Unorthodox Orthodoxy?

I was going to title this "Unorthodox Solution" but even as I typed, I thought, "No, this is pure orthodoxy. I'm just applying it oddly." So I changed my mind. You can decide if I was right to do so.

This weekend was good in some ways and bad in others. The same cycle of anger, depression, irritability and apathy caught up with me eventually and lasted into the work week. That was unacceptable. Something had to change.

I've listened to Christian radio through all of this (American Family Radio, if you're curious), and whenever a sermon came on, I listened. David Jeremiah is preaching on forgiveness and "leading into temptation" as taught in The Lord's Prayer. The late Adrian Rogers spoke about how the mature Christian needs to suck it up and endure all hardship as God's best for us. I listened resentfully to that one. Michael Yousef had some things to say about forgiveness, too. Sensing a theme?

The bones are there. I have a problem with someone. I feel betrayed. I'm not getting anywhere with being upset about it. It's time to forgive.

I have Biblical backing for this decision, as all those pastors will attest. Jesus told Peter to forgive seventy times seven times the brother who sins against him and repents. Jesus said when you're bringing your gift to the alter and remember you have something against your brother (or he has something against you), go and be reconciled and then return to make your offering. Jesus prayed, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors."

Can you tell I'm at the gospel portion of my chronological Bible reading?

OK. Forgiveness. That's not about feeling. It's about will. I must make up my mind to forgive and then do it.

So I did. I sat down with God and told Him I forgive Him and I want to move on. We went back quite a ways, too. All the slights I've held onto for the past 10 years or so. I forgave Him for all of them.

Now, how can I forgive the source of all forgiveness when He's the reason I'm upset? (I'm going to set aside for this moment the question of whether I should be upset with God. The fact is I was and it was getting me nowhere.) Good question. Here's my thinking. By forgiving Him, I remove the barrier that has prevented me from leaning on Him for the grace I've been missing. By practicing His teaching, I'm putting myself back into His will. A stretch? Maybe. Blasphemous? I hope not.

All I can say is a difference appears to have been made. My mantra when those old recriminations surface is "I forgave that" and we move on. My mood is lighter. The change was so noticeable my Best Friend who saw me before and after asked, "Are you really happy or are you faking?" Trust me, I don't "fake" that well.

Unorthodox? Only in the subject matter. The process is absolutely what's He's told me to do.

I have made an appointment to see a doctor and be sure I don't have something chemical happening, too, but the mind leads the body and my mind has been in a very dark place. I'm finally seeing a light. Its Jesus-shaped. 

Oh, and while I was going to keep this to myself because of the oddness of the application, Mom heard a sermon this week about how God breaks us so that we can "share" with others. So I'm sharing. My apologies if it offends. Please forgive me.

A Long Weekend

I've had a love/hate relationship with weekends for a while. On the one hand, I deal with people constantly at work and my introvert nature needs some time alone to recoup (as if I could be alone in a house with six cats and a dog). On the other hand, being alone and scheduleless when you're depressed isn't always the best thing. Douglas Adams' Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul starts early on Saturday instead of mid-afternoon Sunday in the Turtle household of late.

TT: Wow, has Douglas Adams been on my mind or what? Must be the depression. 

However, last weekend had the potential to go very badly and instead went rather well. I have similar hopes for this weekend as some bathroom fixing-up takes place. I have a toilet kit in my car to prove it. Oooh, need to buy "thank you" steak. Remind me, will you?

Mom has a car guy friend who has a friend who's willing to tinker on the van a bit. I'm willing to let anyone tinker on the van a bit, and I'm not drawing the line at a two-year old with a hammer. It's not like they can make it worse, and better would mean I keep it and start saving for the next vehicle that will break my sanity. So that transfer should happen this weekend, too.

Starting last night, I have a house guest, Simon the Fox Terrier, who is settling in nicely. He's an 8 year old rescue whose momma for the last four months is away this weekend offering respite for another friend with a husband dying of cancer (once again, what am I depressed about? my life is perfect!). Three cats have been brave enough to face him so far. The rest may spend the weekend in the basement. Shouldn't hurt them a bit.

TT: Even as I write this, Skamper has ventured upstairs and watches from his perch atop the microwave. That makes four. Or three and a half. 

Funny thing. Simon the Fox Terrier was running around the house all nervous, so I decided to keep him on his leash this morning until he gets used to things. He's calmed way down and is currently lying down next to me. Good idea, I guess.

One more happy thing happened yesterday. I had an idea for Price of Justice. A direction. Something that would/should happen next and the inclination to write it down. I've been waiting for that to come for a while, as you know, and I'm as thrilled as my herbally smoothed out self can be. Here's hoping I'll have a little time this weekend to try it out.

Happy Friday, dear readers.

Old Van, New Worldview and Douglas Adams

The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything may be 42, but, as Arthur Dent learned, that doesn't help if you don't know the question.

Read more about my search for answers over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

It's Tuesday

Aside from it being Election Day in America, it's also the day after that miserable rainy Monday that I survived without emotional mishap. I was even pleasant to people on the phone, something that hasn't been as common as I would like lately. The St. John's Wort isn't so much pumping me up as smoothing out the wrinkles. Maybe filling the deeper potholes. Something like that. Anyway, one pill in the morning is doing the trick at the moment.

On the recommendation of a friend who's been there, I'm taking "5-HTP" in the evening to see if that helps, too. Got it from the Health Food Store, along with a B-complex vitamin. I don't eat a lot of wheat generally, but I've backed off completely for now and pulled my Blood Type Diet grocery list out of my purse when I'm at the store. Last night's dinner was gluten-free pretzels and Portuguese Green Soup (Brussels sprouts, broccoli, and spinach in chicken broth). I even made the soup. 

I'm also trying to keep moving when I'm up. No naps (if what I've been doing could count as napping) until I can sleep through the night again. I've shredded leaves and weeded. Big Brother and Little Sister are coming this weekend to remodel my bathroom in anticipation of Grace's visit. (No worries, Grace. I've wanted to do this stuff for a long time.)

Still looking into a solution on the van issue. Since the Suzuki runs, I'm driving it until my chemicals are balanced, and I can talk about it without crying. I get closer every day.

Haven't yet managed to get back to my WIP, but it may be I can't write trauma while I'm living it. It's OK. That will return, too.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. I encourage you all to practice responsible citizenship and vote your values. God will sort out the rest. 

Diluting the Drama

Last night I dreamed I sat in the passenger side of a driverless car speeding through traffic during a supercell thunderstorm and couldn't free my feet to reach the brake pedal.

My brain is telling me something.

I don't want to finish Day Three of the van drama. I come off looking all rational and whatnot, but the fact remains, I'm a mess. Part of it, I think, is a depression that's been building for some time and has chosen this stress moment to truly erupt.

I am in the one place I strive never to be: at the mess-end of a big-assed mistake with no idea how to correct it.

What do I do? Do I spend another $60 to try the "fix" my boss found for the van? That seems rational, until it doesn't work and I'm stranded somewhere worse than my driveway. It also doesn't take into account the PTSD reaction that worsens every time I get into the van. I don't know what has to happen for me to overcome that white-gripped adrenaline rush that has me creeping through the parking garage at 2 mph or parking in the back 40 at the store so the tow truck will have access. I guess if it is fixed and I can't "get over it," I can then sell it with a clear conscience. If it isn't fixed, I'm only $60 poorer.

Do I spend $5K to rebuild the Suzuki engine? This is stupid, I've been told by six men, except I've already been $5K worth of stupid trying something else that six men recommended. I don't have that many $5K mistake cards to play. At least I know the Suzuki. It also leaves me with the unreliable van that my conscience says I should sell to a scrap yard so it doesn't crush the hopes and dreams of the next idiot who doesn't understand what it means to buy a used car.

Do I trade in both vehicles and spend X amount of dollars on a completely different car with a completely different set of problems? I don't mind this solution, except I'm back at square one with "what am I looking for" with the only answer now being "something that runs." I don't even have the option "whatever God wants me to have," because it still appears crystal clear that God wanted me to have Lavender Squeak and that's the thought that has tipped me over the edge so I don't think about it anymore.

Whatever option I choose will be wrong. This should take the pressure off, but if you understand how concerned as I am about doing the "right" thing all the time, it just makes me want to lie down and let the Matmos drown me. 

I'm willing to hear opinions on this. I am completely out of my depth and so far what I've gotten for advice are terse "act like a grown-up and deal with it" pronouncements or pitying "wow, that's a problem" condolences. Please stop assuming I can see whatever path is so brilliantly lit to your eyes. I've never been here before. I don't know what "act like a grown-up" means in this context, or I would be doing it. 

And, frankly, the next person who tells me "it's Satan" is gonna get bitch-slapped. Satan can't do anything God doesn't allow, so let's put the power where it belongs, shall we? It's the only way I'm going to find a real answer to why this is happening to me, even if it's as stupid as "it was time."

Huh. Maybe that's the reason. I think I could live with that.

Day Three

I don't intend to continue numbering the days, but there's an appealing ease to those titles. Here's your promised van drama update.

The van didn't start yesterday. Again. Here's why: Chrysler Town & Country Difficulty Starting. You'll have to scroll down a little for the comments. They become more alarming the farther you go.

Yes, Lavender Squeak did exactly that. I tried alarming and unalarming it with the keyfob in between the shut offs, but that made no difference. I sat in a van anti-thefting me, its owner, and stared at the back of my other car that does work but isn't licensed and was blocked into the driveway by the not-working van.

Summation: I have paid to date $4909 on an unreliable, unrepairable vehicle that does not, as far as I can tell, fall under Kansas' Lemon Law. I am not getting that money back. I may as well have set it on fire and roasted marshmallows over it, except I don't like marshmallows.

Four days ago that realization would have sent me screaming down Kansas Avenue to join the homeless, because not-working vans are the least of their problems, but the St. John's Wort kicked in.

I have to sell this van. The last 32 days have taught me I don't have the emotional stamina to do it myself, so I'll have to buy another vehicle from a dealer and trade it in for whatever I can get for it. I wonder if dealers will take two vehicles on trade-in?

I made some phone calls: to my second dad for advice, to a used car dealer that has recently come to my attention, and to the office to explain that I didn't know when I would be back to work because I had to go - for the third time - to the DMV and have my heart ripped out and handed back to me as I tried to license my Suzuki, something I'd tried unsuccessfully to do twice before. During all of these calls, I heard the faint sobbing of a little girl, but I have my own problems so I ignored it as best I could with all my St. John's Wort-induced rationality.

The little girl almost broke free twice at the DMV and twice after those honest-to-God wonderful ladies at the courthouse, Bobbie and Nikki, took me by the hand and made everything OK with the Suzuki. I honestly want God to bless them both with a million dollars for their kindness.

I was able to go back to work, not that much work got done. My boss, upon hearing my van woes and being the kind of person who doesn't take "unfixable" for an answer, found some Internet folk who had success solving this problem by "re-soldering the joints in the circuit board for $60." Of course, an equal number of people on the same site had no success with that same fix.

I took a second St. John's Wort when I got home because the Bad Thoughts and the Sobbing Girl showed up around 7 PM. They remain with me this morning, not as loud as they have been, but louder than I would like.

The tale isn't over, but this post is over-long and I have to get ready for work. For those who are interested, I'll continue the tale tomorrow. For those who aren't, why on Earth have you read this far?

Happy Friday, dear readers.

Day Two

While a bunch of crazy writer folk are diving into the insanity of NaNoWriMo, I focus on getting my emotions back in sync.

Yesterday was a success. Not saying I'm cured, not saying the St. John's Wort worked, just saying I had a good attitude and kept moving from sunrise to bedtime and slept through the night for the most part.

I also strained my left wrist using my Leaf Hog, so today I have a muscle tremor that makes it imperative I not hold anything breakable in that hand. It's making typing a little difficult, truth be told.

Today begins the journey of selling the Suzuki. I thought I had a buyer, but he backed out so it's back to Craig's List for me. It may also be a trip back to the DMV, but I am willing to hire someone to do that. I can't face "Angie" again.

Today is also the last bit of homemade German's Chocolate birthday cake for breakfast. I'm sad to see it go but I need to lay off the wheat, so it's a good thing.

I have some litter boxes to clean before work, so have a good day and don't eat too much candy. Your children will notice.

Happy Thursday.  

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. 

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.

Hmm. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

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

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

The New Authors' Fellowship

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:

Homepage: http://frankcreed.com/

Blog: http://blog.frankcreed.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/frankcreed

Twitter: https://twitter.com/frankcreed

Devil's Hit List Amazon link (print):

 http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Hit-List-Frank-Creed/dp/1927154316

Devil's Hit List Amazon link (kindle): http://tinyurl.com/92j7amx 

Join the Lost Genre Guild: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lost_genre_guild/

My publisher has other great Christian spec-fic: http://www.splashdownbooks.com/

Blog Tour Links:

R. L. Copple   

Ryan Grabow 

Grace Bridges 

Caprice Hokstad         

Travis Perry    

Jennifer Rogers   

Greg Mitchell 

Paul Baines     

Keven Newsome   

Kat Heckenbach      

Fred Warren   

 

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.

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.

$2.99.

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

Happy Monday.

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.

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."

Sigh.

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.

Looming

Star of Justice's launch party happens in 11 days.

I've been able to ignore that less and less as the days tick off the calendar.

It's just a party. It's not a book signing, or a class, or an interview on national television. It's a party. There's no reason to be nervous.

Yet I am. A little knot has formed in my stomach and clunks around enough to awaken me in the wee hours of pre-dawn as I toss and turn.

I'm not very good at parties. I'm often over-bearing, less than gracious, and occasionally down-right rude when I'm the center of undivided attention. Ask anyone who came to any of my birthday parties before I stopped having them about 10 years ago because of the above-mentioned reasons. That's one of the reasons I put off the launch.

You'd think a grown woman would be above that, but once a Brat always a Brat when the pressure's on. 

I am also a little nervous about reading aloud. Will I get Merritt's accent right? Does it matter? These are Kansans. They won't know Scottish from Kiwi. Doesn't mean I shouldn't try. And what passage of Price of Justice is right for a sneak preview? The best parts so far involve new characters; they wouldn't make sense to normal people. This is assuming I have the guts to read anything aloud.

So far, about 25 people tell me they're coming. I've invited lots more, so we'll have to see what the final tally is. It's one of those moments when I don't know if I'll be excited or relieved to see who shows up.

Doesn't matter. It's a party. We're all going to have a good time. Every single one of us.

If nothing else, the Melted Snowballs will be delicious. 

Swoon-worthy

I've been following a discussion at one of my on-line writer groups about what makes a male character "swoon-worthy." The initial questioner wanted examples, too, and Vaulter was kind enough to throw Merritt into the fray.

Thanks, Vaulter, but I don't see it.

Weird, I know, to write a male protagonist that doesn't make me shiver, but Merritt is just a guy. A "man's man," if you will, but not what I consider my type. He's Caissa's complement. Fearless, intuitive, well-fed, competent with weapons - you know, the stuff she isn't. A savage man with a thin veneer of civility. Frankly, I've been surprised by how many people like him. He's a bit of a brute, although his heart is in the right place.

Don't get me wrong. Merritt is shaggy head and shoulders above many men in my estimation. His loyalty, integrity, and survival skills make him an admirable companion in almost any situation not involving white gloves and ballroom dances. He's just not my type.

None of the males in Star of Justice are my type, actually. I tend to go for the George Francisco's (Alien Nation, if the name isn't familiar) of the world: the husband/father provider that excels at his job yet makes time for his family. Or the weight-of-the-world carrier that takes responsibility seriously and follows the hard right, like Hank Hill. Yes, he's a cartoon character, but he's got the right stuff. 

The writers group seemed to conclude "swoon-worthy" depends on the swooner. Wise words. Since my goal has never been world-wide fame, I'll stick with "interesting" as my goal. If they turn out "swoon-worthy," as well, bonus.

Resistance is Right

The Lioness posted at NAF about the difference between resistance and procrastination. I'll understand if you want to take a moment to check that out. It's a short post. I'll wait.

Well, last night was the first time in about five days that I've had the time or energy to write on my WIP. I turned everything off but the computer and settled in to solve my most recent plot issues.

Forty minutes of resistance later, I was ready to give procrastination total control at the Turtle household. I added 100 words apparently ripped out of my own flesh, considering how hard they were to form, but can't tell that I've made any headway.

This is version...I don't know...twelve? for some of these scenes. I can't remember what I've kept and what I've chucked. My notes are spotty at best and missing at worst. I just read and wrote some of this a week ago and I can't remember what I did or where I am. Re-reading it last night showed I forgot what the characters were doing within two pages.

TT: Is this senility? Would I know?

I'm writing toward a climax I can barely envision, let alone resolve. That's not been fun.

It's not that the story sucks. Looking back over what I have, I'm pleased. I just can't see where I'm going and that makes it very hard to navigate. Sometimes I see clearly where I'm going and it scares the tar out of me. I have no idea how to write some of what may happen.

Part of me wants to flip a coin whenever I hit one of these junctures. What would that story be like, I wonder?

On the plus side, I'm halfway through the Lioness' most recent project and loving it. Would you believe I'm most fascinated by the part where they're setting up an LLC? Since my job for the past year has been filing business entity paperwork in Kansas, I guess it's understandable. Can't tell if that makes me an uber-geek or just the most boring person on the planet.

Probably the latter. Anyway, big thumbs up from me so far, Kristen. Good job.

About the Nudity...

It took two days and four naps to recover from my trip to the Hutchinson State Fair last week. Had a great time, but, man, it wears me out. Not sure it does the cats any good, either. Simon has been on my lap or in my face more this weekend than this previous year. I had no idea he cared.

TT: I'm hoping I'm recovered, anyway. Gotta go to work.

I wanted to take a moment to address an issue mentioned in a couple of Star of Justice reviews.

The nudity.

I am a prude. I dare you to find an American, non-Muslim woman more likely to cover up when heading outside. I don't wear shorts, swimsuits or halter tops. Or clingy dresses, shirts or skirts. Or plunging necklines. Or anything that might cause my brother to stumble. I am a jeans and heavy t-shirts, calf-length skirts and loose blouses kind of gal. Ask my mom. It seems to annoy her.

However, I have no control whatsoever over how my MCs behave.

It is not my fault that Merritt's clan is traditionalist. I'm not going to tell you how long they've clung to those traditions, but I will say only Scots would be stubborn enough to do it. They still speak Gaelic, too, and that's nothing short of a miracle.

It is not my fault that Raven doesn't want to get her hand-knitted dresses dirty or ripped when she shape-shifts into full druid and runs off to slaughter people. Do you know how long it takes to hand-knit a long dress? Or how hard it is to remove blood stains or mend holes, even with magic? Not to mention how stretched out of shape that dress would get if she transformed while wearing it. Her druid form is taller and thicker than her human form.

Would I behave that way? Absolutely not. I'm one of those people who shares the common nightmare of being naked without my homework. But my MCs are another story entirely.

Their story. I'm just the storyteller.

*evil grin*

TT: Dear Reviewers: Please do not think I disagree with any of you. All SOJ reviews I've read so far have been spot-on as far as I'm concerned, and I'm grateful for them and you.

Kat Heckenbach Interviews Angel Mason of The Toch Island Chronicles

Book 1: Finding Angel (Sept. 2011)

ISBN: 978-1927154137

Hi. My name is, um, Angel. Yeah, I know, odd name. I get that a lot. But it’s what my charm bracelet says, and since that’s the only thing I have from the past that I couldn’t remember when I was found by Mr. and Mrs. Mason when I was six…

Oh, sorry. That’s not why I’m here. I mean it is—my story is why I’m here. But I’m not here to tell you that story. The whole thing is written out in a book. Yep, Kat Heckenbach wrote a book all about me. And today I’m going to ask her some questions about it. I bet you’d have questions for someone if they wrote a whole book about your life, wouldn’t you? Yeah. So, here we go.

A: Miss Kat, I—

K: You can just call me Kat, Angel. “Miss Kat” makes me feel like a preschool teacher. ;)

A: Oh, okay then. Kat…what made you decide to write a book? And did you know it would be about me when you started?

K: Let me answer those the other way around, if that’s okay. I definitely didn’t know it would be about you, specifically. I knew it would be about a girl, somewhere around your age, but I didn’t have all the details. I remember that age well (although junior high feels like a long time ago!) and it was a time in my life when I really started getting into reading fantasy.

A: Ooh! I love fantasy! It’s my favorite genre!

K: Yeah, mine, too. I loved the whole idea of being magic and finding a hidden world or something.

(Angel gives Kat a strange look.)

K: You okay, Angel?

A: Yeah…it’s just that….well…for me, that pretty much came true.

(Kat smiles.) K: Yeah, I know. I, um, wrote it.

A: Oh, right. Duh. Go ahead.

K: Anyway, your name came from my daughter. She was on this kick about naming all her stuffed animals and such “Angel.” It was literally the first thing that popped into my head. So I started there.

A: Cool! But you still haven’t answered about what made you want to write.

K: Right. Sorry. Like I said, I really got into reading fantasy when I was your age. I read all the time. My favorite place was in this tree in my back yard.

A: A tree? Really? Mine too!

K: Well, mine was this cool tree that was kind of knocked over, so it stuck out of the ground at an angle. I could actually walk up it, and sit at the top where a big branch stuck straight up. I would lean against the branch like a chair back.

(Angel’s eyes widen.) A: That sounds just like my tree!

(Kat smiles again.) K: That’s an odd coincidence. Is yours way in the back? Like by the back fence?

A: Yeah!

K: I bet you like to look out across the neighbor’s yard, too. My neighbor had this big, open field—

A: Mine too! Whoa, that’s so cool! I wonder if we have anything else in common! Do you have any brothers? I have three! My youngest brother is really cool and loves bugs.

K: Well, I do have one brother, but he’s not very into bugs. My son is, though. He loves them. We even count his bug-hunting as part of his homeschooling sometimes.

A: My little brother, Zack, homeschools, too. Wow…I bet they’d get along great.

(Kat stifles a chuckle.) K: I bet they would.

Book 2: Seeking Unseen (Sept. 2012)

ISBN: 978-1927154298

(Angel nods and bites her lip.) A: So, Mis—I mean, Kat. What else do you like to do beside write and read fantasy?

K: I draw. Mostly with charcoal pencil.

(Angel gapes.) A: No. Way. I draw, too! And charcoal is totally my favorite medium. That’s just weird…

K: Yep, pretty weird.

A: But we can’t have everything in common. (*arches one eyebrow*)

K: Oh, surely not.

A: I mean, like…I bet you weren’t a nerd in school like me. And I bet you don’t like science, do you? Not many artsy types are into science. (*crosses arms and looks confidently*)

K: Total nerd. And my college degree is in Biology. 

(Angel shakes her head as if to clear it.) A: How tall are you?

K: Five-foot-nine.

A: Five-eight! Hah!

K: I was five-eight at your age, too, Angel.

(Angel eyes Kat’s hair and points.) A: You’re not a redhead. 

K: Nope...not anymore. My hair has gotten darker as I got older.

A: Oh…this is just too bizarre. Even weirder than finding out magic is real…

(Kat smiles and leans forward, lowers her voice.) K: Maybe it is magic…

Kat Heckenbach grew up in the small town of Riverview, Florida, where she spent most of her time either drawing or sitting in her "reading tree" with her nose buried in a fantasy novel...except for the hours pretending her back yard was an enchanted forest that could only be reached through the secret passage in her closet...

She never could give up on the idea that maybe she really was magic, mistakenly placed in a world not her own...but as the years passed, and no elves or fairies carted her away...she realized she was just going to have to create the life of her fantasies.

Now she shares that life with her husband and two kids. Ok, maybe "share" isn't the right word--more like lives that life in her writing and tries her best to be normal the rest of the time...

Kat is a graduate of the University of Tampa, Magna Cum Laude, B.S. in Biology. She spent several years teaching, but never in a traditional classroom—everything from Art to Algebra II—and now homeschools her children.

Author Website: http://www.katheckenbach.com/

Blog Tour Links: 

Grace Bridges 

R. L. Copple  

Ryan Grabow    

Travis Perry     

Paul Baines   

Caprice Hokstad

Keven Newsome 

Greg Mitchell      

Frank Creed   
Fred Warren 

Guest Post at Magical Ink

Heather Titus was kind enough to read Star of Justice and review, and even kinder to offer me a guest spot at her blog.

I hope I didn't embarrass her.

Read my post at Magical Ink. Then bookmark her page, because she usually discusses people way more interesting than me.

Thank you for the honor, Heather.

A New Review by Heather A. Titus

Hey, I missed this in all the not-paying attention I've been doing.

Heather A. Titus, one of our NAF contributors and the winner of one of my book giveaways earlier this year, reviewed Star of Justice on Monday.

Read it here.

Glad you liked it, Heather. Your review is spot-on. No complaints here.

Sorry about Merritt. I can't do a thing with him.

Busy, Busy

Sorry about the absence, but I've been catching up on all those little tasks I mentioned last week.

I've added a second Bible study to my schedule, an eight-week inductive study of 2 Peter. That requires brain time so "good-bye" to some other brain activities while I'm doing it.

TT: Have you noticed you only have so much energy to expend? Adding something to your life necessitates cutting something else. It's the penalty for being merely human.

I've also hit one of those chapters in my WIP where things need to get cut or combined. Those tend to slow me down. I also realized I'd given the mirror way too many abilities, so I'll have to rewrite those scenes, too.

"Why does that matter?" My Dear Friend asked. It matters quite a bit. The mirror is a powerful magical item, but it's not all-powerful. It can't do everything, and it shouldn't. Overcoming limitations is a key ingredient in a good story, even for magic mirrors.

One good thing I did unconsciously was provide myself with a plausible reason for the current timeline. Took me a while to figure that out, too, but I've got it now.

TT: It's weird when the submerged part of your brain does stuff and forgets to tell the other part. Don't think it's diagnosable, but it is weird.

I'm also going through some changes at work. Good ones, I hope, but all change causes the Turtle to freeze before adapting. I've been a bit distracted overall.

Lastly, I've started reading Lioness's newest WIP about an accountant. She's been talking about it for a year or so, and the first draft is finally done. Yea! Loving it, btw, Lioness. It's got a nice flow to it, and the description rocks. I'm four chapters in on my Kindle and going strong.

So, I'm still here, just doing some stuff in the real world at the moment. I'll be back on track shortly.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Remember to put the trash out.

Lessons From a TV Cable Repairman

I'm back at NAF and still learning valuable life lessons at my age. Read about one of them over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Hangover

Aren't hangovers what people have the day after a three day weekend? I don't drink, so I don't actually know what one feels like, but I awoke with a headache, neckache, backache and a new kind of ache in my left jaw joint - can't think of what that's called at the moment - that is giving me an earache, too.

I have scheduled that mouthpiece adjustment, but it's two weeks away yet. I can make it. I'm tough.

The search for a new car has begun. I went to look at the first candidate late last night, a Subaru Outback just over my price point. It was a lovely car, but as I thought about how much I have to spend and how long it took me to get that money and how long it will be before I'll have that much money again to spend on another car, I've decided to keep looking.

Dave Ramsey is right. Buying with cash makes you think twice. And three times. Or more. It's a whole different feeling handing over dollars than signing papers, even if those papers place you in indentured servitude.

I'm thinking some of the aching this morning is due to the stress of looking at that beautiful car and making a grown up decision. Why else would I notice my jaw clamped tight while I was still awake?

Anyway, after a weekend of procrastinating that included buying a printer, a refrigerator and dismantling my entire living room, I finished that guest blog post, answered some survey questions to submit to some ACFW project, and wrote my post for my return to NAF on Wednesday. I also created a Launch Party poster that I need to put up in various places, all in a space of about 60 minutes while waiting for a call about the car, which means I was trying to avoid thinking about that.

Coming to the conclusion that weekends are not my best "writing work" time. They're just for recovery.

Anyway, full week ahead, for all that it's a short work week, so I'd better go lie down and let the aspirin kick in.

Happy Tuesday, folks.