Into the breach

I finally got the new computer and I'm still figuring it out. It's not just Windows that's screwing me up, but the whole setup. The keyboard is offset to the left and there's a keypad on the right just like on a desktop keyboard. It's going to take some getting used to and I'm not sure how long it's going to take. I didn't have this many problems getting used to an ergonomic keyboard or any other keyboard, but this one, while very fast, has a very weird feel to it, and I don't like the touchpad. It feels like a textured scratch-off on an instant lottery ticket. And let's not talk about how weird the whole system is since the pointer hangs up. I do so hope the installations will calm things down and everything will be over and done with. I'm almost ready to go back to my old computer and keep using it in safe mode. At least I got the important files off the old computer on my flash drive. I still have to move some important files, but I saved my writing and that's what is most important.

Other than that, this has been a quiet weekend, if I don't count breaking down boxes and taking out a lot of trash. I still have to catch up the laundry, stalled since the water was out, and the dishes, both of which I put off to finish the rest of the week. I'm getting closer and closer to getting the furniture moved around and the books put away, but I still have to sort out all the magazines, divide them into recycling, those I'm sending to soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan and those I'm keeping. I still have to buy the organizers to keep them in and that's on my to-do list. That will clear up a lot of space. Some of the books will go to friends and family that I think will appreciate them, but most of the books with go to either the library or in boxes to save because they're ARCs. I'll get organized before the first of the year one way or another.

Next week, I'll finish sending out my gifts, pay the bills, go grocery shopping and buy a tree to put up in the cleared out area in the living room. There will be cookies to bake, gingerbread, fruitcake and egg nog to make, the tree to decorate and another week of work to get through before the holiday, just like any other week, except with ornaments and lights.

There really isn't much to say. I anxiously awaited the new computer, but I realize now it will take time to figure it all out. The 17" screen is unbelievably big and wide and the keyboard will take getting used to, but otherwise, the keys all work with the lightest touch and I've almost downloaded all my favorite programs, like Firefox and Thunderbird and I'm ready to watch some good shows for a change. I might even put in some writing time. Anything is possible. About the only thing I miss right now is having a fireplace and a big steaming cup of hot chocolate to drink while the tree lights blink, bubble and shine like multi-colored stars while carols are playing. I need a piano.

Silly rejections

I just read the form submission I got on my story, Theft of the Seventh Chakra, and the editor took the time to print a note: "Don't skip extra lines between paragraphs." I'm pleased he took the time from his busy schedule to jot down that note -- and sign it -- but he's wrong. There are times when you skip an extra line between paragraphs, but he obviously missed it.

When you are changing points of view, narrators, chapters in a long short story, and denote a time or scene change, you use an extra line between paragraphs. Since the only extra line in my story is between the body of the story and the ending when the main character is dead and the point of view is no longer first person singular, that tells me he at least read the whole story. To pick out that one "mistake" and make a note of it makes me wonder if he was looking for an excuse to reject the story. That's the thing about rejections, as I've told many beginning writers anguishing over rejections, they are completely subjective and sometimes silly.

Editors are just people and they are subject to the same stresses, prejudices and moods as the rest of humanity, although there are some people who would argue that editors are people or even human. Some editors look for a reason to reject a story, like one editor who boasted she had read over 500 stories during the year and found only two worth publishing. She threw out stories when a word was misspelled or a sentence incorrectly published and rejected several stories because the grammar was incorrect. Her rejections had nothing to do with the stories and everything to do with feeling the need to reject everything that came across her desk. It happens. Editors can be very petty and mean. Not all editors are petty and mean every day; sometimes they're just having a bad day. As one friend said this morning when we discussed rejections, an editor can wake up in the morning and decide the minute they put their feet on the floor that they're going to reject everything that comes from a female writer. I'll just add that sometimes an editor will reject everything by writers whose names begin with a specific letter of the alphabet.

"Today I'll reject every writer whose name begins with C." The editor smiles and goes about his work.

Being an editor is hard work, especially when wading through a mountainous slush pile with stories that are unbelievably bad. It's like standing in a perfume shop assaulted by a thousand different smells and having to pick one scent out of the sensory avalanche of smells. Sometimes an editor misses the good ones because there have been so many bad ones that the eyes are swimming and slightly unfocused and the feeling of hope is a far distant dream.

The whole point of this informational rant is that rejection isn't personal 99.9% of the time and it is subjective 99.9% of the time. The only remedy for rejection is to send the story to another magazine or publisher or editor and keep sending it out until you sell it. Keep the work in play, especially if the comments are generic or are silly, like not skipping an extra line between a change of time, point of view, scene, character or chapter.

Maybe if I had used three asterisks between the story and the ending, the editor would have figured out the point of view change and understood the extra line -- or not. My story is going out in the mail this afternoon. I don't take silly comments seriously. Neither should you.

Water, water nowhere -- until now

You have no idea how wonderful the sound of running water is after it's been off for two days or how marvelous water tastes after two days of melted snow and no water. I also found out that I am a lightweight when it comes to drinking wine. A half glass of wine last night had my tipsy and high so I made popovers (melted snow and powdered milk for the liquid) to ease the effects.

But that water was a sound from heaven and ambrosia to drink. Four glasses so far, 12 ounces each. I did have to apologize to Beanie because I was talking to her on the phone when I squealed at the return of the water. I had all the faucets turned on.

All the things I missed the past two days: water, going #2 (very little water in the toilet and yes my eyes are now brown), taking a shower, washing my hair, the dishes and my clothes, drinking water, sipping water, guzzling water and water on my face, in my mouth, over my tongue and all over my body. Water. Melted snow is not nearly as good.

That is all. Disperse.

Interview with Toni Quest

In case you didn't get a chance to hear my interview last night, 12/07/09, here's a second chance.

Go to ScreamingWoman.com and down on the right side at the top of the list on Toni's audio links, click on J.M. Cornwell. That would be me.

That is all disperse.

A paler shade of blue

Blue, blue, my world is blue
Blue is my world now I'm without you
Gray, gray, my life is gray
Cold is my heart since you went away

Red, red, my eyes are red
Crying for you alone in my bed
Green, green, my jealous heart
I doubted you and now we're apart

When we met how the bright sun shone
Then love died, now the rainbow is gone

Black, black, the nights I've known
Longing for you so lost and alone

No, I'm not suicidal and I'm not feeling lonely or alone.

When I looked out the window this morning at that hour when the sun and earth are flirting with each other and the moon stares down nearly round-eyed, everything was blue. All the snow is part of the reason. At that hour and those moments with the sun and earth doing their daily winter dance, the light is blue and everything is blue. Even the sky in light, weak as an old man's labored breath, is powdery and blue and snow on rooftops, fence posts and ground brilliant and ethereal, ghostly and pale against the halftone colors of the rest of the world. It's a blue world and only here in this room where the white hot light of a coiled bulb emits no heat are the colors brighter and more real, solid and tangible. But it is that outside world in the snowy hush that draws me and wakes the lyrics of old songs from my younger self echo in my mind.

"Blue, blue, my love is blue," were the words that ached with love and loss and meaning. I don't feel that way now. I have put first loves and crushes behind me for a brighter day, a blue-white day that fills me with waking dreams and possibilities.

Last night, as I waited for the host of the radio show to sign on for our interview, I spoke with the station manager, Lillian Caldwell (great name, btw), and she offered me my own radio show. And I'm thinking about it. I need to figure out a theme and a format, but the show would kill two birds with one stone. I'd have an author site and a marketing platform that could make a difference in my professional life, but also the lives of other midlist or not yet midlist writers that would boost sales and maybe raise the consciousness of reading people everywhere (the show streams all over the world) about writers from all genres and walks of life. Imagine listening to a writer from Sri Lanka or the Ukraine read their work live.

There's still a lot to ponder, research and do, but I'm leaning in that direction.

Now all I need to do is figure out a format, a title for the show and start lining up guests.

I'm feeling a paler shade of blue.

Slow as molasses in winter

On the rusted T-bars of the old clothesline in the back yard outside my bedroom window, snow piles up and up: four inches now and soon five and six and even more from the looks of the snow coming down like a heavenly shaker with an endless supply of salt raining down, caught in the gravitational pull of winter. The sky is a dirty white and a mist of dirtier white streams from the chimney of the yellow brick building farther down the alley. A fuzzy tracery of winter bared trees appears and disappears through the fog of lowering clouds and chimney smoke. The more familiar solid shapes of telephone and utility poles are losing substance and depth. And the snow keeps falling.

My laptop is running like pudding through a fine-meshed sieve because I picked up a virus yesterday when I downloaded a program from Gamevance yesterday. Gamevance is a computer gaming site with malware and adware and spybots that latch onto the back door to deposit leeches sucking the RAM and energy from my usually fast running computer. I spent most of a snowy yesterday from mid morning to 7 p.m. clearing off the splattered cybergoop and my computer still isn't back to normal. I need to find my flash drive so I can save important files, like articles and books in progress, and do a complete install, but I hope I won't have to go that far and I can get the rest of the goop to vacate the premises whether they want to or not. This is my computer and I won't tolerate intruders.

All my carefulness about what I do and don't download and now I have been done in by a need for the mental stimulation of games. One more thing to zap off my list of things to do. Or I could buy a new computer, transfer all my data, and then clean this one off. If only I could afford that. And it's Monday.

And so it begins

I've been busy lately adjusting to a new work schedule and having some difficulty with it, but tonight's events put things into perspective.

I had my first radio interview at Blog Talk Radio with Gayle Johnson and Miriam Mimi Jacobs. The ladies were wonderful and had actually read Past Imperfect so that was good. The best part is that they both loved the book. I'll see if I can get a copy of the podcast and post it. Beanie and Ants surprised me by calling in to the show and saying hello. I heard Ants in the background say, "I love you." Beanie said how proud of me she and the boys are. That was definitely worth hearing in such a public way.

The other event this evening was a pre-interview with Toni Quest of Screaming Woman over the phone. We had a lovely conversation and found a lot in common, including our ages. TQ told me she doesn't usually read the books of authors she's interviewing, but after talking to me she had to read the book before Monday. I sent her a PDF review copy and I look forward to the interview on Monday night at 8:30 p.m. EST. I may even get used to all these interviews and chats my publicist, Linda Barnett-Johnson has set up for me between now and April 2010. At least I get to talk about my favorite subject -- writing. You thought I was going to say me. Ha! Fooled you!

Adjusting to a new earlier work schedule and working out the kinks has had me on the ropes, but the holiday has saved me. I love this time of year from Halloween right through to New Year's and Valentine's Day. It's not for the candy or the romance or the gifts, although I do enjoy that part, but because of the way it always makes me feel: happy, joyful and as excited as a kid trying to sleep Xmas Eve. The scents and sounds of the holiday get under my skin and make me feel like singing, but the best part is baking candy and cakes and cookies to give out and hearing how my gifts are received. One person, who shall remain nameless for now, opened her gift ahead of time, but I forgive her. It didn't arrive with the gift I got for her son and new daughter-in-law, so it's not really her fault. I also sent out holiday e-cards to everyone on my list and those were well received. Even if the gift is nothing more than an e-card, I always live in the expectation of shining a momentary brightness into the receiver's world so they hopefully feel what I feel -- happy to be alive and thankful for another year of friends, family and dreams coming true. That's something else I got from tonight's interview, that feeling of possibility and the knowledge that I am living my dream by writing and seeing my books published. Even though I can't live completely off the proceeds, it's coming and coming soon.

If you take away nothing else from this rambling post, take this: The holidays are a time of joy and happiness, a celebration of another year lived and a the brightness of love and possibility at a time when the earth is at its farthest from the sun. As we swing away from that bright glowing ball of gases and light and solar winds, it's temporary. After the 21st of December, midwinter day with the shortest day and the longest night, we swing back toward the sun and warmth and another year of possibilities and dreams waiting to be realized and lived. Out of the darkness, we come into the light. That is the promise of this time of year. Inside those dead looking trees, is life asleep and waiting to be awakened, and so it begins again.

If you do nothing else, be grateful for every season and enjoy it to the fullest. Don't waste it because although the season will come around again, it won't be the same one as last year or next year. Each one is unique and wonderful on its own. Celebrate your dreams and your families and friends, but most of all celebrate yourselves. This day will never come again. Make it a special memory.

For me, I'll be baking cookies and cakes and candies and finding people who need a little sweetness in their lives to enjoy them. After all, everything goes down a little easier with a sprinkle of sugar -- the natural kind of course.

Morning of possibilities and promise

Gold washes everything it touches and the blue is that heartbreaking color that echoes deep inside. A wash of white clouds like ghosts drift by barely moving, a moment frozen in time, except for the busy squirrels running races across the pointed tops of the palisade fence next door. The bare coiled bulb of the energy efficient light is the only thing that mars the serene perfection outside the window, making the dream less real. The moments tick by.

It's one of those Sundays when I'd rather hole up with a book and not face the laundry or the trash or work, but those are the chores that define my life most days and I wonder when I can give up the rat race and plunge into a life of research and writing that has nothing to do with the wage slavery that has kept my head enough above water so I don't drown. I can never give up, but I can have plans, and I do.

I read a post about Nora Roberts and her non-literary ventures and that is what I think all successful writers should do -- branch out. Nora owns a gallery, B&B and bookstore in the little town near where she lives. She's not sitting on her laurels or thinking about all the money she's earned that she'll never live long enough to spend. Instead, she's putting a lot back into the community and giving other writers and artists places for their voices to be heard. That's the kind of legacy to leave, not just collected literary works, but a living legacy that keeps living long after the writer is gone. I've known a few writers like that.

Andre Norton had her genre library and her door was open to everyone, fans and writers alike. Marion Zimmer Bradley put out a monthly magazine and helped discover some of the leading writers in fantasy and science fiction. Andre did the same thing, what the industry called her charity cases, but those charity cases include Susan Shwartz, Mercedes Lackey, and C. J. Cherryh, among many others. It was important to give something back, and for those writers and a handful of others, they gave back a lot, nurtured budding careers and helped writers find their niche and voices.

As we move into the season of giving, I am reminded that I need to give more, but not to the point that there is nothing left for me. It does no one any good if I am dissatisfied with my own output because I have given so much to others. Balance must be maintained and balance is hard sometimes, like this morning when all I want to do is wallow in words and images and books.

The faint wash of ghost clouds has almost moved out of sight and the sky is once again deep Colorado blue, a color promises bright sunshine and fresh air and possibilities. I want to be out there, and I will be, but the chores must come first. I'll hold the image in check, a bonus for getting the work done first, a reward for tasks accomplished and balance achieved. It is one of those mornings.

Self-serving promotion

A little while ago I received another review of Past Imperfect from Night Owl Romance and it's a good one.

Here's the money shot:

One thing about Diana is that she is one determined lady and no matter what the problem is she prevails. These are three people with so many obstacles yet one chance for one of them to find their true love. I just loved it.

That's 4.5 out of 5 stars. I can live with that.

That is all. Disperse.

Watching for cars

It's one of those golden mornings when the sun comes up and lights up a clear Colorado blue sky and I wish I was higher up in the mountains where the air is clear and I'm not snotting and sneezing all the time. I don't have nearly as many problems with allergens when I'm higher up and away from all the pollution and citified air. In order to get back there, I have to spend more time working down here, but I'll get there.

I had an interesting chat with someone I've known most of my life and had a crush on when I was younger: Scott Haney. His mother and mine were best friends and we both grew up thinking we were cousins, so the combination of shyness and familial taboo kept us both from saying that we liked each other. Finding out he had a crush on me was a surprise, but a pleasant one. Of the three Haney boys, he was my favorite. Paul, Jr, the oldest, was too focused on himself and Johnny, the youngest, was too goofy. Scott in the middle was not only the tallest but the best in my eyes.

Scott asked me if I remembered a time when he went out and laid down in the street to prove to me he was strong and brave by letting a car drive over him. I do remember and I remember being amazed and scared. I also thought he was incredibly stupid, if brave. He didn't live on a busy street so he didn't get his wish, but the gesture was enough--for me.

Scott and his wife Annie have been married for thirty years and they seem very well suited to each other and happy, which makes me happy. He got off to a rocky start and he's having a lot of physical problems now, due to his rock start, but he deserves to be happy and I'm glad that he is.

That's one thing I've noticed. Even when I've been interested in someone or had a crush, when I find out that they found the right partner and are happy and content with their life, it gives me hope for the future and that I'll find the right partner and happiness of my own. Until then, I am content to be closer than ever to my dreams coming true and being able to write makes everything so much better. I can see the change and evolution of my own writing as I let more and more of myself out into the open. There are still a few things I keep close to the vest, but fewer than before. It's a difficult process and one that is filled with challenges for me because I learned a long time ago to guard my heart to minimize the damage caused by others. I've found I'm not unique in this and several other people in my family do the same thing.

It's hard to put myself out there and trust people--or specifically one person--when I keep end up getting hurt and my emotions and heart trampled. People who only care enough to share their news and their troubles but never ask about mine remind me how much I still need to keep aloof and not allow myself to be someone else's emotional battery, boosting them when they are feeling ignored and dismissed in their own families.

Just because no one listens to you at home is no reason to run to me for an emotional boost because I care, especially if it means the only time you do show up is when you want something and never think to ask how I'm doing or how I'm feeling. It's selfish and uncaring and completely egocentric. That makes you the same as the people who marginalize, ignore and dismiss you. It's like a virus you keep passing around. It's sad and it makes me want to disconnect from all communication because I can only give so much without getting a little something back.

That's the thing about relationships. They work best when there are two people involved, like Scott and Annie. Scott had several surgeries on his back and is completely disabled, so Annie went back to school to get a nursing degree so she could pick up the slack. Scott designs and builds long bows and recurves, but he mostly stays at home and handles things there because he cannot work. He told me he and Annie get up together in the morning and when she leaves for work he goes back to bed for a while before getting up and taking care of things around the house and with his own projects. They are a team. When he was sidelined, she took point. That's the kind of relationship everyone should have instead of a relationship where one person carries all the weight and the other coasts and whines when they don't get everything they think they should have, and end up berating and blaming the other person for not working harder or doing more or giving up more so they aren't put out.

Relationships should be a two-way street, like the relationships I have with critique partners and friends. I give. They give. We all benefit and the relationships grow stronger. It's like a plant. Without water, sun and nourishment, the plant dies. Too much of any one element, or too little, and the plant cannot survive. Sometimes the plant needs more sun, a shuffling of nutrients and less water, but you adjust and give the plant what it needs to flourish. It's all about paying attention and being aware of what's needed -- like being ready to pull someone you care about out of the street when a car is coming.

Strangely enough, Scott was ready to get up and out of the way if a car did come, but it was the gesture that counted, and I was impressed eve though I did think he was a little bit stupid.

Artists Plead for Charles Manson's Freedom

The music and arts communities were stunned by the arrest of Charles Manson in Switzerland upon his arrival to pick up a lifetime achievement award. Manson's close personal friend and assistant stated, "If we had known Charlie would be arrested, he never would have gone."

Charles Manson was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder in the deaths of Sharon Tate, who was 8-1/2 months pregnant at the time, Polanski's friend Wojciech Frykowski, friend and former lover, Jay Sebring, noted hairstylist, and Frykowski's friend and lover, Abigail Folger,the Folger coffee heiress. On the following night, Manson's friends, dubbed the "Manson Family," brutally murdered Leno and Rosemary LaBianca in their home.

Thousands of artists, writers and those in the music industry have rallied to Manson's defense, calling his extradition to the United States a miscarriage of justice. "He has suffered over the past 38 years. His genius has illuminated the world and it is a travesty that he must be treated in this fashion," said Virgin Records founder Richard Branson. The outpouring of support includes the creative artists from every country, including the United States. Whoopi Goldberg said, "It wasn't murder-murder."

During an interview, Gore Vidal was quoted as saying, "Those were different times. The drugs, the alcohol, and Sharon Tate parading nude in movies were all part of a deadly emotional Molotov cocktail. Charlie wasn't even there that night."

In 1971 while awaiting sentence, Charles Manson fled the United States. Since that time, he has written songs for some of the most celebrated groups and singers in the world, living an exemplary life and donating millions to charities to end world hunger and repeal the death penalty.

Polanski, Sharon Tate's husband, said he doesn't want to rake up the past. "The past is the past. I have moved on with my life and would prefer not to have to relive those days again."

In 1995, Manson paid Polanski one million dollars and offered Polanski an apology for the murders done in his name.

Manson awaits extradition in neutral Switzerland and his appeals to be set free on bond have been denied as he is considered a flight risk. His lawyer's appeals on the strength of Manson's record of public service and the body of his work, acknowledged by most as genius, have also been denied.

Although Manson was to have received the Swiss award for lifetime achievement, the Swiss government refuses to set him free. In response, the artistic community have gathered to demand Manson's freedom and many have pleaded with the U.S. government to vacate the extradition order, to no avail, and in spite of Polanski's plea that Manson be set free.

Manson's plight continues to be an emotional issue for those for and against his return to the United States to face sentencing and the outpouring of support from the artistic community continues.

/satire.

Bouquets of yellow cactus flowers

First, I'd like to say 'thank you' to all the military veterans who have kept our country and most of the world safe, often giving their lives. My father was a veteran as were many of my relatives. One cousin even survived the Bataan Death March during World War II. On this day of all days, I honor and thank you.

Today is my oldest son's birthday. He's 36 today. Happy birthday, David Scott. Tom 's son, whose 11th birthday is today, happy birthday to you, too.

Today is also my best friend Chili Bob's birthday. He got his card, but I'd like to add a Happy Birthday and thank you for being you wish for his 62nd anniversary on this planet. Chili Bob is an amazing man and it turns out we are related distantly by Princess Nopee who was an Algonquin and lived during the days of Puritans coming to this country. Chili Bob is also related to the Bourbons, the family that ruled France right up to the end when King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette were beheaded. Their children survived, as did many of the rest of the family, and Chili Bob is a direct descendant. Since he and I are distantly related that makes me related to the kings of France. Pretty cool when you get right down to it.

One more item up on the calendar today is my interview with Lisa Haselton. It has gone live and is waiting to be read.

This is a morning of contrasts. I'm sitting here eating fresh organic strawberries that taste better than any I've had in a long time, simply delicious, and I'm looking at a gift for my aunt. She loves to garden and has a beautiful back yard garden in which she says she cannot place a single flower or plant, so I'm looking at flowering plants to send her for the holidays and I find Christmas cacti and it takes me back to a Christmas cactus my father loved.

That Christmas cactus had beautiful yellow flowers and he was very proud of it. My middle son Eddie was about two years old and he was entranced by the flowers, drawn to them, and he stared at them for minutes at a time, which is amazing when you consider his age. One afternoon all the beautiful yellow flowers disappeared from the cactus and reappeared in a dirty little hand held out to me to make me smile. Dad wasn't amused and he never let me forget that my son destroyed his cactus. Eddie was devastated and cried his broken little heart out. He wanted to give the pretty flowers to his mom. To him, they were flowers like the daisies and clover he often picked for me.  He didn't know they might not grow back.  They were the only flowers he could find. Snow covered the ground outside and no green poked up through the icy and dirty frozen crust. He wanted flowers to brighten my morning so it made sense to pick the flowers from the cactus. It made sense to him. Dad's house was a jungle of plants and he knew better than to pluck the African violets, but no one told him the Christmas cactus flowers were off limits too. It made sense to him. It didn't make sense to Dad.

The cactus bloomed again the following Christmas. Dad tended the cactus like a sick child, never forgetting -- or letting me forget -- the year Eddie plucked its flowers--nor have I. Of all the bouquets and flowers I've received, those golden cactus blooms are my favorites. Not because they were pretty (they were) or because they were given with my son's smiles and pride at having found flowers for me in the midst of winter. Because the price he paid was in the tears of a child's broken heart for a sin he never realized he had committed.

Now I'm contemplating giving a Christmas cactus to my aunt and I wonder if I should give her the gardenias or something else and give the cactus to Beanie who is so much like Dad. She has most of his plants and she doubtless remembers the story of Eddie's bouquet. It will mean more to her than to my aunt even though my aunt is Dad's sister.

As I eat my warming strawberries and look at flowering gifts to send to a cherished aunt, I can't help wishing for another bouquet of yellow cactus flowers from my son.

The morning of surprising adventurers

Surprises first thing in the morning are the best and I had a great surprise this morning. However, I'm not going to tell you what it is, except to say that I haven't smiled this big this early in the morning since I couldn't tell you when. About the only morning surprise that would be better . . . well, best not to go there in order to keep this work safe and me from going completely berserk.

For some unknown reason I have the best dreams in the morning after I've been up for a while and gone back to sleep, like this morning, and also the strangest. I cannot understand how I can get into REM so quickly and so completely.

This morning was visiting day in jail, although it was an unusual jail since men were allowed to visit for short periods of time and actually come into the area with the rest of the inmates. I had three visitors, all men, one of whom was so worried when he heard what happened to me that he came without putting on a shirt and wore only a wife beater. His arms were full of books, my favorite gift, and the other two visitors were a little jealous when I hugged him and fussed over him because it was the dead of winter and 20 degrees outside and he'd gone to the store to buy the books for me without getting dressed. I don't know how, but I saw him shaving and then rushing out half dressed when he heard I was in jail. I smoothed the others' ruffled feathers by hugging them, too, but I was still worried over the first one.

One of the deputies, dressed in a nurse's uniform, brought over a tray with something that turned out to be a pitcher full of red juice and a stack of dirty cups. It was the "good stuff". I went to ask about clean cups and noticed that the door to our section of jail was open and the nurse was the only one about. She said there were no clean cups and that I'd have to wash them and one of my visitors insisted that he wouldn't drink out of anything that had just been washed and the staff would just have to provide clean china or crystal for us to use.

Then the matron came back in and she said she was surprised I had not joined the rest of the group outside in the sunshine where, she intimated, fraternization was allowed as long as we were discreet when we went into the woods to fetch the animals we had shot. Guns were involved. I felt quite left out because no one let me know and because I had the whole area to myself and could have indulged in a few kisses and caresses without any problems, except choosing which one.

I was quite drawn to my half-dressed visitor who looked remarkably like Josh Hartnett, but my heart belonged to the one who looked like Indiana Jones and I was quite fond of Indy's very proper dad, Henry Jones, Sr., aka Sean Connery.

I don't know what woke me, but I do know that I'm not very happy about it since this dream is now lost to me and the REM window is closed. Chalk it up to a weekend of watching The Black Dahlia and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Sexy, strong, adventuring men do it for me every time.

And, no, that wasn't the surprise this morning. The surprise was better than a dream.

That is all. Disperse.

The week in review and reviews

This morning's email contained a notice that my interview with Lisa Haselton will go live on Wednesday, November 11th, otherwise known as Veteran's Day and my best friend Chili Bob's birthday. Lisa called my answers fantastic. That remains to be seen. I was, as always, just being myself, but I'd be interested in what you all think, especially you, , because your name came up.

Wow. The sky outside my window looks like a layered blue and white parfait with a mile of whipped cream on the top. Probably means snow, although I haven't checked the forecast in a few days. I've been buried in work and Alzheimer's disease of the early onset variety.

Did you know that there are specific tests available to detect Alzheimer's in utero and by a simple blood test? There are. It's only for the early onset Alzheimer's disease (EOAD) because that is as a result of faulty genes that are passed on. Offspring have a 50% chance of getting EOAD. They say drowning is pleasant when you quit struggling and from what I read in Lisa Genova's Still Alice Alzheimer's is very much like drowning. Sad, haunting, devastating and touching, although I don't care for Alice's husband who loves his work more than he loves his wife. I suppose life must go on even when one's partner is there and not there.

Finally got a box of books out to Aunt Anne and right this moment she is giving Jaye her autographed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family. Jaye will be "over the moon" according to Aunt Anne because a contributing author sent her a signed copy. At least she is easy to please. Timmy will give my fan his copy of the book this weekend, but I sure hope he reads On Esther Time because in the future it may well be him.

Aunt Anne told me as soon as she opened the box and took out the book she had to read it and she loved the story, and the signed copy of Past Imperfect I sent, which she will not loan out to Jaye. That one stays in Aunt Anne's possession.

I just finished Ted Dekker's new book, and the final book of a four-book cycle, Green. It's really good and I have to get the other three books, Black, Red, and White. This is strange fare but it's also fascinating. The characters and world created are amazing and although there is a strong good and evil element to the book, it's not overwhelming. The story takes precedence over the religious themes. If the other three books are as good as this one, I may have to check out more of Dekker's writing. I haven't been that engrossed in a very long time.

Well, breakfast is almost over and I need to get back to the work of editing and laundry, so arrivaderci, au revoir, bye-bye.

That is all. Disperse.

Halloween weekend recap

Just have time for a quickie this morning. I was up early but spent my time between the bathroom and writing. It's what I do in the mornings--urinate and write.

I've been on a roll lately, but it didn't occur to me until this morning to double check the calendar to clarify dates in one of my stories. I was on target, so my memory is still intact and functioning even though I was remembering things that happened 25 years ago, almost half my lifetime ago. It just doesn't seem possible sometimes and others . . . well, it's like it happened in another lifetime.

The weekend was busy and quiet and I discovered that I can see Pikes Peak out the bedroom window if I'm pointed in the right direction. I happened to look up while lying across the bed fishing for books fallen between the bed and the wall and saw snow-covered Pikes Peak. I hadn't looked out from that direction before since I tend to lie in bed facing west and not south. It does make a difference.

One more critique is history and this one isn't too bad, although the main character is a bit flaky, irresponsible and slobbish for my taste. I'm not sure if this is supposed to be a romance or not, but if it is, it is taking a very long time to get to the point. I'm five chapters in, more or less, and the heroine has done nothing but complain, whine, bitch, kvetch and slack. She's modeling her life on Scarlett O'Hara from Gone With the Wind and so far, she's not living up to the tempestuous tyrant of Tara at all. She also doesn't act at all like a professional veterinarian ophthalmologist, in my opinion. I'm amazed she got through veterinary school and got a job, come to that. And I won't even go into her fondness for the word slash, which she uses at every possible opening--a lot. Still, there is something there even if it's just a glimmer of a wink of possibility.

With one biography down and a pre-post apocalyptic fantasy nearly finished, I'm in good shape review-wise. I've made headway on my new novel and continue to clear up discrepancies and edit a novel in the publisher's editing queue and am generally pleased with my progress. I didn't get any laundry done this weekend, but I have plenty of underwear so I'm safe for another week or so. Trash goes out tonight and I'll probably do a load of towels and vacuum tonight, but otherwise things are under almost completely under control. I love it when work and writing come together without needing me to crash my head against the wall or pull all nighters. I need my sleep, such as it is.

There were no trick-or-treaters this year, but I didn't buy any candy or treats so I'm not out anything, except the joy of the spectacle. My landlord did call on Friday to tell me that the police had been called for the neighbor because some of the middle school hooligans kicked out the slats in his picket fence. Mark wanted to know if everything was all right here, but by the time I got the message and called back he already knew I was all right and uninvolved in the fracas. I mentioned the roof again and he told me that one day soon roofers would be here to pull off the shingles and completely reroof the addition. I asked about the dwindling pile of dirt and Mark said he'd have the roofers handle that at the same time, so things here will soon be back to normal, as long as I can talk the roofers into fixing the front door so the winter winds don't have a free pass to the rest of the house through the gaping gaps around the door. I might even be able to stay warm this winter without breaking the bank on the heating bill and lower the budget on the utilities next year. All good things.

I miss the golden aspens. There are none near where I live. I also miss the one foot thick walls of the cabin and the solitude, but I miss it less than usual. Too much going on down here to keep me busy and several people clamoring for my writing services waving lots of money at me. I can live with that very well. Looks like the last two months of this year are merely a prelude to a bigger and better 2010, but I can wait. I intend to savor every single day left of this chaotic year. Can't afford to wish away any more time. I'm not twelve going on twenty-one any more.

That is all. Disperse.

Beggar's Night

Tonight, tonight is beggar's night. Don't be stingy and give them a bite -- or two.

I added the "or two" and changed it to them, but that is the rhyme Dad taught me when he took me out on my first Halloween a half-century ago. Sounds like a long time, but those memories are still as fresh as the night we dressed up and went on our first rounds.

This year I didn't buy candy because last year I ended up with too much candy and quite a few caramel apples when no one came. My porch light was on, but I haven't seen a single ghost, goblin, ghoul or princess since I moved here, or anywhere in the neighborhood since I moved to the Springs. Parents take their kids to shopping malls and schools to do their trick-or-treating or to parties where I doubt they still bob for apples; they don't take them around the neighborhood. How I miss that.

Someone sent me a Halloween gift, a coffin from the vampire club, and I'd like to thank them. Whoever you are, thank you. You made my Halloween brighter and a little bit more special.

As the moon rises full and bright in the dark sky and passes towards the far horizon, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead thins and ghosts pass into our world. Treat them gently and feed them well, but let them go before the morning sun rises to dispell the dream. They are only here for one night. When we feed the apparitions who come to the door, we honor the dead and feed them.

Tonight I honor my father who loved Halloween as much as I and imparted a joy and happiness every day of the year with his stories and jokes and his ever present smile and laughter.

Happy Halloween, Dad.

Treading memory's waters

Snow a couple days ago and snow again this morning, off and on under such a dirty gray sky the sun cannot be seen. It's probably hiding or taking a vacation or just isn't strong enough this morning to clean the celestial windows. Whatever the reason, I am grateful for the soft white fall of autumn's ashes softening the ragged edges of the summer's bounty that drags the remaining ragged flags of brown, desiccated leaves from the skeletal trees. Like most men going bald, the trees look better clean and trimmed of delusions of summer. That's what evergreens are for with their year-round proof that the world is sometimes green.

A faint scent of coconut milk and jasmine tea lingers in the house this morning and an empty bowl sits on the nightstand why I write this. I've been up since before five and have spent most of the morning lingering among people I haven't seen for almost thirty years, remembering and adding insights from a distant where I am sufficiently divorced from the fear and feelings of hopelessness that I can see what I was hidden and overlaid with chaotic emotions. I've added things I didn't know at the time and used things I heard after the fact to springboard back into the deep end of time's waters to make a better story. Although the book could be considered memoir, I've decided to let fiction carry the weight of memory and experience and set myself free to imagine what was and could have been.

Mary Ann reminded me that I should be writing and finishing this book so I can submit it to the publisher anxiously and patiently waiting for me to get on with it. She's made her first submission and is feeing quite vindicated that it ended in rejection, but there's nothing to feel vindicated about. Try the same publisher in a few months or a year and the response could be very different, acceptance instead of rejection. Rejection is such a hard and hurtful word to the writer dipping a toe in professional waters. Don't take it personally. It could have been a bad day and everyone got rejected without a reading or the editor or editor's assistant decided that everyone gets a rejection without being read because they were tired from too much Halloween candy that will never make it to the beggar's bowl. Editors are people and rejections subjective. It's no reason to quit writing or submitting. Remember all the best selling authors who couldn't even get arrested for flagrant grammar violations before someone took a chance and published their work. Now they're free to promiscuously pad their word counts with adjectives, dangling modifiers and split infinitives to their hearts' content.

Oh, well, c'est la vie écrire. Such is the writing life. And to my writing life I shall return to wallow in companionship and alienation and abandonment just like the real thing. It's one of those weeks.

That is all. Disperse.,

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.