or I'd have been sick for a few days. That's not to say I haven't enjoyed some award winning authors, like Salman Rushdie, who has a thing for the movie The Wizard of Oz; rainbow imagery and sometimes the movie feature in several of his books. He tells a good tale and I admire the way he writes.

When it comes right down to it, according to the definition in Wikipedia, which goes on at some length, In broad terms, literary fiction focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character, whereas mainstream commercial fiction (the page-turner) focuses more on narrative and plot. ...The term literary fiction is considered hard to define very precisely but is commonly associated with the criteria used in literary awards and marketing of certain kinds of novels, since literary prizes usually concern themselves with literary fiction, and their short lists can give a working definition.

In short, the term literary novel is not a concrete term because there are numerous books of commercial fiction that focus just as much on "style, psychological depth, and character" as the award winners. You don't get much more descriptive, stylistic or deep than a person who is like "biting tin foil" or the loneliness of a girl far from home who eases the loneliness by writing poems on leaves and casting them to the winds (Andre Norton, Imperial lady. We need a better term, but I doubt it will come from the literary novel judges who hand out awards, so it must come from the people. You know, the people who actually buy the books and read them, not buy them and stick them on a shelf to impress friends and visitors. A good book is one that is read and reread and, like the velveteen rabbit, loved to pieces.

That is all. Disperse.

A tangled, twisted review

Google Alerts (if you don't have it, get it) sent me a message about Past Imperfect. I didn't get an email from the reviewer, but Google Alerts let me know a new review was posted, and I was surprised.

Read it for yourself. Hibiscus, the reviewer, gave Past Imperfect 3.5/5. I can definitely live with that.

And the money shot: Past Imperfect, in my humble opinion, was not a perfect story but it was a very good story with many twists and turns. The twisted minds and manipulations of some of the characters made Past Imperfect a darker romance than what I was expecting but I still had fun yelling at them in my mind. I enjoyed reading it and think if you enjoy a romance with lots of surprises, you will too.

That is all. Disperse.

Bits and pieces of memory

Just in case anyone is interested, here is an excerpt of a story written this week. All comments are welcome.

Theft of the Seventh Chakra

Verna said it all began with pulsing purple lights. That's when her husband Irwin started forgetting things and ended up with Alzheimer’s; no one believed her.

It was strange to hear her talk about it in such a matter of fact way. She didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t touch or control, like her house. It was always so neat and tidy without as much as a speck of dust anywhere. The furniture looked as new as the day it was bought in the 1970s. With hand-carved wooden accents and riotous velveteen floral fabric in autumn shades of green, brown, gold and burnt orange, the sofa and club chair were likely every bit of forty years old and maybe more. And yet there was something in her eyes, a glint of fear mixed with pleading that was so out of character I almost believed her.

An air of sadness hung about her when Irwin died, as if some essential part of her died with him. Verna was a matter-of-fact kind of woman who was as precise in her gestures and speech as she was particular about her one-bedroom apartment. She continued to keep everything picture perfect even though I never saw her wash a dish or heard her vacuum. She wasted nothing, especially not words.

It all started one night when Verna began sleeping in the living room sitting upright on the sofa. She couldn’t breathe lying down; her heart was enlarged and often filled with fluid. Not even the thought of sleeping apart from Irwin for the first time in sixty years kept her by his side.

“That’s when it started. It was my fault.” Tears gathered in her red-rimmed eyes, her voice steady and no-nonsense. “I shouldn’t oughta left him alone.” The tears disappeared as her lips tightened, her fluttering hands clasped, white-knuckled in her lap. “A wife shouldn’t oughta leave her husband’s side. If I had just stayed in the bedroom, the lights wouldn’t have taken Irwin’s mind away. Those awful purple lights going off and on, regular as a beating heart.”


Verna tried to find a comfortable spot in the corner between the winged back and arm of the sofa, feet tucked beneath the flowered flannel robe. Dozing off and on,her congested heart struggled against its own boggy weight. Lights out and curtains drawn, the living room was dark and silent. Not even the sound of a rare car shushing by in the slushy street got through the thick, heavy drapes.

A pulse beat of purple light flashed on and off against her closed eyelids, faint at first and growing stronger, until it roused Verna from a fretful doze.

“Irwin,” she called without opening her eyes, “the light bulb needs changing. Please turn it out.” Irwin didn’t answer. “Irwin, did you fall in?” No answer. She opened her eyes, uncurled her feet and put them on the floor, leaning forward a little until the feeling returned in cold prickles and then hot pins and needles. Slipping cold feet into carpet slippers, she inched forward and slowly stood, swaying a little until her galloping heart slowed and the dizziness cleared. It was easy to navigate the small apartment in the darkness, but the strobing purple light made her so dizzy she had to feel her way inch by inch, eyes shut, along the wall to the bedroom doorway.

Lying as still and stiff as death, Irwin’s eyes were wide open, head bathed in purple. Unable to tell whether or not her husband breathed, she entered the room and dropped to the bed beside him, grabbing his shoulders and laying her ear against his chest. His heart, stronger and steadier than hers, thudded against his rib cage. She shook his shoulders, but couldn’t move him; he was stiff as a board, frozen in the glare of the purple beam. “Irwin, wake up. Irwin.” He didn’t move.

That is all. Disperse.

Of Aliens and Alzheimer's

There's no feeling like getting a story out of the file, writing and finishing it and being able to sleep again, not that I'll be sleeping any time soon since it's Monday and I have to work -- again.

I managed to work chakras, the color purple and Alzheimer's into the story fairly well. Don't know how the two readers feel about the story yet, but I'm hopeful. I thought I had everything written in and just needed to do a little polishing later today, but, no, details nibbled at my dreams. I ignored them and they decided to poke gaping holes in my dreams until all I could see or think about was the pulsing purple heartbeat of the light. Let's just say it involved a bathroom mirror and a relative dead of what was described as senile dementia but turned out to be the purple light. Things started to make sense in that scary, alternate universe way that would make a person certifiable if she wasn't a writer. Still, I am happy with the results and I fulfilled an old promise to Verna.

Back in Columbus when I lived on the west side, after getting rid of Nick and changing jobs so he couldn't sue me for alimony, I met this woman who claimed that her husband's Alzheimer's was brought on by a purple light that shone on him every night. Verna wasn't the kind of person who was good at lying or ever considered lying since the truth was so handy and she didn't like fantasy. Verna was the kind of person who has both feet firmly planted on the ground and seldom looks up. She's the only person of her advanced years I've ever known who didn't clutter up her home with knick-knacks and pictures and junk. Her home was immaculate like a TV series set. Her only personal item was an anniversary clock, one of those marble and metal clocks under glass, her husband gave her on their fifth anniversary. There were a few tasteful and original paintings on the walls and hand-crocheted doilies on the tables and console television set, but not enough to be fussy. Considering the apartment she and her husband shared for over sixty years was about 900 square feet and the closet space was negligible, I always wondered on what they spent their income.

Vernon was an engineer who worked for the federal government out at the Depot. He made really good money, but it wasn't evident anywhere in that little apartment. Knowing Verna, she probably saved every penny for her old age and the state ended up with it since she had no children and no living relatives, unless she willed it to Clyde's mother who was her best friend.

Verna dressed nicely, but not ostentatiously and she didn't have a full length mink to wear in the winter. She always wore a sensible camel hair overcoat. Maybe the money got beamed up with Vernon's mind, but Verna can't tell me because she died several years ago in the middle of the night several years after Vernon died. Verna's death was expected. She had congestive heart disease and slept sitting upright on the living room sofa.

Ah, well, at least now her story has been told and expanded just a bit. After all, writers get paid to weave fantastical tales.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick flash news

Because I obviously don't have enough to do and too much free time, I have decided to move my weekly grammar column to Suite 101. I'll post a notice when a new column is up and running, just in case you'd like to follow me and read the latest rehash of the grammar you learned in school and have forgotten. The idea is to attract a wider audience and maybe make a little money on the side.

As for things here in Casa Cornwell, it has been quiet this weekend, except for the voices in my head. It's okay. I'm not schizophrenic or about to go postal and I don't get radio stations in my fillings; characters are invading my dreams and my mind when I'm working and that makes for very erratic sleep, and a cranky fixnwrtr.

I had the chance to read 's short story, Silence is Moldy, once again and enjoyed it very much. I don't care much for zombie stories, too boring, but her story is wonderful: short, full of background and detail and pithy, very pithy. She assured me, and all of those watching on Facebook that she was going to submit this one and I know it will find a home, preferably a paying home so that she can finally join the ranks of the underpaid and talented writers that haunt the cyberworld. It's just one more step to publishing her novel, and I can hardly wait for that day.

Since I received a notice about a Halloween themed anthology and contest, , I decided to join you and submit a story that has been kicking around in the back room for a while. Urban myth and aliens. Who knew I actually had a story that might fit with a few minor revisions? I hope you don't mind too much.

The dishes are all clean, except for the ones that held my dinner and the laundry is about to be caught up and put away. It will be strange not living with dishes piled in the sink and the basket overflowing with laundry. I guess that means the next thing on the list is getting rid of boxes and vacuuming. It could be worse. I don't know how, but I'm sure it could be.

Beanie, I'm finally caught up with Fringe and now I want more. It's not fair that I have to wait a whole week for an episode when I've had three or six or even twelve episodes to watch whenever I wanted. Oh, well, back in the real world.

Beanie kept telling me that I'd like Fringe, but I said I didn't have the time and didn't want to add another show to my very short list of seasonal shows. I finally broke down and ordered season one from Netflix and watched the first episode. I was immediately hooked. It wasn't just the science aspect of the show, a much more modern and less alien infested version of X-Files, which I thoroughly enjoyed watching, but the characters, especially Dr. Walter Bishop, played by John Noble. Walter has been institutionalized for 17 years because he had a mental breakdown after his assistant was killed in a laboratory accident and Walter's a bit weird. He's a mixture of genius, childlike curiosity and innocence with a hint of regret and confusion. Walter's frank delight over the possibility of bodies to examine is infectious and is mind, which works on an oblique circuit to the rest of humanity, is fascinating.

Walter's son Peter is a con-man and nearly as brilliant as his father, but has lots of shady ties to the underworld that he doesn't hesitate to offer whenever FBI agent Olivia Dunham needs something tracked down. Peter always knows "a guy" that can help. The cast is wonderful and the shows brilliant in their diversity. They are mining completely new territory in the fringe sciences and hitting pay dirt every week. I don't think Fringe will end up as lame as Heroes did when I quit watching it.

The rest of my list includes Merlin, Dexter, Castle and Sanctuary, although I'm still waiting for the new Doctor Who and Lost to surface. I've given up on finding anything new for Torchwood. I think it's pretty much done and over. The promised several movies turned out to be just one and nothing new is slated now that Jack has beamed up to his ship and out into the Universe to become the Face of Bo.

I guess that's it for now. The voices in my head are clamoring for attention and I have a short story to write tonight before I can sleep without intruders.

That is all. Disperse.

Grammar: Hi-ho hyphens

Whether you call them hyphens or dashes, the way you use them can make a difference. I hyphenate some words and add dashes between others, but it's all the same to me, and sometimes it seems like Greek.

Compound words can be written separately, combined into a single word or separated by a dash, which actually brings them together into a hyphenated word.

song stylist
singsong
sing-along

In a word like hair stylist some dictionaries list it as hair stylist and some dictionaries list it as hairstylist. It depends on which dictionary you use as to which is right, so the final word on compounds words isn't in and changes will likely be made. Isn't that usually the way with some parts of grammar? Just when you think you know how it goes, someone comes along and changes it.

In the following examples, the use of hyphens is set in stone -- for now.

1. Hyphens are used to join two or more words that act as a single adjective before a noun.




three-way Foley catheter
tow-haired boy
three-toed sloth



When the compound adjectives used as a modifier comes after a noun, they are not hyphenated.



The boy was tow haired.
The sloth was three toed.




2. Of course, everyone knows about compound numbers and few people get this one wrong.




sixty-nine
eighty-eight
The eighty-eight zombies formed a sixty-nine.




3. If a word will look confusing or be awkward, especially in the case of a prefix that ends with a vowel when the word following begins with a vowel, use a hyphen. This one happens a lot in medicine. Doctors have the idea that just because they can cut open people, they know about grammar and stick prefixes on everything, whether it sounds right or not. They can be so lazy--and wrong.




You resign from a job, but you re-sign your pink slip.
pre-eminent
semi-infantile (but semi-boyfriend)
bell-like (but sylphlike)




4. Some prefixes automatically get a hyphen: ex-, all-, and self- (although I think it is an affection to use self- with some words, like self-protect instead of protect yourself); with the suffix -elect; between capitalized words and prefixes, and with figures or letters.




ex-husband (one of my favorites)
self-limiting
mid-October
all-inclusive
governor-elect
anti-hypertensive
T-shirt
pre-Civil War
mid-2001




5. Use a hyphen to divide words at the end of lines and make the break only between syllables. This rule is for all of us who remember typing on a machine that didn't automatically hyphenate words at the ends of lines, and for those still using archaic programs that don't change the spacing between letters to make words fit so neatly when there's room for only part of the word.




anti-dis-establish-ment-arian-ism
Miss-iss-ippi
edit-ing
pre-fer-en-tial
treat-ment




6. When breaking an already-hyphenated word, break at the hyphen.




mass-
hysteria
self-
limiting




7. If a word ends in -ing, or with double consonants in a root word before the suffix (-ing), split the double consonants and hyphenate; otherwise, use a hyphen in front of the suffix.




plot-ting
ham-ming
fond-ling
found-ling
eventuat-ing




8. The exception to example #5 (and you knew there'd be an exception) is that you never separate the first or last letter of a word at the end or beginning of a new line and don't use two-letter suffixes at the beginning of a new line.




quarterly (no break for the -ly)
e-lim-i-nate (separate either before or after the middle -i-; don't leave the e- hanging out by itself.

So far, so fairly painless. When you get right down to it, hyphens are all about making words easier to read and your thoughts easier to understand. It's basically common sense.

Although there's no place for it elsewhere, I thought I'd mention em dashes. Those are the long hyphens/dashes between phrases in a sentence that have come into such widespread use and take the place of the parentheses.

When using an em dash, it should begin at the end of one word and end at the beginning of the next word with no space in between.

There was no place I could go—if I actually wanted to leave—no one really wants a woman with sixteen cats.

Because it's a little difficult (and I'm lazy) to use in blogs like these, I usually use a space before and after double dashes to denote an em dash. I suppose I could code it, but this is a blog after all and I tend to be a little loose with fussy details like em dashes. However, I do my best to make sure the grammar goofs are few because it just makes me look better, sets me apart from the rabble, so to speak, and because I never know when a publisher or editor will decide to cruise over to my blog to check out how I do things when I think no one's looking. It's like keeping the house clean even when no company is expected. It's just easier and prevents rushing around at the last minute to throw all the dishes in the dishwasher and the unfolded and unwashed laundry in the stove, praying all the time that no one expects to be fed anything that must be cooked in the oven. A door on the kitchen is best for those occasions.

Until next time (whenever I get a few minutes free from research, work and writing), may all your grammar goofs be easy to find and fix before a publisher reads your submission.

Tarot: Victim or Victor

I once told a friend who was intently pursuing a man who turned her life inside-out and upside-down and then walked away only to come back again and again that the reason he didn't stick around was because she had nothing to offer -- not to him or to herself. She couldn't make up her mind about what she wanted to do and bounced from job to job and school to school, constantly changing her major and her goals. She was scattered, uncertain and spent her life moving from one friend's house to another, watching their children in exchange for room and board and a little money. Everyone took advantage of her, but she didn't see a way out. She had to have a place to stay and couldn't hold a job long enough to earn the money to get a place of her own. She had grants for school and kept flunking out or failing to show up, always ready with excuses. "I didn't have a way to get there. I didn't have any clean clothes. I got up too late."

She had more excuses than anyone I've ever seen before, and yet she kept getting one break after another. Jobs fell into her lap and she seldom held them for more than three weeks, and it was always someone else's fault. She had nothing of her own and didn't mind living off other people -- or other men. Some guy was always ready to bail her out and she played the damsel in distress very well.

By contrast, Jason, the guy she was obsessed about, had a good job and had a place to live. Granted, it was his mother's house, but he paid the bills and kept it clean. His family had several homes and he came from a wealthy family, so where he lived was really no surprise. He was used to better. So, here comes this girl from the ghetto with no ambition and nothing she could call her own and she wanted him. He enjoyed her company and the sex, but wasn't ready to make their relationship permanent. He didn't mind helping out from time to time, rescuing her from her latest situation, but he didn't want the job full time.

I told her she needed to get herself and her life together before he would consider her as anything more than a booty call or occasional girlfriend. She needed to do it for herself more than anything else, get her life settled. She was almost 30 at that point, and being almost thirty with nothing to show for your life is a very sad situation. She wasn't the kind of girl that rich men went out of their way to wine and dine and shower with riches, but rather the girl who would do their nails. No class, no education and nothing to show for her life except a string of failures. She didn't listen. The only thing she wanted to know was how to trap him.

And trap him she did. She got pregnant. After seven abortion, because the fathers weren't him, she got pregnant. It happened under the effects of drugs and alcohol when he forgot to use a condom or pull out in time. She had him dead to rights and she let him know when she was far enough along that an abortion wouldn't be feasible that he was going to be a father. He ran away from her and refused to have anything to do with her. She pursued him and, when he wouldn't give her what she wanted, she went to his family.

She now has a son, his son, and he pays child support regularly. She still has no job and no prospects and no place to call her own. She's living with her mother for now, but time is running out, so she has made a plan to get help from Welfare and other charitable organizations to take care of her and her child. She's 31 years old and still hasn't learned.

So what does this tale have to do with today's cards? It depends on whether you see my friend as a victim or a victor.

The Nine of Wands shows a soldier weary from battering against an insurmountable blockade. He has put everything into the battle and leans on his remaining support, remaining upright by will alone. When he went into the battle, he was certain he'd succeed. Everything was on his side: experience, intelligence, skill and desire. He is puzzled. Why didn't he succeed? What went wrong.

Beside him in the ivy is a scarab, symbolizing the quiet voice of the soul, the voice that says, "You need time to figure this out. Retreat and regroup."

He needs to contrast his belief in success against his worldly experience and reconcile the data, balance his experiential and emotional checkbook, so to speak. Failure has caught him napping and nothing turned out as he had planned; he is not certain why. He needs to go over the data, reflect and find the flaw in his approach, learn from his mistakes and find a way to turn defeat into victory, and then try again.

The message of the Nine of Wands is not to despair when a difficult situation seems insoluble and confusion. Nothing is impossible. Sometimes it is a matter of taking a few steps back and re-evaluating the situation, learning from the mistakes while healing and figuring out a different pathway through the barrier. Above all, don't use this setback as a reason to escape from life. Life is about struggle. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but the losses can become victories if you take the time to learn from them. We often learn more from our mistakes than from our victories. Victories are easy and failure a chance to grow and expand knowledge. Don't waste it.

Pentacles are earthly symbols, the sign of the material. In the Nine of Pentacles, a wealthy and accomplished woman stands in a flourishing garden gazing intently at the hooded falcon on her wrist. She takes pride in her surroundings and her pride is evident in the garden, a feat she has achieved alone. She is a strong woman who has chosen a solitary path and she's comfortable in it, comfortable with herself and in her own skin. She has a right to be proud and in spite of her choices she is not lonely. She needs no one.

The nines of the minor arcana are symbolic of nearing the end of a journey. There is still a little more to come and for the accomplished woman in the Nine of Pentacles what is to come is a companion, someone to share and enjoy her garden and all she has accomplished. After all, success is a dish that tastes better when shared.

It's it often the case that those who want for nothing are the ones who get the best breaks and people are always willing to do things for them? Think of movie stars and celebrities. They have more money than they can spend in 100 lifetimes, and people fall all over themselves to give them whatever they admire. For instance, Queen Elizabeth of England often goes down to the high street to shop. Whatever she admires is given to her free of charge.

I remember a story about Hedda "the Hat" Hopper, the gossip columnist. During the depression when most people had nothing, Hedda mentioned in her column that she couldn't find a decent hat to wear. Tens of thousands of readers made hats and sent them to her, many of whom had little enough for themselves.

That's the way it goes. Make your life a success so that you have everything you need or want and, when you least expect it, more will be added. In the case of the Nine of Pentacles, that more would be someone to share your life.

The Wheel of Fortune, or Fate as some call it, turns beyond our control. It is mechanized and in perpetual motion, turning round and round, like the clockwork mechanism of the sun and planets and universe. It defines and is moved by the rhythms of nature and life, attuned to the energy and music of the spheres. The sun in the background symbolizes the mind: centered and secure, never worrying about the wheel. The mind is not at the Wheel of Fortune's mercy; it is apart, free. Everything that happens -- good or bad or indifferent -- depends on your point of view. The situation could be a blessing, a curse, a tragedy or an opportunity, or so much more or less, depending on what you see.

When the first colonists came to the New World, they viewed the natives as savages without culture or wealth, owning nothing and having no morals or society. The native viewed the colonists as children, idiots who did not see or understand the wealth around them or how they could feed and clothe and house themselves. They were over dressed, over sexed, and over here, to borrow a saying from England during World War II. The colonists saw the land as something to possess, put their fences around and set to orderly rights. The natives saw the colonists as intruders intent on forcing everyone and everything to conform to their way of life without respect for the millennia of culture and contented life that existed before them. Each saw the other as an obstacle to remove and bloodshed followed. It was all a matter of point of view who was right and who was wrong.

Out of great wrongs came The United States of America, a country hacked out of the a Garden of Eden, raped and pillaged and born in fire, bloodshed and death along a trail that extended from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Much great has come from America, but there has also been much harm. Which outweighs the other no one can truly tell because everyone sees things from a different point of view. What is good to one person is evil to another. And so it goes. The Wheel of Fortune turns, grinding down all in its path who fail to see that, although time and fate march on without us, as long as we understand and accept what can and cannot be controlled, life need never be a tragedy or a disaster.

See the cycles of the Wheel for what they are. Don't use fate as an excuse to avoid responsibility or a reason to blame someone else for bad luck or misfortune. Learn to control what you can and let the rest go. Accept blame only for what you did wrong. Take responsibility only for what you can control -- and didn't or wouldn't. There are enough people to take the blame for the rest. Above all, learn to find the good in a bad situation because every situation is a learning situation.

* * *

A woman owns a large piece of land on which she has built a home, tends a garden that provides herbs and food and beauty and she runs a successful business. She has it all and she is happy and content.

In her youth she spent a lot of time trying to find the right man with whom to share her life, but she had nothing to show for all those years except scars, experience and a drive to make something of her life on her own, depending on no one. She had been taught by her mother that a woman needs a man to complete her, to protect and give her everything she needs and, when she was young, she bought her mother's philosophy. When she couldn't find a man to complete her -- none of them were right and she ended up either supporting them or standing in the background -- she decided to make her own way. The result of all her hard work and effort is success, happiness and a feeling of contentment. She doesn't miss having a man around. She doesn't really need one, not with BOB, her battery operated boyfriend.

Midwinter night, December 21st, she sits in front of her fire after a pleasant meal sipping a glass of Merlot. As the full moon rises, she hears a knock on the door, a pounding really that fades into a faint scratching. She goes to the door and finds a naked man collapsed on her porch, shivering and blue with cold. She brings him inside, wraps him in warm blankets by the fire and fixes a cup of hot chocolate with a shot of rum. As he warms and begins to get back some color, she asks him who he is. He shakes his head, confused. "I don't know." He doesn't know where he was before he saw the lights in her windows or why or where he lost his clothes. The only thing he remembers is waking up, seeing her light and knowing there is where he'd find safety and warmth.

In my mind's eye, I see a different story than the one that will occur to you. Do you see a mystery or a fantasy? Is he a con man or something else? Who is he and what will happen in the days to come? Using the message and images of today's cards, how will you write this story's end?

As always, until next week, or when work slackens enough for me to be able to take the time and delve into the stories hidden in the tarot cards, keep writing.

The Gift

Sally Selkirk was born in the hills of West Virginia during a storm at a time when doctors still came to your house to deliver babies.

The doctor arrived in his Model T Ford and calmed the over wrought father immediately. He set him about taking care of the older children and went in to his wife who had been laboring for what seemed like days to her husband, but was a few hours by the clock. Soon after the doctor arrived he delivered a golden child whose lusty screams echoed in the still mountain air. Her hair was like golden strawberries and she soon quieted as she was put to the breast. After her screaming entry she was the quietest of children.

Sally was a tiny baby with eyes that followed everyone in a peculiarly fixed way as if, despite newborn babies' eyes being unfocused and cloudy, she could see clearly and understand what she saw.

The doctor called to Sally's father and he stumbled into the room, weary and worn as though he and not his wife had labored to bring forth the sunny and smiling child. As he marveled at his daughter's bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks as she nursed, the doctor quietly left. He got into his car and drove down the muddy and pitted road and into a tree. The doctor never made it home. As Sally took her first breaths the doctor took his last.

Sally grew up during the Depression, that time of want and fear when jobs were scarce and families moved west, always west, to find work and enough money to lie. But Sally's father was an itinerant minister who had a green thumb. As her family moved around from church to church, the one constant in their lives was a kitchen garden. Sally's family didn't have much money but they always had food so she grew up knowing the smell and feel of the earth in all seasons. She was a happy child of sunshine and light. Clouds, earth, flowers, scents, and mountain life drew her attention, as did the strangers who invariably came to their kitchen door looking for food or odd jobs. Strangers meant new faces at the kitchen table with tales of other roads, other meals, and other people.

Everyone who came to their door fascinated Sally, but her mother, a timid soul, was not. Reverend Selkirk was usually visiting the sick or tending to the first and last rites of the lives under his care and seldom home when travelers displaced by failing crops, lack of work, or circumstance came to their door. Sally greeted them with an insatiable curiosity and her mother, Emma, greeted them with wary fear masked by politeness.

One such morning, Sally sat at the kitchen window seat gazing up at the clouds, which, to her, were a great golden frame ready to be filled by something special. She waited for the frame to be filled when a ragged man walked up the track leading to their kitchen door. He scuffed up dust. Grasshoppers bounded out of his way. The magpies scolded him from the willow tree. As he crested the rise, Sally saw him clearer.

His battered fedora, stained with sweat and summer dust, crouched on his head. His clothes were dusty and frayed around the edges, but they were clean. Fading creases marked the line of his pants and the sleeves of his shirt. Something about the man didn't seem right. His face was drawn down with heat and strain, but Sally saw something more, something undefined about him. He looked like a summer mirage shimmering to life as if he had been created the moment she saw him on the road.

"Mama, man on the road."

Emma wiped flour on her apron and pushed a sweaty ringlet off her cheek. "Where's the Reverend?"

"Down to the Millers. Bud's funeral."

Emma stood beside Sally and looked cautiously out the window. Sally reached for one floured hand. "Don't worry, Mama," she said as the man walked up to the porch and kicked the dust from his shoes. He pulled his hat off and nodded.

A quick smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Afternoon, Ma'am." He bobbed his head. "Wouldn't have a cool drink of water and a bit of work?"
Sally squeezed her mother's hand and nodded up at her.

Emma shook her off. "Need some wood for the stove and more water drawn." She nodded toward the pump near the back step.

"I'll show you the wood pile." Sally jumped down from the window seat.

Emma grabbed for Sally's arm, but Sally was out the screen door before she could move. The screen door banged in the still, hot air. Sally skipped off the step and around the pump, glancing over her shoulder to see if the man was following. He sketched a bow and nodded before he put on his hat and followed Sally.

Grasshoppers whirred in the grass and birds called softly from the willow at the edge of the kitchen garden. Emma softly closed the door and went back to kneading bread, ears alert for one discordant sound. She paused every few seconds and listened, punched the dough and soon fell into the rhythm of pushing and pulling the dough on the floury wooden table.

Emma scored the loaves before putting them on the bread board and shoveling them into the oven as Sally raced through the screen door. It banged against the house. Emma looked up. "How many times I got to tell you..." She stopped in mid sentence as the man shuffled through the door with enough wood for a week in his arms. "Over there." Emma gestured to the wood box beside the stove and backed slowly away, her eyes alert for any sudden moves.

He seemed to sense her barely contained fear and kept to the far edge of the table. He sidled past the sink and knelt to place the wood and kindling in the box. Finished, he rose and backed away. "I'll get the water, ma'am."

Emma nodded toward the bucket by the sink. He backed toward it and picked it up then backed toward the door. Sally held the door open and followed him as he turned on the porch and stepped off toward the well. Sally's chatter burst through the open door like a shaft of sun through storm clouds. Emma's fears eased. She pushed the oven door shut and turned back to the table. She scraped the remaining flour into a mound, added more, and broke three brown eggs into the well in the middle. She scattered salt and pepper over the golden yolks and mounded the flour over them. Emma kneaded the egg-flour mixture and patted it flat. She floured the rolling pin and flattened the patty of eggy dough as Sally rushed through the door.

Emma barely looked up as the man carried the wet bucket to the sink and carefully put it down. He hadn't spilled a drop even though Sally bounced around him like a jumping jack. Sally dropped to the floor in a heap and the man quickly knelt beside her. His fingers touched her neck under her chin.

"She's all right. Just fainted."

"She has done this before. Too much heat and excitement," Emma said.

The man closed his eyes. He cupped Sally's forehead and the nape of her neck. The grasshoppers stopped whirring in the yard and the magpies didn't argue. Emma knelt beside the man. She reached for Sally's head and felt heat rising from his hands. She gingerly touched his fingers and pulled back with a hiss. His hands were hotter than the stove.

Sally blinked and sat up.

"I'll get some water," he said as Emma reached for her child. She cradled Sally in her arms and looked up at the man's back. He turned and smiled gravely as he offered the dripping cup to Emma. "She's fine."

Emma nodded and took the cup. Sally sipped noisily and pushed the rest away. "I'm all right, mama."

"You gotta keep quiet. Doc Soames said so."

Sally nodded and smiled. "I know. No skipping, no jumping, no running in this heat." She shook her head. "No fun," she said and smiled again.

Emma helped Sally up and the man offer his hand to help Emma. She took it. "Your hands were hot as Hades."

"Gets that way sometimes."

Emma glanced at Sally's forehead and the back of her neck as she hopped up on the kitchen chair and picked up a knife. She didn't seem any different. There were no burns on her forehead or her neck, but Emma was sure there would be. "Don't cut them noodles yet. Roll the dough out more."

Sally dropped the knife and picked up the rolling pin. It was nearly bigger than she was. Flour sifted over her clothes and puffed up in her face as she bent over the dough.

"I'd like to pay you for your kindness."

" You'll eat with us," Emma said.

" I have a gift for you. I can only give it to a woman."

Emma started back, her hand reaching for the cleaver on the chopping block.

"It was give to me by a woman and I have to pass it on the same way. Man to woman to man. That's how the secret goes."

"I don't want it, mister. You keep it for someone else. Your family. Your kids."

"No kids and no family. You don't have to keep it long, but when you give it away it must be to a man. No one else must be around. Tell him he has to give it to a woman and she must give it to a man. It's very important."

"No need to give it to me. I can't use it."

"Yes, you can ma'am. And you'll need it soon." He reached for Emma's hand. She let him take it. His fingers were cool as they wrapped around hers.

"Give it to me." Sally reached out her hands.

"Can't do that, Sally. You're too young."

Emma stared into the man's green eyes. Funny how she hadn't noticed how clear and bright they were. Like a forest pool sparkling beneath the sun. She dove into the cool green waters of his eyes as he moved closer and whispered in her ear. Emma shivered as his cool words washed over her. She nodded quietly as he spoke.

She was still caught in a trance when she realized he had moved away toward the steps. "I'll sit out here in the shade 'less you need something else, ma'am."

Emma shook herself and reached for the knife.

"I'll do it, mama," Sally said.

"Don't cut them too big. They have to last for dinner and supper tonight. If you cut them small enough we can have them for dinner tomorrow, too."
Emma dipped water into a big pot and strewed salt from the cellar into it. She pulled the cover off the burner and checked the fire. Still going. She'd have to put in more wood when the bread was done, but it would do for now, she thought.

Playing in the corners of her mind was the knowledge the man had whispered. She could stop bleeding, no matter how much, with his secret. She didn't want the burden, but the Reverend would. It was proper that she give the secret to him. Didn't matter that she wouldn't know it once she passed it on. She didn't need it. It was too much responsibility for Sally, but it was too much for her, too. The Reverend would know what to do.

Emma replaced the burner on the stove and set the water to boil. She turned back to the table and shook out the thin curling folds of noodle dough into strips. Sally carefully cut the rest of the dough as Emma loosely worked flour onto the strips. Yes, she thought, the Reverend would know just what to do.

Sally slowly and carefully cut the rest of the folded dough into strips. She glanced out the door when she heard her father's voice. He was greeting the man. She knew her mother would give the secret to her father, but he would tell Sally when she was old enough. It was knowledge she kept safe from her mother.

Sally’s father never denied her anything; he’d tell her because the gift was meant for her all along, except she was too young now. That was what the man told Sally when she fainted, that it would ultimately be her gift.

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