It's all about light

Throughout the season since Thanksgiving, there have been angry and loud claims of those who are intent on keeping the Christ in Christmas. They object to "Season's greetings" and "Happy holidays" because for them, it's all about the birth of Christ. In their single-minded drive to force their views on everyone else, I'd like to calmly and quietly remind them that this is a season of many holidays, most of which do not include Christ. This has nothing to do with being PC or bending over backward for someone else's faith or beliefs, but a simple statement of facts.

From Thanksgiving to New Year's, people of all faiths and persuasions celebrate the following: Chanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yule and Mid Winter Solstice. Surprisingly enough, there is no Christ in these holidays and yet they are traditional at this time of year. So, while all the Christians celebrate their particular holiday, I hope they will not be so adamant about the Christ in Christmas that they forget the generosity and joy of the season and give a nod to the people of the rest of the world who do not share their faith and beliefs. I will spend my holidays celebrating Yule and the Solstice and will put up my tree, a tree decorated with presents, light and ornaments that came long before the change to Christmas. I celebrate much older traditions and, though I do not celebrate Kwanzaa or Chanukkah or Christmas, I offer my seasons greetings and happy holidays to those who do.

In the end, it's not about who or why you celebrate, but that you take the time to celebrate the end of the reign of darkness and the swing back toward the sun and the coming of the light. Whatever you choose to celebrate, in the end that's what it's all about.

Happy Holidays. Seasons Greetings. May all your days be merry and bright.

Is honesty the best policy?

Honesty is important in all relationships, but there is a difference between honesty and emotional dumping.

It's self serving and dishonest to suddenly dump on your partner that you've been unfaithful. If your conscience is bothering you, don't ruin the other person's day or life by confessing. You're only unburdening yourself to make you feel better not make your relationship better. If you got away with it and you feel guilty, do the right thing and make amends, not in such a way that the other person will suspect and corner you about it because that's the same as emotional dumping; you've just put the other person in the position of "forcing" you to confess. It's still emotional dumping.

In other words, pay attention to your partner. Stop being a jerk and let them know you realize how awful you've been and find a way to work and talk things out. Don't confess. Make it better gradually and slowly until you're back where you were in the beginning. Change takes time, so take the time to change. Be honest with yourself and if you need to confess your perfidy, go to a priest or a therapist or shrink and unburden yourself. No one but you will be served by confessing to your partner.

Be honest. Find out what you are and be that. That's honest.

That is all. Disperse.

A season of wonder

This is my favorite time of year, next to Halloween, Beltane, Valentine's and all the other holidays. There's something so special about the feeling in the air of hope and excitement and good will toward men -- and women and children and old people and everyone.

For me, it's not about the gifts I get but the gifts I get to give. I get all squirmy with excitement and mischief when planning birthday and anniversary surprises, but this one is the big one. It's not a day for one special person but a lot of special people. My gifts are all sent off and I can hardly wait for the recipients to get them and be surprised. I don't have to know what they thought of the gift, which is why I send some gifts anonymously. The high is in the giving and not in the thanks or appreciation coming back.

This weekend I get my tree and I'm going to pull out all the decorations and lights and do it up right with hot chocolate, mulled wine and cookies still warm from the oven filling the air with spice and mingling with the scent of fresh pine needles and warmth. This is the season of wonder and happiness.

Yesterday Beanie said she was sad that I'd be alone during the holidays. I reminded her that I've been alone for a lot of years, to which she replied that it didn't seem that way when I lived in Ohio because she could come to see me whenever she wanted and now she can't. I spent most of my birthdays alone or with friends, but seldom with my own family. Mom always said she didn't remember when my birthday was. Thanksgivings were spent with friends and once in a while with family, but the visit was usually a couple of hours because I had to work. Hospitals never close and I worked almost every holiday. I spent a couple hours with family at Xmas Eve, always in someone else's home because I didn't have a family and everyone else did. Xmas day was always alone; I didn't want to intrude on others' family time. None of that mattered then and it doesn't matter now. I still have my season of fun and wonder and it doesn't always need to be populated by others.

There are times when I think about a quiet Xmas Eve spent with a like-minded someone. Decorating the tree, baking and enjoying a candlelight dinner for two, both of us dressed to the nines, an intimate evening for two. We'll open one gift each and spend the rest of the evening listening to Xmas music and watching a crackling fire while we talk, dance, reminisce and snuggle. Xmas morning, we'll have breakfast and hot chocolate, turn on the tree and unwrap the rest of our gifts to the sound of carols and bells, then spend the rest of the day enjoying each other. There don't have to be a lot of gifts or a sumptuous feast of food and drink, just the company of two people willing to open their hearts to each other and to the midwinter season of hope and happiness.

Yes, it sounds sappy, but this season of all seasons makes me feel sappy. Every time I watch Charlie Brown or Ralphie and listen to Xmas carols and holiday music I am once again struck by wonder and awe that in the midst of the darkest time of the year there are always candles and Xmas tree colors to light the way. I always feel like a kid again, unable to sleep on Xmas Eve because of the spectacle and the feast of the senses that awaits me in the morning. I still can't sleep on Xmas Eve and I expect I never will. I'm too busy listening for Santa's sleigh and the jingle of the harness on the reindeer even when he doesn't stop at my house. Besides, I don't have a chimney.

Happy holidays to everyone. May the spirits of the season infuse you with the excitement and happiness of Scrooge on Xmas morning.

Come to a full and complete stop

There are times when the writing goes so good that it's hard to stop, but then life intervenes, or more precisely--work. I can either keep writing and hope I find a stopping place when it's time to sign on for my shift or quit while the words and the thoughts are still hot and hope they're still there when I'm finished working. This is the part of the double life I lead that I dislike the most--having to do the writing-work balancing act. It's a simple equation. Work = money = affording the materials and resources necessary to write. Writing = money, but only after a long hard climb to the top. In the meantime, the only steady source of income is work, thus the difficulty of the situation.

I got up about 3:30 a.m. and decided I didn't want to try to go back to sleep, so I started editing and making some changes, clarifying some dangling threads and loose issues so I wouldn't lose time when the writing was good. That took about 30 minutes, which meant I still had lots of time before I had to get ready for work, so I started reading, deleted about four pages that weren't going well and started writing. And it flew. I was in the zone. I was hot. I was sizzling. I was 5000 words to the good. I wanted to keep writing, but it's nearly time to start getting ready for work.

One thing I've learned about writing is that it's never a good idea to put on the brakes and slam to a stop. Much like driving a car in bumper to bumper traffic or running a marathon and then stopping dead without a cool down period, disaster is quick to follow: accident in the first scenario and possible heart failure in the second, neither of which is conducive to a continued career in writing since death may be the result. Can't write when you're dead and I have to finish this book.

So it's time for the cool down: checking email, reading blogs, futzing around on Facebook for a couple of minutes and checking out a hot Russian pilot who promises food, caviar, wine, vodka and a ride in a MIG 29 for an email. You know I can't resist the chance to fly in a MIG with a hot Russian pilot -- or any pilot as long as I get to fly in a MIG. I don't care if he's married; I'm not going to date or sleep with him. I just want to fly in the MIG. I wonder if I have to go to Russia for that or if he will fly by here and pick me up. Hmmm.

Needless to say, I'm on a roll and might even finish this book by the end of the week. That's good. When I'm done, I'll do a read-through and begin the next project, the one that has been following me into dreams and gumming up the works when I'm supposed to be typing up technical and difficult heart surgeries and breast reconstructions. Aah, the life of the workaday world. You can have it as long as I get to write.

Okay, I'm cooled down now and can safely move to the next phase of my morning: shower, shampoo and shifting through clothes for something to wear. I have a date with a grocery cart this afternoon and I have to look my best. Produce can be so crude and rude sometimes.

DC the PC

No, I don't mean the personal computer, but the political correctness.

I've said this before and will continue to say it until I no longer have breath or hands or life. Political correctness is gutting our language and our lives. We are so afraid of offending someone that we have created an atmosphere when the most inoffensive language is suspect and becomes offensive. Mention a monkey in a conversation and someone will think you mean them. Use any innocuous phrase and someone will use it as an excuse to claim you are denouncing their religion, race or personal preferences. This has to stop.

Did you know that if a person doesn't get touched enough that the skin becomes highly sensitized to the point that the lightest touch becomes painful? It's the same with fear of offending someone. The more you fear to offend someone the more you are guaranteed to offend them.

My uncle is a bigot and a lot of the things he says are offensive to blacks (and, no, I will not call them African Americans because they did not come from Africa, they were born right here). I don't agree with what he says and I often tell him so, but I appreciate his candor. I'd rather know someone is a bigot or racist or sexist right up front instead of having to learn about it later. Stab me in the heart and not in the back.

As our president continues his international apology tour, we should not be surprised. After all, the root of all evil is right here in America and we are the ninth circle of hell, that place reserved for traitors, like Judas Iscariot, at least in Dante's vision of hell. I don't believe in hell, but if I did I would place lawyers, politicians and purveyors of political correctness there.

With that in mind, I would like to share the following.



What he said. We will perish of this orgy of political correctness and it's time to stop the madness. Call a spade a spade. You'll feel better for it. No wonder depression and schizophrenia are on the rise in this country. How could it be any different when we stuff our feelings and thoughts into a box instead of letting them out. Like flatulence, better out than in.

That is all. Disperse.

Sunday morning coming round

As much as I like the keyboard on this new laptop, I have to say I'm not having a good time with the touch pad. It's hinky and doesn't want to work the way it should, or at least the way my old one did. The configuration and placement is off and it's not as sensitive as the old embedded touch pad on the fragged computer. I imagine I'll get used to it eventually, but right now I am not a happy geek.

At least one thing went right this morning. Popovers. If you don't cook and don't bake, you can still make popovers and you don't really have to have a popover pan. I used to do them in a muffin tin and it still works good that way. It's the easiest recipe in the world and the only thing that is the least bit fussy is the prep. Interested? Oh, you probably don't know what a popover is.

Ever hear of Yorkshire pudding as in Beef Wellington and Yorkshire pudding? It's not the same thing, and yet there is a similarity. Popovers are airy puffs of egg, flour and milk that rise up like a soufflé, but have a crunchy outside and air-filled, slightly eggy inside. They are kissing cousin to the cream puff without the cream and are much simpler to make. Are you game?

1 cup flour
1 cup milk
1 tsp salt
2 eggs (room temperature is best)

Mix all ingredients until just combined (no lumps and don't over mix). Pour into greased muffin tin (or popover pan or individual soufflé dishes) and bake at 400 for 40 minutes. It's that simple. But the trick is in the prep. Remember? Turn oven to 400 and place greased muffin tin inside until same temp as oven. Take out and pour batter into 8 receptacles, about halfway full, and pop into oven. Bake for 40 minutes and then take them out.

These airy, eggy, outside crunchy puffs are ready for butter, jam, peanut butter or whatever you want to put in them. I like them with jam and butter, but I found out that salmon cream cheese is quite tasty, too. It depends on your craving and your tastes. If you prefer a savory popover, substitute 1/2 teaspoon of salt with 1/2 teaspoon poultry seasoning and fill with savory seasoning, like salmon cream cheese. Popovers are very forgiving, take about two minutes to put together (minus the prep) and are just lovely and just enough filling that you can still go out jogging afterward, unless you weigh them down with lots and lots of fillings. I'm addicted and a little surprised that it took me that long to take the plunge once again. Since I didn't have any milk, I used powdered milk (1/3 cup to 1 cup water), but condensed milk (not the sweetened kind) would work just as well. Like I said, very forgiving.

That's the food tip for today. When you try them, and you know you will, let me know whether or not you're addicted. They're better than pancakes and maple syrup and butter are just lovely with popovers.

I guess I should say at least one good thing about the laptop. The screen is wide and the colors beautiful and watching a movie on it is wonderful. I'll get over the minor glitches eventually, just like I did with the old laptop, but it's like any new relationship -- takes time to get comfortable with each other, even though I love the smooth action of the keyboard, which probably won't last long because I tend to be a power user and keyboards don't stand up well to my incessant pounding and fast speed. I am a writer after all.

There was one other surprise this morning, and it wasn't the cream cheese or the funky touch pad. Someone left a gift on my doorstep and I suspect only one person will understand this. The person, named Julian if the inscription inside the book is to be believed, left me a book. At first I thought it was an author who was determined to have me review their book, but it wasn't an author. The book is about American slave labor with privatized prisons as the sweat shop where several corporations have their goods made. It was a gift from someone I'm working with on an expose'. I'm quite surprised and excited. This is for a new project I'm working on with some interesting ripples already heading out on the stream of consciousness. So, on that note, I shall quit typing, send this up and do the laundry and dishes.

That is all. Disperse.

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.