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Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Day One

I made good on my threat and bought St. John's Wort last night. It wasn't easy. As I turned down the main street toward Health Food Mart, I spotted an accident between me and that intersection. Figuring God wouldn't cause an accident to prevent me from procuring over-the-counter drugs, I went out of my way and got to the store by another route.

TT: The part about me knowing what God would do is pure sarcasm. I've recently discovered I have no idea what God will or won't do, and I'm determined not to comment on His actions anymore.

When I last took St. John's Wort, it acted like a euphoric and I traded attention to detail for ability to get up in the morning and not cry all day. At the time, it was a fair trade. This time around I expect a less dramatic effect (mostly because I'm not treating a nervous breakdown). I'm hoping it will be more of a mood enhancer that provides energy to do the things I love until whatever potential chemical issue is happening rights itself.

The bottle contains 60 pills. We'll see what happens over the next 30.

On another bright note, my kick scooter arrived yesterday. It's a Lux A5 Razor for adults ('cause I needed the extra weight limit, ehem) and it's totally awesome. It weighs about 10 lbs and collapses into a skateboard-sized bundle for easy storage in Lavender Squeak. Last night's test run shows I'll need some practice but not as much as I feared. It also showed my right leg is stronger than my left, so I have a goal if I want to be an ambidextrous kick scooterer.

Here's a fact: I've always wanted a kick scooter but I never knew they made them for adults. I'm actually really excited to have one.

My last Wednesday started great, too, and turned to a steaming pile of compost, but this is a whole new week with no sign of the DMV on the horizon, so I'm going to think positive until something knocks me unconscious.

Happy Halloween, dear readers. Be safe. 

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

A New Thought

I may be depressed.

Shocking, yes, that I might think this now, considering most of my posts for the last year could be tagged "depression," but when you're in the water, it's hard to see the waves.

I don't have anything to be depressed about. I love my job (haven't starting doing the new job yet, so I can't speak to that). Everybody in the turtle household is healthy. My life has no real problems in it, especially when compared to other people (something I did a lot of while sitting at the DMV). I have no reason to be depressed.

I told My Dear Friend I was considering buying St. John's Wort, something I haven't taken in 15 years, because weekends seem increasingly difficult. "But I don't think it's that bad. Nowhere near what my nervous breakdown was like."

"How bad does it have to be to be depression?" was her innocent question.


I'm always tired. Tears are waiting and ready for any opportunity. I'm snapping at people like an arthritic dog. The smallest problem becomes a huge mountain of horror and incapacitating trauma. Things I used to love doing - working outside, writing, rearranging furniture - are all too "hard" to do anymore. Even if I do them, what's the point? Entropy is Master of the Earth and she will not be conquered.

I may pull out my DSM-IIIR (Diagnositc and Statistical Manual III, Revised) to confirm, but, Doc, I think I'm depressed with depressed and irritable mood.

Guess I'll be stopping by the Health Food Mart.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Dirty, Little Secret, part 2

Only 3 days left to buy Star of Justice ebook for the bargain price of $2.99. Tell your friends.
Let's see. When last we left our heroine, I was a broke college grad with friends. Obviously, things could have been worse. Years later, when I started picking up books again, I discovered something important had changed.

I'd grown critical.

Hard to imagine, I know, that unassuming little me would be critical, but there it is. I blame college. I should blame Mr. Freidline, my seventh grade teacher, who laid the groundwork for critical thinking by requiring book reviews instead of book reports, but college built on that foundation. I learned to give my opinion on other people's work and, boy, howdy, did I.

Where once upon a time I would read an awful book all the way to the end because the writer took the time to write it, I learned I can put a book down. I can even throw a book away. Why would I give tripe to the library to contaminate some other innocent?

Spend enough money on enough tripe and my solution was to stop buying books unless I was absolutely, positively certain I would like them. That rarely happened and the reading mostly stopped.

What about books I loved so much they made me want to stop writing because the author did all the possible cool stuff already and I couldn't compete? Had that opinion of Robert Jordan for a while. Praise the Lord he came out with some of those boring Seanchan and Children of Light books somewhere around Seven or Eight or I would never have started Star of Justice.

The worst is when I like the person and not the writing. Has that happened to you yet? Maybe it doesn't happen to non-writers. I've had the unfortunate experience of liking the author a great deal yet finding no interest whatsoever in the writing produced.

(No, I'm not talking about any of you. OK, maybe one. *snort-chuckle*)

That's the moment to put on my big-girl shell and act like a grown-up, whatever that means.

The final nail in my coffin is the work aspect of reading. It's harder to turn on a light and settle my brain into turning script into images than it is to turn on the TV and let images flow into it, especially if I'm not convinced the effort is worth the reward.

So there's my list of excuses, erm, reasons I stopped reading. Anyway, I've got about 5 pages of Kindle books To Be Read and I'm making some steady progress. Lowering expectations and turning off the TV have helped considerably. Robert Jordan being dead hasn't hurt but I'd rather he were still alive.

Last plug: Star of Justice, Amazon Kindle version, $2.99 until Nov 1. 

Friday, October 26, 2012

I'm Kinda Done

Seems writing it all down has helped with the perspective. I continue to believe God is crazy, but I'm also willing to allow He's good.

I sold my Suzuki yesterday, which allowed me to transfer my personalized plate to Lavender Squeak today, something that would not have happened had I not grabbed the wrong insurance paperwork on Wednesday which caused the meltdown I wrote about. Meaning: God worked that out for good.

I waited three hours today and I got the same woman at the DMV (who really didn't like me; I have a witness) but still got the transfer completed. Meaning: God worked that out for good, too.

I cannot say God doesn't care. He has proved to me in two recent, specific instances that He does. I cannot say I understand in the slightest what "God caring" means, but He does. So be it.

I don't understand what I am supposed to have learned from any of this. I don't think I've learned anything useful. I'm almost able to laugh about it, but I haven't been stranded by Lavender Squeak again yet, so we'll see. I'll vent in writing a little sooner, maybe. Spare myself the crying headache.

Anyway, I'm back to normal for now. I'll be finishing my post about reading next time, and in the meantime I'll say, "I'm sorry for being such a brat, God, but you made me this way, so it's really Your fault."

OK, I haven't learned anything. Sigh. 

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

I'm Still Not Done

After learning that Lavender Squeak would be repaired (minus my $500 deductible), I found some semblance of balance. God would restore my broken gift and take care of me like He always does.

I took it in for its first oil change. When I went to pick it up, I discovered my beautiful van has the design flaw I read about as the one possible caution for this otherwise four and a half star reviewed vehicle.

Apparently, for no discernible or repairable reason, the van's anti-theft system will shut it down at random for four hours to two days at a time. Meaning, without warning or hope of repair, I will be stranded somewhere, at some point in time, for as long as I own this van.

The alarm is part of the van's electrical system. It cannot be removed. No one who reported this problem in the reviews reported a fix. All of those vans had a higher mileage than mine, though, so I hoped that I would have several years and time to rebuild my cash reserves before I had to deal with it, if I ever had to deal with it at all. Surely if it were a common problem, they would have issued a recall. Surely God wouldn't allow me to buy a vehicle with this particular problem. Why would He want me to be stranded somewhere?

Yet this is the vehicle I now own. A vehicle I have no hope of selling. Who would want an unreliable 14 year old van? That's what it is. My only hope is to trade it in to dealer, which is how I got it in the first place, or to really, truly total it, perhaps by driving it off a cliff.

Currently, though, I own two vehicles. A dying Suzuki and an unreliable Chrysler. Both of which I must now tag, insure and pay taxes on. A Suzuki that will give out and a Chrysler that I fear, as I would fear a big dog that bit me badly enough to require stitches and rabies shots.

The final kicker in the story so far? According to the woman at the DMV (where I failed to notice I grabbed the wrong proof of insurance so I couldn't finish what I waited two and a half hours to do), I can't switch my personalized plate (which I've had since I was 15) to the van until I sell the Suzuki. My identity must sit in a field until the dying car is sold. How's that for a metaphor? 

My love story has become a horror story, and it isn't over. I have to go back to the DMV and pay that enormous amount of money during my vacation. I have to try to sell the Suzuki. I have to learn to drive the van without hitting walls, and I have to plan what to do for the day when it doesn't work when I need it to.

What am I learning? That God is a bully, who could give good gifts but would rather teach me a lesson I don't understand. I feel like He gave me an ice cream cone and then knocked it into the litter box.

You know how people always say "I didn't want it when it happened, but I wouldn't change a thing?" Yeah, I don't see me saying that. I don't need a 2x4. I was doing it right, and I got smacked. You know what that teaches me? It doesn't matter how I do it; I'll still get smacked. Here's the thing, though: I won't play if I don't have chance to win. I'm not a fighter. If there isn't a way to do this right, I won't do it. I'll learn to ride the bus. Or walk. Or ride a kick scooter. I won't pound my head into hamburger for anybody, not even me.

I'm angry. I'm trying not to be, and that makes me depressed. Depression is the flip side of anger, you know. Why am I angry? I don't know. I have no right to be, yet I can't stop it. Every time I think I've got a handle, another thing happens because of that van and the anger returns.

I don't want anyone thinking that God is like this to everybody, 'cause I'm pretty sure He's not. I continue to believe in Him; I just don't want to talk to Him right now. And if I'm being completely honest, which I may as well be because I've already told God this while I'm not talking to Him, I'd like Him to apologize. Nothing fancy. Just 40-story letters of fire spelling out "We apologize for the inconvenience."

It wouldn't make me less angry, but it would be something.

This is why I've been a little quiet. It's not a good reason, but it's the reason. I'm not looking for sympathy or lectures. I don't need help or advice. I'm not looking for any kind of response at all, from anybody, even God. Mostly, I'm looking for a way to make sense of it. I hoped writing it down would provide that. Maybe it will.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, I'm upset, and I'm going to bed.

I'm Not Done (or, Time to Vent)

I was going to bed, but I'm waiting for the nighttime cold medicine to kick in, so I may as well finish what I started.

I loved my first car. It was a 1983 Subaru GL-10, and it belonged first to my grandfather and then to my dad. He used to drive me to school in it. We'd listen to Larry Burkette, and I tell him I loved him, and he'd go off to work.

I had to sell that car because it was 13 years old and the engine was going out. If I knew then what I know now, I would have rebuilt the engine. Instead, I bought a red Pontiac I hated. I paid it off and drove it until it almost died, and I bought a white Suzuki I hated. I paid it off and drove it until the engine seals starting leaking.

Three years before that happened, I started praying for a new car. "Lord, I'm gonna need a car eventually. I'm gonna pay cash for it, so I know it won't be great, but I'd like as nice a one as I can get, please."

I've prayed that for 6 years. All I wanted was a dependable car I didn't hate. I wouldn't go over my budget. I would take my time. I would listen hard for God's leading. I'd listen to the counsel of God-fearing people who knew more about cars than I did.

Twenty-four days ago, I thought God answered my prayers. I found a mini-van. I even liked the color. I wasn't pushy. I didn't demand that God give me that van. I was willing to drive away and keep looking because I knew God would answer my prayer for the right car for me. If that wasn't it, I didn't want it.

Circumstances unfolded in such a way as to convince me this was the vehicle God meant for me to have. The price came down further. The two men who went with me (one a mechanic) gave the green light. There was a cd of a sermon from a guy with my brother's name stuck in the visor, for heaven's sake. And I liked it. I really liked it. I handed over the cash, and I drove home happy. I had plans to vacuum it and pay for car washes and drive it for years and years. I didn't care that it had a little rust on the bumper. I was my Lavender Squeak, and she was beautiful.

Four days later, I ran the van into a retaining wall in the parking garage at work.

God gave me a beautiful gift, and I broke it. I didn't mean to, but it was broken, and it was broken badly enough the insurance adjuster gave me the choice to total it.

What does that mean? Does that mean this wasn't the van I was supposed to have? Does this mean I can't have a nice vehicle that I love the way I loved my Subaru? Does it mean nothing at all? And what would that mean? That God would give me the car I wanted and not care that I would break it? Why would He do that? Yes, it was an accident, but He could have prevented it. I would rather He'd given me a POC car if He knew I was going to break it. What am I supposed to learn from this? That God is too stupid to grant the request I don't know I should make, like "Lord, please don't let me run my new van into a retaining wall"? He's the creator of the universe. Shouldn't He know I don't want to do that?

Do you think it sad that smashing my 14 year old van would rock my world view? It took me by surprise, I can tell you.

But how do I run to the same Guy who could have prevented all of this and ask Him to fix it when He knew it was going to happen and did nothing? That says to me it was supposed to happen. My beautiful gift was supposed to be smashed. Why? To teach me some lesson? To provide an opportunity for growth? To reinforce that life sucks? I'm pretty sure I don't need that reinforced. Besides, the God who knows me knows how thoroughly I learn a lesson and how rarely it is the lesson the teacher intended.

My only conclusion at this point is God hit me with a 2x4 for no particular reason at all other than He can. I won't say He doesn't care about me. He made it quite clear that He does. But He doesn't seem to care about this, and I can't quite forgive Him for that.

I keep trying. I keep trying to humble myself and look on the bright side and be the happy little disciple and all I can manage is the fatalism of "none of it matters, so I'll decide not to care." I keep thinking I've made it, too, until something else comes up.

Such as...

6 Things To Know When Buying a Vehicle

1. No matter how careful you are when choosing a vehicle to buy, you will get screwed.

2. No matter whether you buy it outright or with a loan, you will get screwed.

3. When you try to do the right and legal thing when registering your new vehicle, you will get screwed.

4. When you ask God to help you navigate the ins and outs of dealing with your new vehicle, you will get screwed because either He isn't answering or you can't interpret His answers, which amounts to the same thing.

5. Even if you had the ability to sell the lemon you just bought to another sucker or the money to buy a vehicle to replace it, you would still get screwed, so you may as well learn to live with the vehicle you just bought.

6. When you are unable to cope with the reality of getting screwed at every turn, you really have no options except to tough it out and stay away from other living things until your soul dies and you become a hard, empty shell that honestly doesn't care anymore.

Therefore, you won't be hearing from me for a while.

Yes, I'm upset. I don't want to talk about it and I only wrote this down hoping it would help to see it in black and white. I see that it's pretty much how I feel and now I'm going to bed in the slim hope that tomorrow will better, but the likelihood that it will be exactly the same. I do not expect to sleep.

Good night, readers. Happy Hump Day.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Dirty, Little Secret

I don't read much.

That's like a cardinal sin for a writer. We're told to read, read, read all the time.

I read pre-college. A lot. Not library books, usually, but my brothers' books and my mom's books and books from my grandparents' library in The Big Room and books I bought with my allowance. I read books I like over and over, so I want them close.

I stopped reading when I hit college. I'd like to say I stopped reading anything but textbooks, but that would be a lie. I read just enough of most of my textbooks to make A's, not to master the material.

I really didn't have a clue what college was for. I should post about that.

I learned two unexpected things in college: some people are more interesting than books, and college students can't afford to buy books.

Those truths have followed me around for the last 20 years. Only since the quest for publication began have I once again budgeted money for books. It helps that most ebooks cost about the same as a full-sized paperback from my pre-college days. $2.99 appears to be the magic price point for me.

Ooooo! Reminder: Star of Justice on sale at Amazon for another 9 days. If you haven't bought the ebook yet, go do it!

I've been reading a bit more this year, easing in, as it were, but that leads to other problems. Problems I'll have to discuss tomorrow, 'cause I am out of time today.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Go buy my book.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Not So Bad

When I started this road to publication three years ago, I started hanging out with writers.

I knew a bit about writing before that. Most of it was untrained talent from birth, apparently. One of my classmates from elementary school commented at my launch party that I tended to set the class bar too high. "Didn't matter what we wrote, Robynn was gonna do something prettier and better." Or something like that.

Frankly I was so startled by the observation, I didn't pay much attention to the actual words. Bad Turtle.

Elementary school? Did it really go that far back?

During high school, mom and I studied writing. Went to conferences, hung out with local published authors, bought books on writing, that sort of thing. Didn't go anywhere at the time for either of us, but it did provide a nice, realistic base for what the publishing industry was like twenty years ago.

Hasn't changed all that much, folks, FYI. 

As I've said before, though, I was a big turtle in a small pond. When none of your associates care about writing as a skill past the grade on the next test, it's easy to think you're big stuff. You find out how small you are when you seek out other writers.

It's good to have a healthy appreciation of your skill level. Somebody will always be better than you at writing and somebody will always be worse and many will be about the same. Sometimes, though, it's disheartening to see how many are the same or better.

For the last few weeks, I've been helping a normal person with a paper for class. Not a huge paper and way outside my genre, but I've done what I can. Don't know the grade yet. Curious about that.

It reminded me that, small turtle in an ocean of writers that I am, I do know more than the average schooling fish. Considering how severely my current WIP is kicking my tail, I needed that.

Friday, October 19, 2012

23 Adult Truths

Got this in an email. Had to share.

23 Adult Truths
1. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.
2. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.
3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.

5. How the heck are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?
7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on # 5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind-of tired.

10. Bad decisions make good stories.

11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

15. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

16. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Light than Kay.
17. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.
18. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.
19. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?
20. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!
21. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.
22. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time.
23. The first testicular guard, the "Cup," was used in Hockey in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974. That means it only took 100 years for men to realize that their brain is also important.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Which Way Do You Want To Go

Remember that scene from Labyrinth when Sarah is suspended in the shaft of the oubliette by all those Helping Hands and they ask her to choose up or down?

I'm kinda there.

With Star of Justice, the second half of the book was easy. I'd been writing toward it for two months. My favorite scene was clear in my mind's eye, and after that happened, "what happened next" was obvious.

Elementals was harder, but, again, the ending was clear. For that story, I just had to figure out how to get everybody at that crucial end point. Yes, I nearly went bald working that out, but I did it.

I don't have a favorite scene in Price of Justice. Not one I'm writing toward anyway. This time around, I find out I like a scene after I write it. That's nice for me, but no good when it comes to deciding "what happens next."

I'm at that point when the roller coaster officially starts to climb. I have to have some great climax, but I can't see what it is, mostly because I can't see a happy ending. I hate that.

This is why I haven't been writing. I don't know what happens next. I'm not sure how to get that vision. I guess I just write on and hope I like what comes out.

I'm starting to think I'm the one paying the price of justice, not my characters. Yes, Elder Brother, that's whining. I'm not sorry, either. :P

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Focus, Turtle-san

Been having trouble putting my shell in the chair and my claws on the keyboard. Maybe I need a plan.

Find out what it is over at

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Excerpt from Devil's Hit List by Frank Creed

On the first floor, Vanderleer picked up Bernard, threw him over a shoulder, and hurried through the lower level bars. Bernard still grasped the briefcase.
I rushed into the holding cell area and jumped over the handrail. The bars began sliding shut.
With a burst of speed, and a slide on my knees on the slick cement floor I got my body into the electric eye that kept the steel barred gate from crushing anyone.
As I squeezed through the re-opening gate, pain exploded in my leg and I was nearly deafened by gunshots—only my reformed hearing kept my ears from ringing. Bullets from above hit my coat, and one struck me in the shin—it did not hit bone, and I thanked the Boss for a clean through-and-through shot. Apex Predator stood in the doorway holding a big ugly automatic pistol.
I limped around the corner and found the switch in the lower control office to close the bars. I pushed it in hopes it would slow those who followed. They had another switch upstairs so I knew it wouldn’t stop them. I also left a trail of blood, making finding me easy for them as a paint-by-numbers set.
After my prey I jogged, pain in every step as my reformed healing knit tissue, too slowly for my taste, but dozens of times faster than a normal person heals.
The open double doors to this control office led into an L-shaped hallway. I could go straight or right. I stood silent a moment, listening over my thumping heart. I picked up footfalls—rushing down steps—straight ahead. But I also heard breathing less than a meter around the corner.
Moving like running water, I leaned into the hall and reached out.
A sec-man waited there holding a revolver in a two handed grip.
I touched the pistol and discharged my shock glove.
I left him to his impression of spilled jelly on the floor, and ran straight. The left side of the hallway opened in an atrium to showcase a large wide stair of shallow steps that descended in a large square. Tall green plants grew upward in the square’s center from the basement level, and vines hung from flowerboxes around the ground floor.
I’d have hopped a railing here, but landing on my injured leg would hurt so bad that only my mindware would keep me from blacking out, and coming down on the granite steps could further damage me. So I limped down the square stairs, falling further and further behind my quarry, hoping nobody would appear from behind me and that nobody would pop up from below. This course put me in the basement level; considering the skills of those who chased me, a scary thought. I put off thoughts about being trapped and anxiety slipped out of its cage in my soul’s dungeon.
At the bottom of the stairs I passed through a locker room with benches and sinks. Though the room had seen use, it still smelled like new construction.
At the room’s far end, double doors swung slightly. Staccato automatic gunfire sounded from their far side. I still had my pistols out.
I cracked one of the doors open. From here I could see the elevator, again. Boot steps rushed toward me and I backed around the corner. A six-man squad burst through the double doors like the Devil was behind them.
Wherever I saw skin—the backs of hands, foreheads, necks—my targeting system went to work. Pop, pop, pop, I gunned them down before they even realized I was there.
I reloaded fresh clips into my pistols and eased the door open, scanning for more targets. There were none.
In front of the elevator lay Bernard’s briefcase. Thrill also escaped its cage and I scooped up the treasure. The CV Frankenstein might get away from me, but this was a nice score.
The station’s underground parking area was mostly filled with new security vans. An overhead door trundled open, and my prey, in a van, sped toward it… escaping.
Full automatic machine-gun fire, roared a long burst.
A tiny tank shot at the vehicle’s tires, but the bullets had no effect. The bulletproof sec-vans must run solid rubber on their wheels.
Then the thirty-caliber Browning turret turned slowly toward me. I stepped slightly to the side of its aim. Howdy partner, I said, not really able to guess if it was Legacy or Barren inside.
Hey, CK, need a set of wheels? asked Barren.

What are your contact links: web sites, blogs, Facebook, Twitter links, your book's page, etc.?

Hang out with Frank:

Devil's Hit List Amazon link (print):
Devil's Hit List Amazon link (kindle): http://tinyurl.com/92j7amx 
My publisher has other great Christian spec-fic: http://www.splashdownbooks.com/

Blog Tour Links:

Caprice Hokstad         
Travis Perry    
Paul Baines     
Kat Heckenbach      

Friday, October 12, 2012

Checking In

So, a few hours after telling you all how much I love Lavender Squeak, I suffered what Elder Brother calls "an error in perception" and ran her into a retaining wall.

The world has since melted and reformed.

I don't have time to say more. I accidentally starting doing actual work that isn't work related and I've been running my tail off since then.

Between fixing the van, putting up pictures for my best friend, editing a big college paper for the friend of a friend, designing a blog site for a political group and celebrating my financial freedom with other mutual fund investors, I'm exhausted and run off my feet. Add in the bone-crushing despair of the loss of a dream and the questioning of reality as I know it, and I've been a little busy.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow's forecast of severe weather because I want to lock myself in the basement with the critters and not interact with the world for a while.

Keep your eye on the sky, dear readers. I'll be asleep.

Monday, October 8, 2012

October Sale on Star of Justice

This being the month that brought the Turtle into the world so, so many years ago, Grace has lived up to her name and allowed me to drop Star of Justice's ebook price to $2.99 through October.

That's a steal, folks. Go take advantage of me. Use the picture link in the left corner to go to the Splashdown Bookshop or jump to Amazon directly and type in my name.


That's about all I have time to say this morning.

Happy Monday.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Bad Wreck and Great Launch

What a weird week this has been.

First, I wrecked Lavender Squeak on Tuesday. Yes, the same Tuesday that I crowed over her on this blog. It's too painful to discuss, so I won't. I'm fine. Insurance has agreed to fix the van. I'm talking to God again. Let's just put it behind us, shall we?

Last night's launch party for Star of Justice was as much fun for me as I hoped, and I hope it was fun for everybody who came, too.

I read an except from Price of Justice. I saw old friends. I made a new friend who overheard the fuss (like she couldn't have; I was making enough noise for several coffeehouses). I ate a blueberry muffin because they were out of scones. I took pictures WGR won't let me put on FB. Finally, I stayed up past midnight because my college buddy from Wichita, Monica Swift, drove up with her sister Angie to surprise me and we'd only have that night to see each other.

Scone, Monica! Best surprise ever!

Seriously, though, drive careful on your way home. The road is a dangerous place.

I may be going to Wichita in the future to speak at Monica's school. Did I mention she teaches high school English, including honors English? Did I mention I mentioned she should teach my book and she got a little gleam in her eye?

I didn't mention that? Must be the lack of sleep.

Anyhoo, thanks to everybody who came to wish me well. I love you all, and I promise I won't take 20 years to finish Price of Justice.

We're talking 10. Tops.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Lavender Squeak

Wow. I have been noticeably absent of late. Forgive me.

I bought a new car. Not a new car, actually, but a new-to-me car. She's a 1998 Chrysler Town & Country (I guess that's a minivan, not a car) of questionable color. 

No kidding. No one seems able to describe this color. My car guy said "pale purple." Elder Brother and WGR said "blue" and "gray" respectively when they saw it at twilight. Big Brother called it "gunmetal purple." The highway patrol officer who checked the title wrote down "gray" because "it'll look gray at night."


I call it "lavender gray" and what I say is all that matters.

Her name is Lavender Squeak, because there's a little squeak coming from one of the wheels. I'll be having my mechanic double-check that when I take her in for her first oil change. I don't mind the squeak because it reminds me of my first car, Cricket, a 1983 Subaru GL10 that also had a mysterious, undiagnosable squeak only I could hear.

While I'm driving, I find myself humming "Lavender blue, dilly dilly, lavender green." I notice how perfectly the steering wheel fits in my hand and how smoothly the van responds to my every whim. I look in the rear view mirror and grin at how much cargo space is back there. I think about how this time I will vacuum the interior more than once a decade. In short, I'm tickled lavender with my new van, and I hope God gives us many, many years together.

I got the out-of-State title registration done yesterday. Now I have to update my insurance, pay the sales tax (still trying to figure out how to do that), pay the tags and taxes and sell my old SUV, apparently all within the next 30 days. That makes my stomach roil a bit, but I'll get it done.

And I'll hum while I do it.

Thanks, Lord. I love my new van.