Changing Times

Will this turn into a rant? I hope not. "Positive" is my word for 2012. It may turn into "positively horrible," but January isn't even over. I'm not going there yet.

A co-worker introduced me to her daughter as Pollyanna yesterday. I explained I'm a cynic the rest of the time.

"That's kind of the opposite," she said.

"I know. It takes a lot of energy to be positive 8 hours a day. Have to recoup the loss somewhere."

So I changed to the new FB timeline. Welcome to way TMI. I'm so grateful The Machine will now publish every second of my life from conception to death for the entire world to see. Makes me feel special. High price to pay for my FV addiction, but I'm paying it.

Anyone else seeing us turning into Aldous Huxley's Brave New World? Little bit chilling, me thinkin'. 

I changed to the "new" Blogger interface. I was encouraged to change months ago but I just couldn't handle one more thing, you know? I hate it, of course, but I'll adapt. Or die.

After doing some sketch work for a friend, it occurred to me this morning I might want to do some sketch work for myself. Splashdown likes to use symbols as chapter headings. I could go with the obvious "star of justice," but maybe Merritt's kilt clasp is more interesting. Or Radiac's symbol. Or something else I haven't thought of. April sounds far away but it really isn't. I need to focus, write stuff down and get to work.

I'll be starting what I'm calling "final edits" on Star of Justice next week. This really means I'll read it for consistency and smooth out any remaining rough spots. Will rabbits be rabbits or erguk? They're kind of both. Does hafmet officially replace paces or hands as a unit of measurement? I say yes, even if it does sound funny when halved. It really does. Try it.

Just how big is Aidan? I have no idea. Not knowing how fast a horse can travel, I kind of guessed most of the time issues. It is magical. I suppose distance could change due to intermittent spacial anomalies of a magical nature. Yeah. Cheating. I agree.

I need to put final touches on the map, too. Yes, I have a map, which officially makes it a "high fantasy." I think Kat wrote a blog about defining high fantasy. Maybe it was Jill Williamson and I got to it from Kat's blog. I can't find it now, which is too bad, because it was hilarious and totally appropriate. Help me out, people. Give me the link.

That's enough. Day job calls and I have breakfast to make.

Hey! No rant! Good on me.

Gethsemane

A little more info on the house issues over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

That's Not Food

So I'm going to lunch yesterday, and I mention I'll be eating "fake spaghetti."

"Spaghettios?" asks a co-worker.

It wasn't spaghettios, but it did get me thinking.

What are spaghettios made of? I know they list ingredients on the back, but what other item we label "food" has the texture and consistency of canned pasta?

Take raviolis. What is that stuffing? Post-processed meat product? Have you looked at it? Have you tried to peel back the outer covering to take a peek? You can't, by the way. It may as well be glued together. Except for that one ravioli in every can that didn't get glued and comes apart when you slide the whole gelatinous mass onto your plate with a gloopy plop.

Don't get me wrong. I've eaten my fair share of canned pastas, even as an adult.
I guess it finally hit me how truly gross they are.

Good thing they're packed with sugar or I might have to swear off.

In Case You Missed It...

God willing, my first novel will be published this year. I signed the contract last week.

April 15, 2012 marks the public debut of Star of Justice (date subject to change *grin*).

I'm pretty calm at the moment. Except for those two nights of staring at the ceiling wondering why I was doing this and what ducks remained to be lined up, and where the line was and did I have all my ducks in the first place or had one been eaten during that Thanksgiving food binge where I briefly blacked out after bolting an entire pot of stuffing?

You know, normal thought processes for the turtle.

Here's some tentative snippets of what's to come.

Cover design: Gungho Iguana, aka Keven Newsome, will revisit his initial envisioning and...do something. I hear I get final approval but the way Iguana works, I might not realize the cover is done until it's been published. He's pretty quick.

Headshots: little referenced but always loved "third brother" Brian Cowen. Yes, mom and I played around with my phone camera, my concrete turtle and a couple cats this weekend, but I intend to have something slightly more professional for the book. Of course, we all know where good intentions lead.

Editing: mostly done. My thanks to the Lioness and Vaulter for their official comments, and Grace for the final say, but after eight years, the book is well past ready to go. I know I'm sick of looking at it. Yes, yes, you'll find the one typo we miss. More power to you. Be sure to mention it on Amazon.

Reviews: I'm absolutely not going to read ANY of these, so, should the muse goose you, feel free to unload without fear of hurting my feelings. I can't handle FB chatter; I certainly can't handle waiting for Galadriel's Daughter to tell me how hackneyed my plot is.

Dedication: I thought I had this one, but I don't. The way the world is tilting, this may be my only shot and I'm not quite arrogant enough to thank myself for writing a book. We'll see.

OK. I'm cold and hungry and I need to figure out what to wear to my day job.
Thank you for your support, dear readers.

Let the game begin.

A Tiny Special Egg

Hey! Did you hear? Excellent news over at

The New Authors' Fellowship. 

P.S. Spread it around.

O My Trees

I look out on a barren wasteland this morning. My broken maple, my dying redbud and, as of yesterday, my power line-entangled elm are gone. I have an unobstructed view of my neighbors. What's worse - they have a view of me.

I didn't understand how much those trees concealed until they came down. All the ugliness of low-income rental housing is revealed.

That's a bit unfair. To my knowledge, all the houses within my direct line of sight have actual owners living in them. However, they are smaller houses and tend to suffer a lot of turnover without a lot of upgrading.

I have no real room to complain. Thanks to the oddness of my current neighbors staring at me whenever I go outside, the previous thickness of mosquito swarms sheltering under my now-vanished trees and a general lack of funds, my yard has little to boast of late.

This is the year of change. God willing, they'll be good changes, and I plan to start with the backyard.

I dug out my garden magazines and spent an afternoon last weekend watching Pride & Prejudice (the Colin Firth/Jennifer Ehle version) and marking interesting plans and plants in all of them. I intend to spend this weekend starting a planting plan, including smaller trees (I've always wanted a Japanese maple), a cutting garden (I can finally grow zinnias!) and a vegetable plot (never grown those before).

Rather than mourn my dear departed woody friends (the squirrels will mourn enough, I'm sure), I'll anticipate the blueberries, serviceberries, asparagus, scabiosa, lavender, basil and peas to come.

After all, gardening is very beneficial exercise. Why should an idiot like Mr. Collins get it all?

Unexpected Pain

In case you missed it yesterday, here's a reminder, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

I Miss the 80's

Not much of the 80's, mind you. Mostly Phil Collins and Peter Gabriel power ballads and nifty color schemes.

My sock drawer contains the only remaining evidence that the 80's existed. Bright blue, lemon yellow, florescent orange, lime green, royal purple, real red: they're all there. All the colors I used to wear but cannot for the life of me find since 1991 and George Clooney's ER Roman head shave showed up and changed fashion forever.

In the 80's, if you wanted a hot pink dress suit complete with hot pink tights and hot pink heels, you could find it. I know. I had one.

Not all of us want to wear puce, oatmeal and sienna, but those have been my choices since Counselor Troi put on her first cat suit in STNG. That's 20 years ago, people! Isn't it time for the wheel to turn back to fun colors?

I need a spotlight to search my closet full of black and dark brown for another shirt I don't want to wear but must because the current version of red gives me a five o'clock shadow a Jewish rabbi would envy.

I'm a Spring, people. I need bright, clear colors. Stop giving me this Summer and Autumn crap. I can't wear it.

Of course, the difference may be I now shop in Women's instead of Juniors. I don't even want to go there.

Ah, D&D, I Do Miss You

Saw this last night by accident on The Mary Sue and just had to share. Pretty sure I've gamed with these guys, although I knew them by different names. Elf and dwarf names.

Dungeons & Dragons Slam Poetry

My favorite part (a hard choice, even in only 2 minutes, 19 seconds)? When the nerds try to high five and can't. So been there. 

Elder Brother, you and I should memorize this and perform it at every family gathering until one of us dies, and then the other would continue to perform it alone as tribute. 

Yes, I find it that funny.

I also find it nostalgic, so, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go play with my 2d20 and roll a few for old times' sake.

Sick Equals Sucks

The Tickle turned ugly within 24 hours. Went home sick Thursday afternoon and have spent most of the time since either in bed or sitting in a chair wishing my back would stop hurting so I could go back to bed. The worst part about being sick is I can't be anything else. I can't write, or read, or even watch TV because I'm just too miserable. All I can really do is lie there and wish for death. I didn't, because, frankly, I've been sicker, but I came close.

I did keep up with Farmville, through one slitted eye and with kleenex stuffed up my nose, but we all know how addicts are. Gotta get my fix, right?

Even though left nostril continues to dribble, I'm going to work. I can't stay in this house any longer.
That's not true. I have no problem with the house. It's the cess pit the arborists left of my backyard that I can't look at anymore.

Yes, the tree-trimmers came Friday and left total destruction in their wake. They churned up my yard, turning black soil into clay clumps. Still not sure how they managed that. The plumbers had a 20 foot backhoe out there for two days and dug up 90% of my yard, and yet did less damage than four arborists with one tiny backhoe who left cigarette butts, fallen branches, broken paving stones, a downed phone line and a hole in my neighbor's siding.

So, in between bouts of cold medicine, I suffer crying jags and waffle between suicidal and homicidal urges.

That's not true. I've not had a single suicidal urge.

I have had serious concerns about my sanity. I need the cold to go away or snow to come and hide the backyard. 'Cause I can't handle both.

The Tickle

I woke up this morning with The Tickle.

You know it. That little itch in the back of your throat next to your inside nostril that says, "Hey! Guess what? You're about to get sick! Mwahahahaha!"

I haven't been sick in a long time. I attribute it to my fanatical devotion to Vitamin D (recommended by a homeopathic pharmacist - oxymoron, I know) several years ago. I made it through The Racking Cough and Sore Throat Epidemic of 2010 when everyone in my office except me got sick for about six weeks on average. I did not gloat. I was too busy doing everyone else's job to gloat.

I might have guessed when I fell asleep at 8:30 last night and didn't wake up until after 4 AM. That's unusual, even for me.

I might still get around it. I've got my Airborne. I've got my cold medicine. With critiquing done, I can go to bed early (after feeding the cats, of course) and catch up on my sleep. I have plenty of greens in the freezer, and some bagels to toast for croutons, so Portuguese soup, here I come!

First, I have to make it through the busiest week of the year, which, knock on wood, wasn't too bad yesterday. Three days to go.

Stay well, dear readers. Wash your hands, don't put your fingers in your eyes, and get plenty of sleep.

You might want to give me a wide berth for a few days, just in case.

Easing In

I've been a bit absent the last six weeks. Playing Farmville, yes, but not doing much of anything else except critiquing for a couple of friends and following the normal Christmas season hullabaloo.

TT: It's funny. Since I ranted about how much I hate Christmas, I actually enjoyed this one a bit more. It helped to know I'm not the only one who feels that way.

I put my WIP on hold about mid-November, so that's a project I will resume. We'll see how much I can crank out in the next 35 days or so. I've pretty much forgotten where I was so I'll have to pull out my notes and review.

At work, I'm told this is the busiest time of year for business filings. With two co-workers on vacation, it should be an interesting week. I don't know if I'll be brain-dead when I get home or so stressed out I'll need to write to relax. Guess I'll find out.

My Kindle Touch (ordered in late October) arrived late November, so I've been reading snippets of H.P. Lovecraft, Grace Bridges, and Roland Yeomans electronically.

I can say it. I love the Kindle. I didn't get the fancy one. It doesn't surf the internet, other than Amazon, and I have to go to my coffee shop to use their free wireless, but it's exactly what I wanted. Best birthday present I've ever given myself.

Way better than those leather pants.

Bah Hum-Turtle

Wonder why my house is dark and that "Go Away, Santa" sign hangs on my chimney? I told you why December 19, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

And that catches me up. God willing, normal blogging will resume tomorrow. 

Thank you for your patience.

Readers Don't Care

Wow. Just realized how neglectful I've been of my little blog. I wasn't a complete slacker, though. I wrote this on December 12, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Remember Those Thank You's

I'm off to write mine at this moment. Don't know how? Read on, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

What A Week

If you're wondering why I haven't been around here much, I tell you why over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

It's the Simple Things in Life You Treasure

I've been torturing myself about making the best decision I can possibly make. Exploring all the options. Laying out the pros and cons. Making my list and checking it twice.

While watching a squirrel jump from tree to tree on my break, I realized the only decision I can make is the one I can live with. Maybe it isn't the right decision. Maybe it isn't the smart decision. Maybe it isn't the best fiscal decision. But it is the only decision that will let me sleep at night, confident in my illusion that one person can make the world a better place for squirrels.

What can I say? I'm an idiot.

Decisions, Decisions

Oh, how I hate making them. Here and over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Plodding

How does the song go? "There never seems to be enough time to do the things that you want to do once you find them."

My writing continues in between editing another writer's mss on deadline, moving and replacing all the plants in my backyard garden to protect them from the giant backhoe required to replace my sewer line (that's a post for another day, I'm sure), listening to friends as the holiday blues color their worlds and, of course, my own addiction to Farmville.

In short, life is getting in the way of my art.

I'll not despair. Even an hour a night is productive, if you know where you're going. According to the counter, I've added 11K words in the past two weeks. That's more than I've added in the past year.

The WIP took an odd turn this weekend, but I'm following cautiously while fighting an occasional bout of giggles. Silly thing might turn out to be 150K after all. Who knew?

If I'm hard to find, now you know why.

Conspiracy

Does Satan care about my word count?

I had a whole evening "open" for writing yesterday, and what should happen?

One, I come home from lunch to find a stray dog curled up on my front porch. She was wet, shivering and not happy about either. I had to go in through the back door because I feared she'd bite me. I called animal control, which put me in a black mood for the rest of the afternoon.

I also called my post office. I didn't want my postman walking into a potential startle-and-bite situation. I like my postman. 

Then I rescued a bat I'd seen the day before in the parking garage. It was obviously not OK. My head tells me I should leave such things alone. That the life and death of one little bat have nothing whatsoever to do with me.

I can't agree with that.

In the same way Big Brother believes he is Justice to those criminals who cross his path, I believe I am Mercy to those animals who cross mine. I cannot just leave them alone and get on with my life.

After driving through pouring rain (for the second night in a row), I gave the bat to the county wildlife rescue. I hope he makes it. I only know I won't pass his frozen body in the parking garage stairwell and berate myself for doing nothing. That is all the hope I can take with me.

But my night of writing was shot to the heated netherworld. Perhaps some write better when their heart breaks and their eyes swell and their head stuffs up with mucus. I don't.

I wrote a bit, but it wasn't anything like it could have been.

Tonight is blown in the writing sense for a school function.

November passes and my word count fails to blossom. I'm not giving up, but this has not been the best week, and Wednesday has barely started.

Sigh.