Spinach Smoothie

The quest for tooth improvement continues. I ate my bag of spinach like potato chips and learned an important lesson.

Spinach tastes funny.

Perhaps this is the aging of my taste buds, but the bag I ate was reminiscent of floral soap. Not the detergent taste I experience with cilantro. This was a persistent, pervasive floral scent that I couldn't wash away that made it difficult to remember I was eating food, not cleansing supplies.

I'd never thought of spinach tasting anything other than "green," so this is a bit off-putting. Until I get used to it, I'll ingest the majority of my spinach in juice form. I am using store-bought organic spinach. Maybe it will taste different from The Swamp.

I added a little water, lots of spinach, pineapple chunks and juice, vanilla Greek yogurt, one Fuji apple, and a dollop of honey because - can you believe it? - it wasn't sweet enough. Mostly, the honey and the yogurt seemed to smooth out the taste. That made a glass and a half of green frothy stuff.

I'm not giving portions because you'll have to see what makes you happy. The yogurt has so far been one portion/cup of Oikos because I didn't want to buy a whole tub if this went south as some of my experiments do. I liked it better with the yogurt than without, even though it didn't make much difference in consistency. I have a cheap blender, too, so my apple chunks retain some of their chunkiness.

Now I'll have to do a cost analysis, because Bolthouse Farms makes a drink called Green Goodness that has way more "stuff" in it (like seaweed and wheat grass) that I can ingest for $1 per serving. It's tempting to snap a cap and pour for $1 instead of assemble, make a mess, disassemble, clean the mess and start over with the blender every day. I probably get more fiber the old-fashioned way. I certainly get more exercise.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Eat your greens.

DIY Deodorant, part 2

Mrs. Iguana asks if I could store the stuff I made in a used deodorant tube. Last night, I would have said, "not without altering the ratio of powder to oil" because coconut oil turns soluble rather fast in my limited experience.

This morning, I would say, "yeah, you probably could if you store it in the fridge." When I took my tub out of the fridge pre-shower for after-shower use, it required fingernails.

A Friend posted a recipe with pics similar to mine on my Wall yesterday. The last pic gave me an idea, although it actually wasn't what the pic demonstrating at all. I believe if you wrap the deodorant in plastic wrap or a plastic bag and then cool it, it would retain that shape, provided you stored it in the fridge between uses. Maybe a muffin tin? This is the next thing I will try, since two days after starting the DIY deodorant, I remain pleased with the results.

Now I'm looking for a natural way to remove pit stains from clothes. *evil grin*

Happy Thursday, dear readers. May it not bite you.

P.S. Sept 29, 2014

It's still warm in Kansas, so I am storing the deodorant in a plastic bag in the fridge. Solidified nicely into a "stick" and far less messy. After five days, I'm also less stinky at the end of the day than I am with the Tom's brand. I'll be using this through the Winter. We'll see how well it performs in Kansas Summer. 

DIY Deodorant

Several months ago (maybe four?), I stopped using antiperspirants. I had a lot of reasons, but the final nail was a study suggesting preventing perspiration might create a link with breast cancer. Thus began the search for a smell-cancelling deodorant without antiperspirant, something currently impossible to find at Walmart.

The best I've found so far is Tom's brand deodorant from a health food store. My hippie descendant co-worker, who has never used antiperspirant, agreed this is the best she's found. It's still not enough to block the stink of the Turtle with unblocked armpit pores.

I turned my eyes to natural ingredient websites. You know, those hemp-growing, conspiracy theorists who run their computers from either solar panels or the nearest Starbucks that I both mock and respect for their refusal to care about either my mocking or my respect. I found an expensive recipe that supposedly works like magic, but I can't bring myself to spend $50 on GMO free arrowroot baking powder, even if it is the only time I'll ever have to buy it. Especially when the recipe only calls for 2 tbsp.

WGR showed me a recipe from her latest issue of Mother Earth that was cheap and easy, and therefore couldn't possibly work. Being the Turtle, I modified (pronounced BUHNgled) the recipe and kept going. Here is my modified version:

1/3 c baking soda

1/3 c corn starch

7 tbsp coconut oil

6 drops citrus oil (or any other scent, if you want scent)

I used it yesterday with good results. It wasn't a heavy sweat day, but there was no detectable odor until well after 4 PM, which beat out Tom's and could have been leftover from the clothes (I do what I can, but the Turtle sweats like a racehorse).

The biggest issue I had yesterday was the mess. Coconut oil and powder don't stay mixed, so the lotion must be shaken before applied. Then there's the lotion on the hands, which is slightly gritty and very oily, and almost required Dawn to wash off. This isn't too high a price for a non-stinky Turtle, but it's important to warn the reader.

I discovered the second problem this morning when the temp in the house dropped to 74 and the coconut oil partly solidified. I had to stir the lotion with a finger to liquefy the oil and mix the ingredients. So I guess I'll mix and store in the fridge until the temp around here drops to winter's consistent 69 degrees. That will be an unhappy few minutes every morning, but, again, not likely a deal-breaker.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Keep it clean.

P.S. March 27, 2015

I initially posted this with tea tree oil as an ingredient. Turns out tea tree oil has some estrogen-like properties, so applying it daily in the same area where I stopped using antiperspirants because of breast cancer concerns seems dumb. I initially added it for the antimicrobial properties. Coconut oil already has those. So does soap.

Writing Process Blog Hop

Jill Domschot tagged me to take part in this weeks ago. I completely spaced out/ dropped the ball/ moved on with my life/ dissed the honor. It wasn't quite my fault because since getting my blog URL issues solved, I created the unintended issue of "losing" all my Blogs I Follow. I would normally be reminded of such a tagging when Jill's blog changed places on my blog, but that didn't happen. Hopefully, I've fixed that, too, as of tonight.

The only reason I'm remembering to do this tonight is because I seriously don't want to edit the next chapter in my soon-to-be published book Daughter of Anasca. I wrote it years ago, it needs some tweaking, but I wove the whole thing so tight I'm afraid if I pull on any bits, it will unravel into a complete mess, and I just don't have the mental energy to deal with that this evening. 

Where was I?

Right. Four questions.

1) What am I working on?

Daughter of Anasca. A YA fantasy coming of age story of two sisters. Idea conceived 20+ years ago, written five or six years ago, and finally about to see the light of day. My non-writing beta readers liked it better than Star of Justice. I worked really hard to keep it at a PG rating so homeschoolers would have a chance to read it before their parents picked it up and freaked out at the first chapter. I promise, it gets better and worse if you keep going, but I believe you'll be pleasantly surprised at the end.

2) How does it differ from others in its genre?

It's a little more complicated than the YA I've read, which isn't much, let me tell ya. I like "coming of age" stories, but I hate stories about tweens and teens grappling with hormone issues. My girls are growing up fast, and it has nothing to do with who takes whom to the prom, although, being me, I had to throw some romance in there. It's fairly brutal, but The Flash's favorite series at 12 was about a girl with a meth head boyfriend, so... Is it worse? You be the judge. The adults aren't idiots. Coming of age is about entrance into the adult world. You wouldn't want that if everybody there is a drooling moron.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I write what I want to read. I like good vs. evil stories, but I'm old enough to know "good" and "evil" aren't always easy to recognize. I like "princess and bodyguard" stories, and, boy, will it show the more I produce. I like in-your-face fight scenes, both physical and emotional, and those are easier to justify in fantasy. I like consistency in world creation, and stretching "reality" without breaking it. I like knowing a book will end well, and I only really know that when I've written it.

4) How does my writing process work?

I wish I knew. It used to be obsessive. Then it was passive-aggressive. Currently, it's thwarted by cats. I'm going to have to train myself to write in the hour between putting them to bed and myself to bed, like I did with this post. For once, the dog left me alone, too.

I might have just enough brain power to go stare at that chapter some more, so I'll end here.

Look for Daughter of Anasca, coming soon. If the cats cooperate. 

Bias

I was recently asked how a fiction author avoids bias. The simple answer: she doesn't.

The questioner, who reads political spy thrillers, was irritated with a certain author because the author appeared to have an agenda in some books.

We all know authors write from their own worldviews. We all know authors write about topics that interest them (unless they have a specific reason that they can't, like "need money now so must accept boring freelance work"). Unless the author is a journalist devoted to giving just the facts (and how many journalists are encouraged to do that, nowadays?), bias will be present. I would argue bias is present even for the journalist, based on what facts are presented and in what order.

For the reader, it's not a question of avoiding bias. It's a question of which biases agree with your worldview, or, which biases stretch your worldview. I suspect a reader's favorite authors will demonstrate a close approximation of how the reader views the world, and, contrarywise, his least favorite authors will clash with his worldview in a manner too disconcerting to accept. 

For the author, the question could be "will this presentation of the universe as I understand it enthrall or disgust a reader?" Or, in Christian fiction, "will the CBA/ God/ secular worldview" be OK with my story? You know. The old "who's my audience" question.

Biases will present themselves on paper. A variety of good beta readers will help illuminate them. One or two reviews will illustrate them immediately, if you can stomach reading reviews. The best advice I can give to an author who wants to consistently sell her writing is "know your audience," write to their biases and don't worry about the rest of the world.

Happy Monday, dear readers. New week, fresh start. Enjoy.

Turtle in GIMPland

Grace has been and gone a week now, and the Turtle household has settled back into its regularly scheduled programming. With one difference. GIMP has joined the family.

Part of the Turtle's plan for this visit was instruction in GIMP, a free photoshop-like design program. Grace and Iguana use this program with great success on a regular basis. I should be able to do the same, correct?

I used to think so, but the program has other ideas.

GIMP is like a four story house with a basement, attic and wraparound porch, planned by a dozen culturally diverse architects and one alien who never spoke to each other, built by blind hermit crabs. All the cupboards, closets and drawers are mislabeled, upside down or actually dimensional portals to another universe. I do not exaggerate.

Grace says she thinks the GIMP designers went out of their way to avoid imitating Photoshop to avoid lawsuits. I don't know Photoshop, but I guess they succeeded. I don't know what the heck is going on half the time, and the other half I'm sitting there, paralyzed like Alice, thinking "It should be able to do this. Do I drink the potion or eat the mushroom to make it work?"

Grace also says sometimes the program really does go a little insane for whatever reason and refuses to do things it normally does. Good to know.

I have made some progress. This is the current cover, and perfectly OK to be the final cover, but I want to try to add some glowing eyes to the hoard in the back.

This is the current imprint and publishing name. I googled a lot of names I liked, but they were all taken. I'm still partial to "Grave Snapper Books," but I got voted down.

GIMP and I will continue to circle each other like feral cats, but we've found an uneasy truce for the moment that may blossom into consensual apathy.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Watch your step. Never know where the next GIMP portal will open.

Grace Is Coming

Doesn't have quite the auditory impact as "Dawn is coming" from the season four finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but the potential is there.

A few things came home to me this week. I wrote Daughter of Anasca six years ago. That's when Caleb walked into my life, and became a character in that book. Six years. I've had a completed book (for the most part) sitting on my hard drive for six years. That's the time it takes a human to be born and start school.

That is waaaaay too long to do nothing with a finished manuscript.

If I remember correctly, and that's a big if considering six years have passed between then and now, I planned to produce a book every two years. I'm OK with slow and steady, but I've passed into imperceptible as far as movement goes. Part of me knew this, but seeing it there in black and white on the vet appt. reminder card put it all in perspective.

Time to get moving. Past time.

Grace knows things I want to learn. She seems amenable to teaching me. I have seven days to absorb how to format print and ebooks, the basics of GIMP and cover design, where and how to choose fonts, and how to make a book through CreateSpace. Oh, and how to hook my url to this blog so www.robynntolbert.com starts working again.

I doubt I can learn everything in that amount of time and still get some fun things in, like visiting cemeteries and hellmouths -mwahahahahahahaha!- but I intend to try.

Once Daughter of Anasca is out of the way, according to Orson Scott Card, I will have removed the primary block to writing my next book, Dangling Participles. We'll see.

Yes, I talk big. I've talked big in the past. But I've hit that "fish or cut bait" moment where I really do have to write...or stop. I don't believe I want to stop. That means I have to write.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Take a moment to review. Grace is coming.

Covers, Fonts and Pen Names

I've flailed around for a cover idea for Daughter of Anasca for years. I have only one experience with cover creation, but it had me in tears and nearly puking on a regular basis. Praise God it lasted no longer than a typical bout of flu, or I would have died of dehydration.

No offense, Grace and Iguana. I blame myself for overreacting. I'm sure I couldn't plan a wedding, either.

As of yesterday, I have a solid cover idea to pursue. I may need to snap some pics of my own to make it work, but I'll do it.

Rick Copple shared an interesting (to me) post about how indie authors shoot themselves in the foot when it comes to cover design. I don't know who Dean Wesley Smith is, but he makes some sense, so I'm taking his advice seriously, including the part about using a different name.

Daughter of Anasca is YA. I deliberately kept it at a PG rating. I had no such restraints in Star of Justice because I wrote it for adults. Younger people read it at their own risk (not that I wrote anything you couldn't see on basic cable after 5 PM). The blog author, Dean Wesley Smith, points out that folks who like one of my books may be startled or turned off by reading something of mine in a different style or genre. Worse, a younger reader may like Daughter of Anasca and pick up Star of Justice or its potentially rougher sequels (once they're written) and freak out the parents.

I don't like the idea of a pen name, but I am thinking of using initials: R.C. Tolbert. That, plus a different cover style, which must happen because I don't have the same skill as Newsome Creative, will help differentiate my YA from my adult. Of course, since I'm thinking of publishing as Graveyard Publications, I don't know why I'm bothering to differentiate anything. You read the Turtle, you get the Turtle, guts and all.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Enjoy the weather. It won't last.

That Money Thing

I recently took a walk on the dreamy side imagining life where money isn't an issue. Came home this weekend.

I took the holiday to build that shelter for my blueberry plants in The Swamp. I had planned, measured, sketched and calculated until I was certain I couldn't fail. On the DIY scale, this was a 1. I bought materials and went at it.

Well, it's done, but in the process I made three trips to the hardware store, failed to anticipate the effect of the PVC elbows on the overall dimensions, and even though I thought I'd left plenty of overage, underestimated the amount of fabric I needed for the shade. So much so that I will need to make a new one that takes into account the southern exposure. In short, I made mistakes. Lots of them.

Mistakes happen. I'm not going to kill myself because my blueberry shelter isn't perfect. What I have figured out as an adult is that certain mistakes cost money. Sometimes a lot of money. If I'm not willing or able to deal with losing money to mistakes, I won't take the risks.

This is why I stopped drawing. Somewhere in college I subconsciously did the math of supplies + time = massive waste unless I'm selling or gifting the stuff, and I did neither. I can't afford piles of artwork lying around or boxes of pens and brushes that don't pay for themselves. Therefore, I don't create art (It was so simple when the folks paid for everything).

It's sad, and kinda pathetic, but there it is. I don't try more things because I can't afford the inevitable mistakes. I want that loft bed with desk, but after this weekend and my 1 that turned -1, I don't know that I can afford it. Back to the calculator.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Take your risks, if you can afford them.

If Money Weren't An Issue

Would my life be different if money weren't an issue? I wouldn't have to be as rich as the Queen or Col. Sanders, but, you know, wealthy enough to not have that immediate dollar-shaped "stop" sign when an idea pops into my head.

1) I'd still work. I enjoy work, and I'd enjoy it a lot if I didn't have to think about how cheap my special brand of enthusiastic slave labor is. I might not work 40 hours a week, but I probably would. I get oddly upset on extended weekends.

2) I'd have a similarly sized house. Maybe a little bigger (900-1200 square feet) but nothing huge. Even the plot wouldn't be outrageous. Maybe an acre or three. Enough that my nearest neighbor can't hear my toilet flushing. I would have a different house, though, an Earthship with a cistern and solar power. Maybe some of those solar freakin' roadway panels. I could pay workmen to do stuff, so I'd have lots of built-ins, catwalks, a solarium and an atrium. Skylights would be nice. And rounded edges instead of square. Oooh, and one of those endless pool things. Those look neat.

3) I'd buy used cars. I might splurge on a work truck as a second vehicle, but it would be used. Through a dealer. I learned that lesson.

4) I'd have more cats. OK, maybe not more, but the current ones would have the best of everything. I could afford the exploratory surgery I suspect Skuttle needs because I have back-seat diagnosed her with some kind of colon issue after reading a Catnip article. I could leave food out for everybody instead of the current four feedings a day because I could afford every cat eating the same prescription cat food all the time.

5) I'd help more friends. I have so many people I wish I could slip a $100 or $500 just because they could use it. Or a $20,000 investment in a good idea (like solar freakin' roadways). They're trying so hard, but life doesn't always respect effort. It would be nice to be the generous friend. I mean, I buy a coffee now and then, but it's not the same.

6) I could support more causes. I give currently (more than 99% of Americans, apparently), but I wish I could give more to more. I have three charities I regularly support, but I wish it were five or six. I bet I could find a few more if money weren't an issue.

7) I would never get upset over money again. I hate worrying about money. It's a family habit, but when I think I won't have enough to cover whatever needs covering, I get very upset. More upset than need be, considering I'm a person who learned this year (through testimony, not experience) that utility bills come in different colors depending on how late your payment is. I didn't even know a utility payment could be late (Hate me if you must. I'm a Princess Turtle, but I do pay my own way).

8) I'd go back to school. Not for a degree. I don't ever want to do that again. But I'd love to take some vo-tech classes on electrical wiring, or woodworking, or oil painting. Or Photoshop. Maybe welding. To have money to learn something just because I want to learn it? That would be awesome.

I find these musings following me around this year. They distract me while I'm driving. They follow me into my dreams. Is this a mid-life crisis? It's a little early.

Anyhoo, now that I've written it down, I should stop thinking about it. I bet you won't. How would your life be different?

My Best Advice

This is another post I should save for NAF, but I hate finding pics to go with topics.

Finish what you start writing. It's that simple.

I should have taken the time and energy 23 years ago to finish the stories I am trying to write today. I didn't have the discipline back then, but that would have been an excellent thing to practice, too.

When you're 19 years old, and you come up with a story idea, odds are it's going to be fairly simple. Doesn't mean it's bad. Just means it's not going to have the same kind of complexity that a writer with more life experiences can add (nothing like a job, a mortgage, and 8 mouths to feed to teach you about layers of conflict). Fewer characters. More direct, obvious plot ideas. A thick, black Sharpie line of a story. That's fine when you're 19 years old. You earn your million words of practice, so you may as well earn it finishing such ideas as jumping from idea to idea and only writing the "interesting" parts, which is what I did. That's why I have a bunch of story "fragments" I used to consider book-worthy.

Problem is, when a writer tries to take those 23 year old ideas and mold them into what she now considers "book-worthy," more often than not, they don't fit. There are some good ideas, and a dollop of passion or conflict, but she's learned that's not all that goes into a good book. They might make novellas. They might make fine short stories or chapters, but they aren't going to carry 100K words into the hearts of her fans. "A closet nerd takes an unexpected trip through time with a robot assassin" is a good elevator pitch, but if you don't have more than that to back it up, you're humped.

But what if you want your older self experience to make something great out of those old ideas? Well, good luck. I suspect if you finish them when you're young, you'll clear the way for bigger, better, more complex ideas that grow with you. Like Aslan. 

I have a lot of 23 year old story ideas, but those may not a book make. Dangling Justice is about that closet nerd, but my 19 year old self didn't know about Ah'rahk, or Caissa, or Rhami when she thought of that idea with the robot assassin. Now my 42 year old self has the job of turning a simple idea into something worth writing, and hopefully, worth reading.


Happy Thursday, dear readers.  Finish what you start writing. Words to live by.

Embrace the Angst

I should type this up for NAF, but I'm just too lazy.

I've railed for a while (two years?) about how hard writing is, how I don't know where the plot is going, how I have too many choices, blah, blah. "It's not like Star of Justice!" I whine. "Even with Elementals, I had a final scene." Boo hoo.

I want my writing process to be all clinical and rational and easily contained in my current schedule. I don't want to get obsessive, like with Star of Justice, or painful, like Elementals. I just want to sit down and write a nice, complicated, thought-provoking, rollicking ride of hilarity and bittersweet depth in an hour a day without any hitches or interruption of regularly scheduled programming.

That isn't too much to ask.

Except I don't think that's how it works for me. I think all my books will be therapy books. They will emerge from chaos, frustration and inconvenience. Creation is hard. Ask a mom in labor, if you can get that close without bodily harm.

It's like trying to garden without breaking a sweat. Rarely happens. Most times I come in looking like Sasquatch.



So I'm not going to fight it anymore. I will embrace the self-loathing, the false starts, the wrong turns and rewrites. I will stomp around and snarl at the cats. I will even stay up past 9 (gasp!) if the words start flowing at 8:30. Yeah, I might be snappy at work, but I'm back in the corner, so who cares? 

Have I resolved this before? I don't think so. This feels like a moment of clarity. Which is good, 'cause it may be the last I have for a while.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. May your day be as easy as you make it.

Not Much On Stamina

Endurance is not my thing. I'm great with quick projects I can start and finish in an hour, or a night. Occasionally a week. I don't have the patience for long-term investments of time and energy (which is a real problem where writing is concerned).

This is a devolution of character. I used to blame Farmville, but I suspect it's more a factor of age and environment. I rarely need to keep going, so I don't. I tend so many cats just so I have a reason to get up most days.

The garage sale pile grows, but it should have grown even more last night. Problem was, I got home, I sat down, and I didn't want to get up again. I know the laws of thermodynamics. If I want to stay in motion, I need to be in motion.

Or, I need to break it down into tasks I can finish in one night. Clear this closet. Go through that bin of bedding. I have 10 ten days. Surely I can force myself to clean house for 20 hours over 10 days. I'm already liking the more open feel of the basement, and seeing the bottom of the guest closet. Isn't that enough reason?

We'll see.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. What's in your closet?

Back to Faith

This was one of those "anxious" weekends, where the little issues of life log-jammed against a wall of "what will I do now?" I don't know about you, but I can carry a bit of that before I identify the nausea as "worry."

I'm buying new glasses. I want a new mattress. I want to renovate the Guest Room before the next guest gets here. All that costs money, and we know the Turtle doesn't like being reminded of her limited resources.

I have a book to publish. I have a rose bed to transplant from one suburb to another. I have Summer in The Swamp to contend with. I have no zucchini sprouts. I have a front room full of garage sale stuff that, God willing, will leave in two weeks, but what if it doesn't? I'm stepping over a houseguest for the next 9 days, who isn't really a problem, but he's a pea-sized difference in schedule that this Princess does notice, especially when he gets underfoot as I'm carrying boxes.

My dreams this weekend (when I was able to sleep) were endless pruning of rose bushes and searching for lumber and losing cats in warehouse-sized mazes. That's not good. 

It's time to pray. Some people love to quote that "God helps those that help themselves" maxim, but it's a load of compost and, as far as I can tell, completely unBiblical. God helps those who cannot help themselves. None of us are adequate to any task without Him, except possibly rebellion. I need to bring the Big Guy in on the plan, and then hand it over to Him to solve as He has done time and again for me. All that worry time needs to become prayer and trust time.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Hand God your problems today. He's ready for them.

Procrastination Makes the World Go 'Round

It never ceases to amaze me what I will do in an effort to avoid doing something.

I have a book to prepare. What have I been doing instead? Rearranging the house. The Guest Room, specifically.

Part of it is Grace's advent. Part of it is the rainy weather that prevents me from working off my daily stress outside. But part of it is absolutely procrastination about the next book.

I rationalize this by telling myself the Guest Room will become The Writing Room. The place where my laptop and I go to "get away" from the cats and the TV so I can hunker down and be all productive. It might even be true. That was my intent with the porch.

I just dropped a huge wad of cash on new glasses because I now need bifocals, and I'm starting to seriously notice the fact. I've been having problems with headaches and tired eyes, and I hope the new glasses will help (I also use artificial tears to combat dryness and that helps a bit).

I would like to buy a new mattress, but the one I'm considering costs $1200. The salesman called it $1199 to make it more palatable, but I worked retail and I know that trick. With sales tax, I'm looking at $1317, which is steep. Maybe too steep, now that I write it out.

I should look at book production as a way to afford that mattress, and perhaps I should mentally tie the purchase of the mattress to book sales. As in, I won't buy a mattress with anything other than book money.

Yeah, right. 

Anyway, this sudden outpouring of cash has made me reconsider the Guest Room renovations in terms of steps: what I can afford now vs. what can wait, and what I can likely do by myself vs. what I would want help with.

Building requires planning, so I sit in the guest room and plan a pipe dream instead of executing another pipe dream, thus achieving a state of perfect procrastination.

Happy Friday, dear readers. May you be as productive as you wish to be.

Favors

I mentioned on FB that I might have to call in the "guilt chip" on The Brothers in regards to my Guest Room plans. That led to the comment from a cousin that brothers are generally willing to help if the guilt chip isn't used too often. That led to counting, which is odd, because I don't like math.

I've lived here 14 years. Big Brother has, in order,
1) built my library stacks in the basement
2) replaced all my kitchen cabinets and counter tops with leftovers from a nursing home contracting job (and it's SO BEAUTIFUL!)
3) built a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit for my bedroom that replaces a chest of drawers and provides sleeping cubbies for the cats.
4) replaced my bathroom vanity and toilet
5) built the front room catwalk

That rounds up to 1 project every three years. Is that excessive?

I have 3 more projects, though:
1) new deck stairs. The current ones are...not good.
2) replacing windowsills, although the foam insulation filler I sprayed in this winter is currently doing a fine job of keeping the birds from nesting.
2) Guest Room plans, which might take a couple of weekends, although he's pretty quick.

That's 3 projects in one year, which means I couldn't ask for another thing from him for 9 years.

He might be amenable to that deal.

Of course, I keep forgetting to mention that while Big Brother is a former contractor, Elder Brother is an excellent hobbiest woodworker, and has built all manner of shelves and desks and whatnot for his home. I could get a two-for-one if I play my cards right and buy enough steak.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Be nice today. 

Change of Plan

Over at Virtual Buttercups, I posted about some screened-in porch plans I kicked around. I've changed my mind. I'll tell you why over there (eventually), but since the plans evolved to inside the house and The Swamp is outside, I'll give you the new plan over here.

I've mentioned how small my house is: 823 square feet upstairs, according to the mortgage. While I generally consider this a comfortable size for the Turtle, I see many opportunities for better utilization of space.

One of these opportunities is what I call The Guest Room. It's a 10' x 11' foot "second bedroom." I assume it was intended for a nursery that a normal family would grow out of with the advent of Child Two and move on to another house. The biggest problem with The Guest Room is the set of double wide windows (like 80 x 80 inches, if you're buying curtains) that form the wall facing the street. Hardly evokes a sense of privacy, and causes all manner of heating, decorating and security issues.

TT: If I really had my druthers, I'd remove those windows and replace them with a solid wall and a small bank of windows or acrylic blocks at eye-level. That's a pipe-dream that will only see fulfillment if Mom wins the lottery and shares the wealth.

In the fourteen years I've lived here, The Guest Room has served to house ferrets, a fish tank, a make-shift solarium, all the clothes that don't fit in the master closet, one Kiwi, and currently the upstairs litter box. It tends to be the room all "stuff not currently in use" goes to collect dust. This is a complete waste of 121 square feet (did I do that math right?) out of 823.

I'd love to use it as an office, or an art room, or an upstairs library or a real guest room with an actual bed, but I've never sat down and done the planning. Until last night.

I pulled out my tape measure, graph paper and all the pent-up, not-playing-Farmville-at-night-anymore energy I could muster and started planning.

I'm pretty happy with the results. Not only do I think this can be done for far less money and effort than building a screened-in porch, I believe it will finally allow me to use a space I've avoided for 14 years and give the cats and I an almost-screened-in porch feel.

I'll be posting about this more in the next few weeks, I'm sure, especially if the current rainy weather pattern that is keeping me inside continues.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Enjoy your not-Monday.

Farmville Isn't the Problem

I knew it wasn't anymore. These two weeks proved it. My problem is addiction to mindless activity.

I didn't want to quit FV only to take up another game, but that is what has happened. Instead of watching TV and planting and harvesting, I've been watching TV and playing solitaire or Bubble-spinner. That's no improvement.

I can tell the FV addiction is gone. I'm fine doing something else when the TV isn't on. I'm relieved that I'm not tackling tasks or vulturing feeds or waiting for harvest time. It's liberating.

But as any good therapist (or Jesus) will tell you, you can't just stop doing something. You have to do something else as well. The goal is to make the "something else" worthwhile. Ultimately, we're all exchanging one addiction for another. My addiction used to be writing. During The Depression, it turned to FV. I'm trying to turn it back to writing, but my brain has atrophied.

I've repurposed Virtual Buttercups for recording the ups and downs of life out in The Swamp. That will get me back into writing regular posts about a topic I enjoy in a place I like, and playing with media (videos), as Grace Bridges once recommended. The Turtle is best appreciated in 3D surround-sound, but it's a start. Slow and steady, right? Maybe I'll attract a following of fellow swamp-dwellers.

Happy Friday, dear readers. May you use your brain well today.

My Idea of Heaven

A couple months ago, I was musing about eternity. I want to spend it in a small house in the middle of a huge garden (I'm talking Rhode Island-sized), taking care of all the cats, squirrels, rabbits, turtles, frogs, etc. that were abused or destroyed by thoughtless, careless humans on Earth. I see myself alone in this scenario, other than the animals, and Jesus' daily stop-in.

TT: Jesus is incarnate now, so I constantly wrestle with how He can be everywhere at once. It seems clear to me that after the resurrection, He is a "new creation," both fully God and fully man, transfigured. God the Father and the Holy Spirit remain spirits only, but Jesus is something else.  I don't see His return to Heaven means He shed His new body, which the gospels go to great lengths to show was physical, which also means Heaven is a physical place, even if it exists in another dimension. But this is another post.

This realization surprised me. I have a lot of loved on The Other Side, and I'd like to see them again, but it seems I don't want to spend all eternity living in their pockets. Why should I? They don't want to live with me now, why should they share my comfortable hole in the hill forever? Get your own hole. It's Heaven. There's plenty of room.

Now I've read Revelation. I know all about New Jerusalem, but I also know it "comes down out of Heaven," meaning it isn't Heaven. It's a city in Heaven/on Earth, whatever. I'm totally willing to visit, but I don't want to live in a city for all eternity, and I don't care what it's made of. I hate the city. I only live in a city because I'm unwilling to kill my own meat. And because I don't want to star in a horror film about a cabin in the woods.

Jesus knows me. If He's preparing a place, it's going to be someplace I will love. I guess I'm just surprised at what that definition currently is.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Put your galoshes on. Gonna be a wet morning in Kansas.

Elementals To-Do List

If I want Elementals out to "the public" this August, I have a few things to do.

1. Read it. Again. For final edits. This is the hardest part. I don't feel any urge to read this book one more time. I'm a little sick of it. That's why I haven't looked at it for two years. On the other hand, it may as well be out there potentially earning money while I ignore it instead of waiting on my hard drive.

2. Choose a cover image. I have something I like, but it's not my original pic, so I either need to draw/create something close myself or find a similar pic I can buy. Frankly, after the complaints with Star of Justice, my cover concept excellently rendered by Keven and DeAnna Newsome of Newsome Creative and completely trashed by nearly every reviewer, I just don't care as much as I used to.

3. Choose a font. I'm really hoping Grace will latch on to this item. I hate font-choosing.

4. Read up on formatting for ebooks. Caprice Hokstad, Terri Main, R.L. Copple and maybe even Grace have all written on this topic, and I saved every email. I'll need a week, probably, to go through all of them, but it sounds fairly easy once you get the hang of it.

5. Read up on CreateSpace. This seems to be the vehicle of choice for printing books. I like physical books, and I am willing to put up the money to create them.

6. Buy ISBNs. I hear the price has gone up. Not too much, I hope. I want a few, just in case I get back in the habit of this writing thing.
    An ISBN costs $55?! Holy crap! Gonna need to figure that into the break-even cost. Sheesh.

7. Write some cover copy. I'm not nearly as concerned about this as I should be. My goal is simply to maximize searchability while trying to keep it slightly interesting to a potential reader. How hard can that be?

That's all I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure I'll be adding to it. I may even blog about the journey.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Keep an eye to the sky. Today could get rowdy for some of us.

Helping by Shel Silverstein

Although I've sung this song since third grade (when I first saw Free to Be You and Me in music class), I had no idea until this morning that Shel Silverstein wrote this poem.

In honor of all the people in my life...

Help - Free to Be

I love you all, although some of you are more useful than others. 

Aquasynthesis...Again

Have I mentioned Grace published a short story of mine in an anthology? I know I said it on FB, but I can't remember if I blogged about it, and, frankly, this morning I'm too lazy to look it up.

If you want to know about Caissa Ocren's Test of Water, get Aquasynthesis...Again. Print version is $4.99; ebook $2.99. I've finally put the link over there to the left. Splashdown Books has all the ways and places the book is available, so the link goes there.

I need to order some for myself. Makes a great deal at speaking engagements. "Get autographed copies of Star of Justice and Aquasynthesis...Again for $20." That comes out to $1 for the autograph, so it's hardly a great deal, but people love the appearance of a bargain.

I've hesitated to tout Star of Justice for the simple reason that I'm currently a one-hit wonder. Yes, I could make money on the one, but then I breed ill-will by not providing a second. Worse, I build unreasonable expectations for the second, which only makes me squirm.

Once Elementals is available, I'll have two books and an anthology. I'm willing to shill for that. The second book barrier is broken by a book that has nothing to do with the world of the first, and a third book should be, God willing, on the way in a year or so. With my new knowledge of self-publishing, I'll be able to make my own anthologies of short stories when and if the mood takes me, and the inventory builds.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Is it really Thursday? Wow.

Goodbye, Farmville?

I've played Farmville, on average, three hours a day almost every day for about three and a half years. That's a lot of time, most of it enjoyable for me. So enjoyable, I used to blog daily about the game at Virtual Buttercups.

Farmville fit easily into my daily routine. I played while the cats ate. I played while I did laundry. I played while I watched TV. It provided a satisfying illusion of multi-tasking and mastery. At worst, it passed the time while I waited for something else to happen.

I've tried to be a helpful Neighbor to those who play and a considerate Friend to those who don't (I've always said I'm an addict, not a dealer). Last year, Zynga and I had our final falling out when customer service failed resoundingly to solve a problem to my satisfaction. Knowing that I will never again spend money on the game, that I will never get more farmcash as a result, has taken most of the joy out of playing.

Three hours a day (at least) is a lot of time I could be using for something else (spell that W-R-I-T-I-N-G). I suspect, it's also time that dulls my brain. I don't have to think while playing Farmville, and I don't. But the not thinking seems to extend to other areas, and I can't have that anymore. It is far easier to plant a crop than write a scene, but the scene is more important.

So, I'm quitting. I've limited play this week to half an hour in the morning while the cats eat and I listen to Focus on the Family. I'm emptying my giftbox. I'm putting my fields in order. I'm not feeling any withdrawal yet, but it's early. We'll see.

I have a book to publish this August. I'll need the time to prepare. Then I have a book to finish this year. I'll need brain power for that.

I'm not deleting the app. I'm not going cold turkey. I need the option to resume play to make sure I don't resume play. Call it immaturity. As long as it works.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. May you find the strength to overcome your addictions. When you're ready, of course. No judgment here. 

A Little Time

Two posts in one week? That hasn't happened for a while. Turns out I have a little time this morning. Not sure why, but I'll take it.

Read some blogs this morning, and the problems of "time" and "focus" are not mine alone. Everyone has trouble with too much to do and not enough time to do it in.

Work and The Swamp have been somewhat overwhelming these last two months. I've stood paralyzed in both places wondering what project is the most important in the pile of important projects. It's not easy for the Turtle to change direction, so direction must be carefully chosen at the beginning to avoid biting heads off later.

The new work project is nearly complete (by "nearly," I mean another month should see it done). The Swamp never ends, but it does get delayed due to weather. My mind is freeing up from crisis mode to think again.

I've been thinking about writing. I intend to self-publish Elementals this summer (with Grace's help on the cover). I need a final round of edits, but I'm afraid after not looking at it for two years, I'll start making changes that shouldn't be made. Nit-picking when I should just leave the nits alone. I did that with Star of Justice, and I regret it now. I lost something in the "smoothing," and I couldn't get it back. I wish you'd all seen it one round of edits earlier. Ah, well.

With Elementals "out of the way," there should be nothing preventing me from focusing entirely on Dangling Justice. Nothing but me, anyway, but that's a post I'm saving for New Authors' Fellowship.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Pick one thing, and do it 'til it's done.

Making Progress

The garage is as organized as it's getting this year, and possibly more organized than it has ever been. I'm down to three unsorted boxes. Those are papers about Dad and the family that will require a lot of time and tissues. That's why I haven't done it in 14 years. I'll do it when the temps are higher, and I can spread out on the porch to negate the mildew a little. The papers don't seem damaged. It's more the outside of the boxes. Weird.

I'm currently resetting the concrete blocks bordering the driveway. Those have sunk a bit over 14 years, so it's even more labor-intensive than I thought it would be. I set 5 last night and almost killed myself. I have six to go. I think. Moving these will give me a slightly better angle to get the van in the garage. It also looks a lot nicer.

My Memorial Day weekend project -weather permitting- is the first and possibly second run of a chain link fence. After Neighbor to the North disrupted my life with his mortgage forfeiture and subsequent loss of mind and removal of the privacy fence between our property that's been there since the first week they moved in, I determined no Neighbor would again control my fence. I've wanted chain link for years. This is the year it happens. Part of it, anyway. Only hitch is I need to learn how to install a chain link fence. Several websites seem to indicate it's a simple DIY. After years of watching This Old House, that doesn't comfort me.

I'll need to talk with Neighbors to the South to see if they're OK with me removing the pig wire between us. Since it's crumpled in a couple of spots, falling over in others, and I'm not asking them to pay for any of it, I'm hopeful. If not, I'll wait until new Neighbors move in and put up a privacy fence. That seems to be the norm in this neighborhood.

That's the time I have this morning.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. May your projects come to swift and blessed conclusions.

'Tis the Season

Seems to happen about this time every year. Spring arrives, and the Turtle vanishes into The Swamp.

I suspect this year will be as cold as last year, so I have no intention of planting anything new until mid-May, at least. However, I have lots of things I can transplant, and since they're already living in the cold, they should do fine. I can't describe how good it feels to grab a shovel and the wheelbarrow and do something that requires no thought at all.

I accidentally got put in charge of a huge project at work that's outside my official expertise, so that has been stressful and exhausting. I've come home with just energy mental energy to make dinner and read a little something before falling into bed. Since it's work-related, it's unprofessional to discuss it here, so Swamp time has been especially useful for coping. 

Without intending to, I took April off from writing. I've been making my way through my TBR pile, unfortunately by "tossing" books one to two paragraphs in. Some day I'll figure out exactly what criteria makes a book acceptable to me in such a short span. It's not genre-related. It might have something to do with writing style. I expect a college vocabulary (you know, from back when going to college actually meant something other than you were stupid enough to sell your eternal soul for a degree you don't even get), and a certain clarity of thought in presenting information. Add a reasonably interesting story, and I'm yours to the end.

Example, I discarded a YA book four pages in because not only were the character names stupid and forgettable, I was bombarded with a convoluted and confusing history of China I apparently had to know before I could sympathize with the protagonist's plight. No, thank you. Buh-bye.

I've also picked up my chronological Bible again and spend my normal blog time reading that each morning. I'm only posting today because I'm taking a fasting blood test in an hour so I don't need to make breakfast. I intend to follow the test up with a Subway steak and bacon melt.

Anyway, the work project should be winding down soon, and The Swamp can only hold my attention until temps are consistently in the mid-80's. Grace will be here in a few months, and it will be time to publish Elementals. My WIP remains in my thoughts, and I'll get back to it.

Happy Wednesday and happy May Day, dear readers. Don't forget to pay your bills. Especially that school loan. It's not going away until you do.

In Defense of Rick

I watch The Walking Dead. I think about the zombie apocalypse way too much on way too many levels. Blame the writers.

Season 4b has been completely amazing on just about every level. The writing, the effects, the acting - it's all good. So good, this is the first time I've considering buying a season on DVD. I mean, I like the show, but I'm not completely crazy.

I've started watching Talking Dead because I don't have any real people to talk with about the show (and turtles don't "chat" with strangers on the Internet). I was startled to hear some people have issues with Rick's decision to oust Carol from the prison.

Now, Rick isn't my favorite person on the show. My favorite person is usually the conscience of the group, and usually dies 20 episodes after they assume that role (RIP Dale and Herschel, and I'll be gracious enough to include Andrea because as much as I hated her, I respect her intentions). Rick can't be my favorite because I can't forgive him for the way he holds his revolver. Either build some muscle or get a smaller gun, Rick. You pack like a gangbanger. It's a miracle you hit anything.

Sorry.

Rick has been the official unofficial leader of this group from the moment he stumbled into that cluster of motor homes and tents in season one. Why? Because he was wearing a law enforcement uniform initially, I suspect, but it held because he made good decisions (except about his wife, but that's another post) that benefited the group and individuals.

Rick has the ability to weigh the needs of the many against the needs of the one and come out ahead. Shane (and just about every small group they've encountered) was about survival at any cost. Disagreement with the Governor meant getting your head cut off and stuck in a fish tank. Yes, you can survive that way for a while, but real survival in the zombie apocalypse means finding like-minded people and protecting the snot out of each other. And killing zombies. Nobody seems to understand how many zombies they need to be killing every day, but, again, that's another post.

Carol's crime was murder. Secret murder, but, yes, murder. She killed two people in cold blood. I don't believe she went Hannibal Lector on them, but she made a choice on her own to take two lives.

Her motive was preservation of the group, but she didn't have the right to act on that decision. There was a council in place. She was part of it. She acted alone because the council wouldn't agree with her.

Rick was right to banish her because you can't have a member of the group willing to kill other members of the group whenever they think it benefits the majority. How do you define "benefits"? How do you define "majority"? A year ago Carol would never have gone so far. What will she be like in another year (should she survive that long)?

I understand Carol's reasoning. I sympathize, but she went too far. Rick's solution was just and merciful. He could have killed her himself (which would have been wrong on the same scale as what Carol did in the first place). He could have brought her back to the group for sentencing, which would have created another giant mess and further shattered group cohesion. Instead, he gave Carol a chance to find another group and start over. Again, his choice was for the group and for the individual. And Carol recognized that. Even in that moment, she acknowledged his leadership and accepted the sentence, even if she doesn't appear to accept that she made the wrong choice.

I love Carol, but sometimes love has to be tough. Rick understands that (and it unfortunately makes him a bit crazy now and again). It's why he's a good father and a good leader in the zombie apocalypse. If only he would figure out how to hold a gun.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. May our zombies be so easy to kill.

Scrivener

I've heard about it from Lioness (who has the Mac version) and Ralene (who has the PC version). It's supposed to be incredibly helpful for organizing any kind of writing in the first draft stage, whether you plot or pants. It has "index cards," split screens, calendar features for monitoring story timelines: you know, a real miracle for the modern writer.

There was a sale. I had some money. I took the plunge.

I hate learning new software. More than almost anything. Forging neural pathways is excruciating to me, no matter how useful they might become. Over the last three days, I'm halfway through the tutorial, and I've taken innumerable tea and nacho Dorito breaks (I don't have biscuits at the moment) while my brain tries to ooze out my nose.

I've also started converting Justice for All into a Scrivener version as practice (the tutorial practice file was boring).

Why not convert Dangling Justice, my current WIP, you ask? Multiple reasons, not the least of which is I'm a dumbass. I have to start with the hardest thing first, remember? I'm the idiot who would make a queen-sized quilt for my first project instead of the placemat. And let's be fair. Justice For All is the queen-sized quilt of my literary career.

I had forgotten 1) just how much I've already written on that story, and 2) just how massive it may end up being. I mean, I seem to have about 350 pages already, and I don't know that I'm half done. No wonder I gave up.

By the end of the week, I should not only know the basics of Scrivener, I should have Justice For All ready for later. 'Cause I'm still going to finish Dangling Justice first.

I wanted to include a link to Scrivener, but the page isn't loading. I guess you'll have to look up Literature and Lattes on your own.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. May your neural pathway forging be pleasant. 

Long Term Goals

Preparing tax paperwork is not my favorite activity. I keep excellent records, and I am generally able to put hands on anything I need, but anytime I analyze my money, I get...a little weird.

Taxes are a forced annual review of my financial life. "Where your treasure is, there is your heart." I wish this review put me in a better mood, but I have nature and nurture working against me in the financial realm. Nothing could foul my dad's mood like an evening balancing the checkbook. Shopping is mom's usual method for ditching the blues. Not the best template.

So when I see in black and red that my writing expenses outweigh my writing income for 2013, I must allow that, according to Dave Ramsey, writing remains my hobby, not my business. I could be upset by this, but I am not, for several reasons.


1. Writing is not my day job. 
Statistically, it takes at least two years to turn a profit on a new business, and that's when you go all out, whole hog, throw yourself into making money mode. I haven't, because I don't need to. I have a day job. I write because I want to (at least, I think I do). Any income at this point is icing.

2. Time is part of the plan.
I need writing to keep my brain active and supplement my income years from now (cause my day job does that at the moment). My current writing goal is to build inventory, one quality book at a time, so that I may reap a harvest later. This is a marathon, not a sprint. Turtles don't sprint.

3. I must have fun.
God meant for man to work, even in Eden. That tells me God expects us to enjoy what we do. I used to enjoy writing, and I have varying degrees of faith that I will enjoy it again. Doing something I enjoy and getting paid anything for it is gravy on the icing.

Finally, most of last year's expenses were Realm Makers' related, and something of an anomaly for my writing education budget. Take that out of the equation, and I made a profit on writing last year. 

I've put the checkbook away for the moment (until April 15, anyway), so my general mood is improved. My writing mood is even keel. Slow and steady wins this race. I've got the slow. I'm looking for the steady.

Happy Hump Day, dear readers. Enjoy whatever weather you're facing today. It will change in a few hours anyway.

Depth

What do I mean by "depth?"

Allow me to date myself. Remember that scene in Wayne's World 2 when Wayne needs directions and asks for a better actor to deliver them? No? Here's a refresher:

Wayne's World 2

Not every character in a book needs to be Charleton Heston, but if a character is important enough to have lines, I kinda want to know they existed before those lines were delivered. I'd also like to know they'll go on existing after they exit stage left.

I recently saw a high school performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, a Shakespearean wannabe about two minor characters in Hamlet and their existential wrestling while off-stage waiting to deliver lines. It's billed as a comedy, but, you'll forgive me, no play where the main characters dies is a comedy. At best, it's a dark comedy, but I digress. The play highlights that these two characters exist only to serve Hamlet. They have no other purpose or life outside of that reality.

One of the things I love about Anne McCaffrey's stories is the interconnectedness. Minor characters in one book become main characters in another, and have cameos or off-hand mentions in yet other books. People know each other. She wrote fanfic for her own worlds. Everybody could be somebody in an Anne McCaffrey universe, and you never knew who would get the spotlight next.

When I read a fantasy novel, I expect every character to have a story and a reason for existing other than just moving the plot forward. I don't expect to read everybody's story in the same book. Most times that back story can't be part of the main plot. But...I'm OK with glimpses. A mention of a former relationship. A token with obvious emotional value. A scar indicating an interesting tale if only you had a chance to stop and hear it. 

A fantasy novel walks a fine line. The author must not only make you care about the main characters, but must introduce you to a brand new world without confusing or overloading the reader with history, description or back story. It can be done. McCaffrey did it. Robert Jordan did it. George MacDonald did it in short stories, for goodness' sake. 

Advice for today's author seems to include streamlining. Paring down your wordcount. Writing to a shorter attention span. Not bad advice, but I fear we go too far in paring out any word that doesn't "advance" the plot. Some words advance the reality of the world in which the plot happens. I find those words valuable. 

Happy Thursday, dear readers. "If you gotta spew, spew into this." 

Oops. Wrong movie.

My Biggest Gripe

My biggest gripe with most fantasy books (and the occasional sci-fi if it involves alien worlds) is lack of depth.

The first series that ever impressed me with diversity was Dave Duncan's Magic Casement. Can't remember if that's book one or just one of the four. Doesn't matter. Duncan's world encompassed "races" that were all variations of human but with distinct physical and cultural characteristics, and those differences played into the story. Loved it (Duncan had a varied background himself in both education and employment).

TT: Anne McCaffrey actually did the same thing, but with so much subtlety I didn't realize what she'd done until years later. She remains a master of the craft, and one of my "mentors."

Another thing Duncan did to impress me was muddy up his stereotypes. He added gray to a world of black and white. Good guys could do bad things and vice versa. I couldn't tell at first glance who would play what part. Depth.

Katherine Coble recently said books written by those under 35 tend to lack flavour. While there are people half my age who've lived twice my life, she's not wrong. Experiencing life should translate to depth in writing.

I'm not saying longer books are better. Fred Warren is a master of conveying powerful emotion with few words. I am saying I wish more well-written books had a feeling of history to them. A sense that this world existed before you opened the book and will continue after the last page is turned.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. May your world have only as much depth as you can handle with God's help.

The Hobbyist Writer

I read an article earlier this week about why writers procrastinate. Ralene Burke over at NAF posted about unexpected writer's block. Check out the comments, especially the one about Pixar. I'll give you a minute.

*Sherlock theme song plays*

Back? Good.

My living doesn't depend on my writing. If I don't sell a book, I still eat tonight. I have a day job. The last three years have proven to me I'm not a natural born writer (I took a test about that, too, but I don't care enough to go find it on FB). I think up stories. Sometimes I write them down. Sometimes people publish them. Sometimes other people read them. It's all good.

That article about things coming too easy is spot on. Most of my life has been spent easily doing what I'm good at and avoiding what I'm bad at. Only in the last year have I really begun tackling things that don't come naturally and finding some measure of success. It's an odd feeling. I want to be resentful about the need but I'm rather pleased with the results.

The Pixar strategy is one for people whose lives depend on their work. Pixar must create movies (good ones, hopefully, but high-grossing is acceptable), so Pixar must force ideas when no ideas present themselves.

The elitist in me balks at the thought of writing a story that didn't materialize from thin air fully-formed and insistent to be written, but that's what working writers do, and they do it quite well. I love most Pixar movies. I don't feel like they were rushed or written to formula. That system works, and my elitist snobbery should sit down and shut up. It hasn't produced anything lately.

These last few years have been a lesson in doing what doesn't come naturally. Sometimes I learn I really do hate it, and I'll stop, but that's not nearly as often as I expect. Most of the time, it's just a question of learning the steps and practicing them until mastery is achieved. I can do that.

So on days when writing doesn't come easily, I should push at it. Struggle with it. Try something that might not work and abandon it without guilt or annoyance if I'm wrong. That's what normal people do, and it seems to work.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Try something new today, and then try it again, just to be sure.

I've Found Pinterest

You know the Turtle. Always late to the party.

That's deliberate. Let other, more adaptable people work out the bugs. I have almost no patience with tech or my own shortcomings where understanding tech is concerned.

TT: Shall I tell you what I hate the most? "Intuitive" programming. You know what "intuitive" means in this context? It means the programmers think I'm an idiot who doesn't know what I want to do, so they make assumptions on my behalf. Let me tell you something, Users. I know exactly what I want to do when it comes to writing, so keep your stupid "intuitive" opinions to yourself. When it comes to the Turtle, you're wrong more than you're right. And stop using pictures to express editing concepts. I write English, not pictures. Use your words.

Can't remember the exact reason I decided to join all the pinners, even though I only decided on Friday. Something to do with wanting pics to go with the short story I was writing. I thought Pinterest would be simpler than a Google search.

Totally wrong.

Once again, my brain doesn't work like the rest of the world, and the searches I've tried so far get nowhere at the speed of Internet. Not to say I haven't found some fun things, but not many of them are relevant to the project at hand.

Pinterest is window shopping for images. I hate window shopping. Initially, I feared addiction, but that has passed very quickly. I just don't like hopping from random thing to random thing. Hard target searches with measurable results are my bailiwick.

I'll stay on, I suspect. It does fill the five to seven minutes when I'm waiting for something Farmville-related to mature.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Enjoy the coming snow.

Why I Love the Writers of Sherlock

Last Monday, I crowed about the return of my Boy of the BBC, Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I was also pleased to see John Watson. In fact, I ended up in John's corner by the end of that post.

If you've watched episode two of season three, you might think the writers listened to me. That's impossible, of course. These movies were written, shot and produced months ago. The writers would have to be precognizant to know my gripes.

That's why they're good writers. They understood Sherlock was heading down the impossible-to-love path of the true jerk, and yanked him back to the high road. Not so high that we forget who he is, but high enough to see John means something to him. High enough to believe he may have a notion of how wrong his behavior was and wants to make amends for it. This momentary outpouring of sentiment won't last, but his gesture of goodwill refills our well of loyalty to the high-functioning sociopath (did you see that smile during the usher interview? I shuddered even as I laughed hard enough to disturb the cat).

I'm also pleased the writers have chosen not to put Sherlock and Mary in opposition. It would have been an easy route to take with plenty of drama, but ultimately it would have torn the original friendship apart, and what is Holmes without Watson? A dickhead, as John so succinctly put it.

Anyway, I'm thrilled. The Circle of Three is officially my new favorite episode, replacing Scandal in Belgravia, which has held the title for seven movies.

Happy Monday, dear readers. May a beautiful friendship warm your heart on this ridiculously cold mid-Winter day.

Teriyaki Chicken Thighs

I've eaten this for lunch since Tuesday, and I find myself eagerly anticipating the next lunch, and wondering why I have to wait until lunch, because it's not like I haven't eaten chicken for breakfast.

The original recipe came from Mr. Food, but I added pineapple chunks and left out scallions (because I couldn't find any). I also used generous amounts of olive oil to subsidize the marinade while cooking since it didn't look like enough sauce to pour over anything came out of that bag.

Serves: 4 I diced the chicken after cooking, so this could be more if you're fond of sides and easy with the meat portions.

Marinade Time: 4 hr

Cooking Time: 20 min

What You'll Need:

2 1/2 to 3 pounds chicken thighs, skinned if desired

1/2 cup soy sauce

3 scallions, sliced

3 tablespoons light brown sugar

2 tablespoons honey

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger 

1 can pineapple chunks 

What To Do:

Place chicken in a large resealable plastic bag. I bought boneless by accident. I did cut off most of the fat, but I wasn't OCD about it.

In a small bowl, combine remaining ingredients. I chopped a third of the pineapple into mush with a Pampered Chef chopper and added it to the marinade for additional moisture. Mix well and add to chicken. Seal bag and marinate in refrigerator about 4 hours, turning occasionally.

Drain chicken, reserving marinade.

Coat a grill pan or skillet with cooking spray and cook chicken over medium heat 15 to 18 minutes, or until no longer pink in center, turning occasionally.

In a small saucepan over high heat, boil reserved marinade 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Spoon over chicken and serve immediately.

I used olive oil instead of cooking spray, added the marinade immediately to the pan and cooked it all together. I haven't died of salmonella poisoning, so I must assume this works. 

Serve with jasmine rice and sliced scallions. I'm eating it with brown rice and quinoa, the rest of the pineapple chunks added after cooking, and canned peas. Nom nom nom.

Mr. Food warning: For safety when using marinades, never consume a marinade that has come in contact with raw poultry, meat, or seafood, nor let it come in contact with cooked food unless the marinade has been brought to a boil and boiled for at least 3 minutes, stirring frequently.

Happy Friday, dear readers. Make a double portion of this tonight, and you'll be happy all weekend on the leftovers. 

Sherlock Returns

I'm hoping to avoid spoilers for those who haven't seen Season Three, Episode 1 of the BBC's reboot of the Sherlock Holmes franchise, but smart people will figure it out anyway, so read at your own risk.

According to the show mythology, it's been two years since Sherlock plunged from the top of St. Bart's. Has it really been that long?

I've lost track of time. The span between my sociopathic detective's jump and the airing of The Empty Hearse, was, for me, an eternity of slow-burning anxiety that one or both stars (or God-forbid, the writers) would die pursuing other projects, and I'd never know for sure if or how Sherlock survived.

TT: It might be argued that Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman exposing themselves on other projects was good sense for their acting careers, but it should not be argued in front of me as it could result in a serious throat injury. I boycotted Firefly because it pulled Joss Whedon away from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel and all three died as a result. My loyalty is fierce, but it must be reciprocated. It could also be argued that neither the presence of BC nor the direction of J.J. Abrams could save Star Trek: Into Darkness from a fatal case of the utterly predictable, so BC should have stayed at Baker Street where his snark makes me happy. As I am boycotting The Hobbit for numerous reasons, including the delay in new Sherlock episodes, I won't comment on the wisdom of MF's decision.

Back to Sherlock.

I haven't decided if the writers cheated. This is a huge issue for me. My suspension of disbelief is well-exercised, and I can give a lot of slack to those who have appeased me in the past, but they walked that line pretty close last night. Was the truth revealed? It was plausible, but hardly satisfying. I don't mind the writers not telling me the truth (yet), as long as a truth exists (and I hear it eventually). I find the current solution rather machina ex deus, and not at all as big a role for Molly Hooper as I was led to expect (an expectation that remains possible considering Sherlock's treatment of her on his return). In short, I'm not convinced I've been given all the facts, and I'm really hoping I'm right.

TT: I am thrilled the first explanation was not all it seemed, 'cause I was ready to turn the TV off.

I must also say, as much as I love the self-absorbed Sherlock, the last three episodes have turned John from a friend and confidant to a whipping boy and lab rat. I am an extremely loyal friend, but even I have a limit of how much crap I will take before severing ties (with a complete and utter finality that earned me the name "Queen of Cut Off" in therapy class). Secretly dosing me with a fear-inducing drug to test your hypothesis, treating me like a second-rate citizen when I'm the only person who believes you, and, finally, hiding your actual "not-deadness" for two years because my grief is what makes the whole illusion real is crossing the line of acceptable friend behavior, even for a self-diagnosed sociopath.

Writers, restore some of John's dignity and worth in Sherlock's esteem, or you will lose me. You have two episodes.

Maybe three. I'm pretty loyal.

Cemetery Dairy

I've wanted goats for almost as long as I can remember. It all started with a picture of Lancelot, the first unicorn captured on film - a billy goat with a birth defect that caused his two horns to grow as one.

One of the issues facing cemeteries in Kansas is maintenance, specifically lawn maintenance. It costs a lot to mow a cemetery, and if it has large memorial headstones, you risk damaging them with weed eaters.

Enter my love of goats. Goats won't nick tombstones in their quest for grass, and they carry the added benefit of free fertilizer and goat milk. Add some pretty harnesses with jingle bells, and you got yourself a fun treat for the kiddos when they come to visit great-grandma's grave. Section the cemetery into grazing times, and post signs that flowers will be eaten after seven days.

Why stop there? A couple of sheep for the places the goats won't touch, and voila! Wool. Looms and weaving classes on the weekend. Some chickens, ducks and guinea hens, and you've not only solved the bug problem, you've added lawn aeration.

Native fruit-bearing bushes around the perimeter will benefit from the improved soil. Come to the cemetery with flowers, leave with gooseberries, chokecherries and thornless blackberries. Better yet, pick your own flowers from the flower and herb garden adjacent to the reflection pool. Wild garlic attracts bees and flavors goat butter.

The sad part is, I'm not joking. I want this cemetery. I can see my Kansas-adapted Earthship watching over its flock of wild and domesticated animals, protecting and preserving not only the memories of those who've gone before, but the ground in which they rest. On the crest of the hill stands the caretaker, wrapped in her hand knitted shawl, and smiling through the ageless beauty only hard, clean living provides.

Expect this scenario to appear in my book of short stories. I now know exactly where Miss Am lives.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. May all your good dreams come true, and your nightmares be forgotten in the light of day.

The January Plan

I'm tired of my well-begun yet no-end-in-sight WIP mocking me from the turtle-shaped memory stick. I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to think of myself as a poser instead of a writer. What does it matter that I produced once? Am I to live on those laurels for the rest of eternity?

Ten words a day is not enough reason to turn on the laptop. Five hundred words a day feels insurmountable at the moment when the pinnacle of my story is cloaked in storm clouds. But a blog post's worth of words? I can do that. I used to blog every day. Two or three paragraphs is worth the time if those paragraphs move the story forward. As a bonus, if I produce an epic fail, it's fairly easy to rewrite that kind of day's work.

I am a mountain climber hanging by a finger and a toe as I search for the next outcropping that will push me an inch higher. I can rappel down from the top. My hesitation comes from having no clear image of the climax. I have no clear image of the antagonist of this tale. I have no clear image of the cast. Makes the whole thing rather difficult to map in anything but the broadest of terms.

But a couple of paragraphs? Could be description. Could be a hint. Could be clean up, or a fight scene, or scintillating dialogue. Could be that inch I need to give me the space to breathe and study my next move instead of worrying over not starting yet.

That's my plan for January. I already started it. I'll keep you posted on the progress.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. May your mountains be worth climbing.

Good-bye, 2013, I'll Miss You

I mean that. This was my calmest year in a while, and I needed the break.

I'm in the minority. Most of my friends have had hellacious years (hmm. Blogspot doesn't know that word). New jobs, lost jobs, floods, chronic illness, never-ending divorces - you name it, I have a friend going through it.

But my 2013 was good. I kicked depression in the teeth and out the door. I settled into my cemetery job and gained a little mastery and a lot of attitude. The weather was remarkably calm for Kansas. My zucchini flourished, even if the tomatoes faltered. I found peace with Zynga.

I've read some books. More books than I've read since pre-college. I've watched some movies I've never seen. I attended a conference and met people I've only known virtually (and still liked them). I'm remembering how to sing in the shower. If lack of cavities is proof, I've successfully reintroduced fluoride to my teeth cleaning regimen.

The only thing that suffered this year was my writing. I've been avoiding my WIP like a clingy, demanding boyfriend. I've forsaken NAF almost entirely (as an alumnus, my responsibilities are less than they were, but still...). I've run out of blogging ideas, as if you couldn't tell. Not a good thing, as I've apparently added some fans. Got a message from one last week asking if I had a release date on my next book.

Sigh. A release date. I should probably get on that.

Thank you, 2013, for being a year I could love. A Year of Jubilee, as it were. I needed it. I suspect 2014 will be a real nutcracker.

Happy New Year's Eve, dear readers. Count your blessings and forget the rest.   

Winter in Kansas

A few things to know about Winter in Kansas.

Usually, it's cold. Not Antarctic-kill-you-if-you-step-outside cold, but 30 degree highs and 0-10 degree lows with a wind chill. You'll want a coat, boots and thick gloves. And a ski mask because our winds keep blowing in Winter, and that north wind will peel the skin off your face if you're not careful. I add earmuffs because I can take almost anything but cold ears.

We don't see a lot of snow. We get sleet, freezing drizzle, the occasional ice storm, but snow doesn't happen as often as we would like, especially considering the cold temps. I mean, if you're going to freeze your nose off, you may as well have something pretty to look at, right?

When it does snow, people go a little crazy. SUVs think they're masters of the road, when in fact they tend to wind up in ditches and rollover accidents. An SUV can't stop any better than anyone else on snowpack. Keep that in mind, young'uns. Snow driving means down-shifting, slow speeds, and no tailgating.

Even in Winter, Kansas sun melts snow. What your parents may not have told you is to shovel your drive a) before you drive on it, and b) before the sun gets too high. If you get the snow off, the sun and wind take care of the remaining moisture, and you get a dry driveway by nightfall. If you don't clear it off, the sun melts the snow, and you get a sheet of ice by next morning. This holds true for clearing off your vehicle, too. Sun either heats a car and melts ice off the windows, or heats a car and turns snow left on a car into a thicker layer of ice.

This clearing and melting can backfire if the sun doesn't come out until late, but generally you're better off clearing than not clearing. It's good exercise, too, as long as you don't pull your brachioradialus muscle. 

Snow is both moisture and an insulator, so I always shovel it onto the flower beds. This is another good reason to move it before you drive on it. The chemicals used to clear roads have no business on your flower beds.

Any day above freezing will be a good day for the carwashes. Kansas drivers know to get the road sand and salt off their vehicles as soon as possible. With my growing affection for the new van, I'll be doing this myself when the opportunity arises.

We got snow this weekend, so I've been shoveling and scraping and pulling muscles. Good times.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Drive careful out there. 

Insight, or Another Excuse?

Money doesn't motivate me.

I'm almost ashamed to write that. It sounds horribly elitist, as though I cannot be bothered with the travails of mere mortals. I assure you, money worries me as much as it worries most people. I just don't translate "money worry" into "make more money." In fact, I seem to take the opposite route of "money worry" becomes "money hoarding."

This lack of desire to pursue money makes me a bit odd, I suspect, and may add to the elitist image of "I cannot be bothered to sully myself with grubbing after income like a commoner." I hope that's not the case. If it is, I assure you, the issue is entirely mine, as my entire family is of common stock with an excellent work ethic and normal perspectives of income vs. outgo. I have no business thinking I'm made of grander stuff than most. I'm plain old homespun from wool and cotton, no matter that I behave like the silk petticoat of a queen. 

TT: Probably time to reread The Lost Princess by George McDonald. I do that when I start to get above myself. 

Back to my point. I didn't publish a book to make money. I published a book because a lot of people made my life miserable until I did. Now that I have, they've mostly backed off (possibly because I bite people who ask "when's the next book coming out?")

One of my writer's groups is once again discussing book pricing. I fall on the lower price point side for ebooks because the physical costs are lower and higher prices for print books because the physical costs are higher. However, I wonder if I'm about lower price points because I don't want my books associated with me making a profit.

Now that absolutely goes against everything I espouse. I am a rabid capitalist, provided the capitalism is balanced with integrity. I firmly support the mutually beneficial exchange of goods and services, and that is the foundation of capitalism. Two people getting exactly what they want from each other, and being so satisfied with the exchange, they'd gladly do it again. It's what I used to have with Zynga before the company went money crazy.

I want people who buy my books to be satisfied with the purchase. There is nothing inherently wrong with me benefiting monetarily from that. But, I admit, I would rather have the praise than the cash. I would rather my product be admired and respected than fill my savings account.

Therein lies the pinch. I am reluctant to gain money from my books, and I am terrified that I will lose what respect I've earned by producing the next one (a very real possibility, btw, considering how often it happens to others).

So, once again, I've found an underlying insight to the paralysis I face whenever I look at my laptop. Will it help me overcome that paralysis? We'll see. Sometimes insight is enough to remove the dam.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. May you have all the money you need, even if it's not all the money you want.

To Steal or Not To Steal

Yesterday, Katherine Coble asked the question,

"Is it stealing to open a bag of something like chips or cookies or cough drops and eat them during your shopping trip?"

This was apparently prompted by observations of another shopper. She had her opinion on the matter, but was curious what her FB Friends thought on the issue.

About half of the responders thought it was fine as long as you paid before you left. I don't think that's the question. The question is did you steal by opening the bag and eating during your shopping trip?

If you've interacted with me for any length of time, you know how much food occupies my thoughts. You should also have gathered how extremely possessive I am. This question touches on both issues. I have no doubt at all that eating food that isn't mine is stealing. 

I'm not condemning those who've done it. My greater concern is how easily rationalizing comes to us as a society.

"Well, it's fine as long as you pay before you leave." No. Eating something that isn't yours is stealing. You can pay for it afterward, but it was stolen until you paid. That's an "end justifies the means" argument. Those never fly with me.

"Well, the clerk didn't say anything/stop me, so it's fine." No. Bad behavior doesn't justify more bad behavior. If you take something that isn't yours, you steal. It doesn't matter if someone calls you on it. This is the same rationalization we use when running a stop sign because no other cars are there. The law doesn't stop existing because no one sees you break it.

"Well, I really needed it because I was having a (insert medical condition)." If you are that likely to have such a medical condition, why aren't you carrying whatever you need with you? I'm borderline hypoglycemic (one of the reasons I'm so concerned about food). I promise you, I have snacks with me at all times. I don't need to steal from a store because I'm experiencing low blood sugar.

Again, I'm not condemning. I'm observing. As a gatekeeper/guardian/ anti-change agent, I will always call out b.s. And those answers sounded my b.s. horn.

Proverbs 30:7-9

⁷ Two things I asked of You,
Do not refuse me before I die:
⁸ Keep deception and lies far from me,
Give me neither poverty nor riches;
Feed me with the food that is my portion,
⁹ That I not be full and deny You and say, “Who is the Lord?”
Or that I not be in want and steal,
And profane the name of my God. (NASB)

Happy Hump Day, dear readers.

Issues of Dismemberment

or, Why I'm OK With Dolls Whose Arms Come Off, But Not Dolls Whose Feet Come Off.

I have issues with dismemberment. You might not think so if you've read my stuff because I appear eager to sever protuberances, but it is never a good thing. Actually, that could go either way.

It started with those Disney head purses. You know the ones. Purses that are just the heads of famous Disney characters: Pooh et al., Mickey et al., Nemo et al.? OK, Nemo is pretty much a giant head anyway, but you get my point. I put my foot down when Niece #1 wanted a head purse. There was no way in The Nine Hells My Lamb was going anywhere with a severed head dangling from her tiny shoulder. Unless she killed it herself with a bottle opener and her teeth.

I got her a Djali backpack instead (this was during the Hunchback of Notre Dame ouvre).

TT: Not sure I'm spelling that word correctly or even using it right, but I heard it on Buffy the Vampire Slayer so I'm giving it a shot.

Yes, the goat was eviscerated, but he was otherwise intact. Stuff him with a blanket and no one knows his sorrow. She got the point, and Weird Aunt Turtle got peace of mind. 

Fast forward several years, and Bratz enter the scene. I have no issues with disproportionate dolls. Hey, I played with Barbie for years. And years. But when you have to change a doll's shoes by pulling off its feet, I draw a line. These are caricatures of real girls, and real girls' feet don't come off on purpose. I banned the Bratz. Pretty sure the nieces still had some, but we didn't discuss it, and they certainly didn't depedocate them around me. (Is that a word? Should be.)

Why, then, am I fine with the removable arms (and in some cases, everything) of Monster High dolls? Because they're monsters. Monsters can do all kinds of things normal humans can't, including switching forearms.

Which is why, after nearly a year of yearning, I finally broke down and bought a Monster High doll (actually, I bought three - one assembled and a set of two, assembly required, mwahahahahahaa!). They should have been around when I was younger, and it isn't my fault they weren't.

They came!

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Grasp a bit of your lost youth today, as long as all your pieces stay attached.