I was doing some demon research online today and I came across a message board about the new A&E show Paranormal State. It's a reality show that chronicles the adventures of a group of Penn State students who investigate the paranormal. On last week's episode, the team encountered what they believed to be a demonic entity and they made a big deal of not saying its name (though the show later revealed it).
The interesting thing I discovered when I browsed through the thread about this particular episode was this: People who watched the show and have what seems to be a belief in the existence of the paranormal were angry because the investigators turned to Christianity for the solution. There was an inexplicable amount of comments like "I can't believe people believe this bullsh!t (referring to religion)." Bear in mind this was from people WHO BELIEVE IN GHOSTS! Few people took issue with the question of whether or not the person might be demonically possessed. That seemed to be a given. What bothered them was that the Catholic Church might have the solution.
Yeah, I had a hard time understanding that myself.
Personally, I don't care about what others believe. I think faith is a personal journey and if you look for God, you'll find Him. That's up to you. I also tend to think that there's more than one way to find Him. This leads to the fine line that I walk when I write. If you've read the First Seal, then you know that. I'm not preachy about religion but I think it's important. I am a bit concerned though, because my current WIP features a lot of paranormal activity and I am trying to find the right balance of that and religion. I know that's vague but I don't want to give out any plot spoilers. (Subliminal advertising: BUY MY BOOK!). I'm looking for some sort of balance that won't raise the ire of my target market and also won't get me kicked out of The Christian Writers Guild (though I'm pretty sure they should never, ever read my work. I get the feeling they wouldn't like it.)
I've had discussions with friends of all religious stripes including atheists (and if you think I might be talking about you, then I probably am) regarding the basis of belief or the lack of it. I'm more interested in what people believe and why they believe it than I am in winning some sort of argument.
So, let's hear it. What are your thoughts?
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The Moral of the Story is "Don't Give Up."
(I grabbed this from The World in Grey's blog. 'Tis the season for encouragement. Ho, ho, ho.)
The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck was returned fourteen times, but it went on to win a Pulitzer Prize.
Norman Mailer's The Naked and the Dead was rejected twelve times.
Patrick Dennis said of his autobiographical novel Auntie Mame, "It circulated for five years through the halls of fifteen publishers and finally ended up with Vanguard Press, which, as you can see, is rather deep into the alphabet." This illustrates why using the alphabet may be a logical but ineffective way to find the best agent or editor.
Twenty publishers felt that Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull was for the birds.
The first title of Catch-22 was Catch-18, but Simon and Schuster planned to publish it during the same season that Doubleday was bringing out Mila 18 by Leon Uris. When Doubleday complained, Joseph Heller changed the title. Why 22? Because Simon and Schuster was the 22nd publisher to read it. Catch-22 has become part of the language and has sold more than 10 million copies.
Mary Higgins Clark was rejected forty times before selling her first story. One editor wrote: "Your story is light, slight, and trite." More than 30 million copies of her books are now in print.
Before he wrote Roots, Alex Haley had received 200 rejections.
Robert Persig's classic, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, couldn't get started at 121 houses.
John Grisham's first novel, A Time to Kill, was declined by fifteen publishers and some thirty agents. His novels have more than 60 million copies in print.
Thirty-three publishers couldn't digest Chicken Soup for the Soul, compiled by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, before it became a huge best-seller and spawned a series.
The Baltimore Sun hailed Naked in Deccan as "a classic" after it had been rejected over seven years by 375 publishers.
Dr. Seuss's first book was rejected twenty-four times. The sales of his children's books have soared to 100 million.
Louis L'Amour received 200 rejections before he sold his first novel. During the last forty years, Bantam has shipped nearly 200 million of his 112 books, making him their biggest selling author.
If you visit the House of Happy Walls, Jack London's beautiful estate in Sonoma County, north San Francisco, you will see some of the 600 rejection slips that London received before selling his first story.
British writer John Creasy received 774 rejections before selling his first story. He went on to write 564 books, using fourteen names.
Eight years after his novel Steps won the National Book Award, Jerzy Kosinski permitted a writer to change his name and the title and send a manuscript of the novel to thirteen agents and fourteen publishers to test the plight of new writers. They all rejected it, including Random House, which had published it.
The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck was returned fourteen times, but it went on to win a Pulitzer Prize.
Norman Mailer's The Naked and the Dead was rejected twelve times.
Patrick Dennis said of his autobiographical novel Auntie Mame, "It circulated for five years through the halls of fifteen publishers and finally ended up with Vanguard Press, which, as you can see, is rather deep into the alphabet." This illustrates why using the alphabet may be a logical but ineffective way to find the best agent or editor.
Twenty publishers felt that Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull was for the birds.
The first title of Catch-22 was Catch-18, but Simon and Schuster planned to publish it during the same season that Doubleday was bringing out Mila 18 by Leon Uris. When Doubleday complained, Joseph Heller changed the title. Why 22? Because Simon and Schuster was the 22nd publisher to read it. Catch-22 has become part of the language and has sold more than 10 million copies.
Mary Higgins Clark was rejected forty times before selling her first story. One editor wrote: "Your story is light, slight, and trite." More than 30 million copies of her books are now in print.
Before he wrote Roots, Alex Haley had received 200 rejections.
Robert Persig's classic, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, couldn't get started at 121 houses.
John Grisham's first novel, A Time to Kill, was declined by fifteen publishers and some thirty agents. His novels have more than 60 million copies in print.
Thirty-three publishers couldn't digest Chicken Soup for the Soul, compiled by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, before it became a huge best-seller and spawned a series.
The Baltimore Sun hailed Naked in Deccan as "a classic" after it had been rejected over seven years by 375 publishers.
Dr. Seuss's first book was rejected twenty-four times. The sales of his children's books have soared to 100 million.
Louis L'Amour received 200 rejections before he sold his first novel. During the last forty years, Bantam has shipped nearly 200 million of his 112 books, making him their biggest selling author.
If you visit the House of Happy Walls, Jack London's beautiful estate in Sonoma County, north San Francisco, you will see some of the 600 rejection slips that London received before selling his first story.
British writer John Creasy received 774 rejections before selling his first story. He went on to write 564 books, using fourteen names.
Eight years after his novel Steps won the National Book Award, Jerzy Kosinski permitted a writer to change his name and the title and send a manuscript of the novel to thirteen agents and fourteen publishers to test the plight of new writers. They all rejected it, including Random House, which had published it.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Decisions, Decisions
I have reluctantly taken a break from writing this week because I needed to finish up edits on The Second Seal. I've got a couple more things to fix and it will be finished. Finally.
There is one thing about it that I'm not sure how I want to fix it. That's where you, my audience of experts, come in. I want your opinion on it.
Here's the situation: I have a character that uses two names. One is his real name and the other is an alias. The protagonist learns his real name, but not his alias. On the first edit, I thought it might be a little confusing to keep referring to the one character by two different names, so after revealing his real name, I referred to him only by his alias. I did this even when writing from the protagonist's POV (though he never refers to him by name in dialogue).
On this edit, however, a trusted friend suggested that I change it back.
Which way should I go on this?
I can provide examples if asked.
There is one thing about it that I'm not sure how I want to fix it. That's where you, my audience of experts, come in. I want your opinion on it.
Here's the situation: I have a character that uses two names. One is his real name and the other is an alias. The protagonist learns his real name, but not his alias. On the first edit, I thought it might be a little confusing to keep referring to the one character by two different names, so after revealing his real name, I referred to him only by his alias. I did this even when writing from the protagonist's POV (though he never refers to him by name in dialogue).
On this edit, however, a trusted friend suggested that I change it back.
Which way should I go on this?
I can provide examples if asked.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Does reading matter?
I'm in something of a thoughtful mood today and most of it is because of an op-ed I read to day in the Wall Street Journal, entitled "Does Reading Matter?" For those of you not interested in investing that much time in reading a blog post, allow me to summarize:
The main gist of the piece concerns a new study from the National Endowment for the Arts which concludes that people are reading less and less. At the end of the piece the writer suggests that, in the future, those who do not read will find themselves at a noticeable disadvantage.
Around 1439, Johannes Gutenberg got tired of getting hand cramps from the all the writing he had to do and invented moveable type. It changed the world, not only because it made information more accessible but because moving from a culture that was either oral or written to one that was printed changed the way humans think. If you don't agree with me, go argue with Marshall McLuhan. Wait, he's dead. Never mind. However, McLuhan did say this: "Until more than two centuries after printing nobody discovered how to maintain and single tone or attitude throughout a prose composition." One of McLuhan's students Walter Ong, claimed television had a similar effect in that it was returning us to what he called a "secondary orality."
If you have kids, you've probably gotten the generalized lecture from some do0gooder about how you should limit the amount of time your kid spends watching TV, playing video games and surfing the web. This often makes me wonder why the schools beg for money to spend on technology and computers on the one hand and then trash them on the other. Several years ago one of my step-daughters breathlessly informed me that they got to use laptops in the computer lab at school. I asked where she sat to use the laptop. She replied, "Oh, in our same seats. We just pushed the keyboard out of the way and sat it in front of the monitor."
I mentioned this story to my brother, who is an elementary school teacher and also the unofficial media tech guru guy, he laughed. "Public schools know they need new technology," he told me, "but they aren't really sure why they need it or what they should use it for. That's why you sometimes end up with goofy stuff like that."
Because I like to play devil's advocate from time to time, I've often been curious about our love/hate relationship with technology. We don't want to ignore it, lest we turn into some technophobic hermit living in a shack in the backwoods of Montana, but we never fully embrace it either. If we did, we'd throw out all of books and revel in a 24 hour American Idol marathon. I think the reason we don't fling ourselves into the abyss is that we worry our mothers will turn out to be right. Television really will turn our brains to mush. By the time we've realized it's happened, it'll be too late to fix it and nobody would be smart enough to anyway.
Does reading matter? For most of us around here (who aspire to be on the other end of that relationship), it does. Books are still very important to many of us, even as technology does its best to render them obsolete. We cling to them almost as if they have a mystical quality about them. Perhaps they do. Perhaps , like technology, we know we need them if we aren't sure why. Too bad more people don't feel that way.
The main gist of the piece concerns a new study from the National Endowment for the Arts which concludes that people are reading less and less. At the end of the piece the writer suggests that, in the future, those who do not read will find themselves at a noticeable disadvantage.
Around 1439, Johannes Gutenberg got tired of getting hand cramps from the all the writing he had to do and invented moveable type. It changed the world, not only because it made information more accessible but because moving from a culture that was either oral or written to one that was printed changed the way humans think. If you don't agree with me, go argue with Marshall McLuhan. Wait, he's dead. Never mind. However, McLuhan did say this: "Until more than two centuries after printing nobody discovered how to maintain and single tone or attitude throughout a prose composition." One of McLuhan's students Walter Ong, claimed television had a similar effect in that it was returning us to what he called a "secondary orality."
If you have kids, you've probably gotten the generalized lecture from some do0gooder about how you should limit the amount of time your kid spends watching TV, playing video games and surfing the web. This often makes me wonder why the schools beg for money to spend on technology and computers on the one hand and then trash them on the other. Several years ago one of my step-daughters breathlessly informed me that they got to use laptops in the computer lab at school. I asked where she sat to use the laptop. She replied, "Oh, in our same seats. We just pushed the keyboard out of the way and sat it in front of the monitor."
I mentioned this story to my brother, who is an elementary school teacher and also the unofficial media tech guru guy, he laughed. "Public schools know they need new technology," he told me, "but they aren't really sure why they need it or what they should use it for. That's why you sometimes end up with goofy stuff like that."
Because I like to play devil's advocate from time to time, I've often been curious about our love/hate relationship with technology. We don't want to ignore it, lest we turn into some technophobic hermit living in a shack in the backwoods of Montana, but we never fully embrace it either. If we did, we'd throw out all of books and revel in a 24 hour American Idol marathon. I think the reason we don't fling ourselves into the abyss is that we worry our mothers will turn out to be right. Television really will turn our brains to mush. By the time we've realized it's happened, it'll be too late to fix it and nobody would be smart enough to anyway.
Does reading matter? For most of us around here (who aspire to be on the other end of that relationship), it does. Books are still very important to many of us, even as technology does its best to render them obsolete. We cling to them almost as if they have a mystical quality about them. Perhaps they do. Perhaps , like technology, we know we need them if we aren't sure why. Too bad more people don't feel that way.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
The Agony of Technology
There are days when technology nearly kills me. Today was one of those days. I was up very late last night, slogging my through a most difficult chapter. I finally finished at around 2am, happy with the four thousand words I needed to get my characters where they were going. I got up to do some more work on it this morning.
And the file wouldn't open.
Word informed me in all its smug, Microsofty goodness, that the file was corrupt. I tried all the recommended recovery efforts and nothing worked. It appeared that my entire 20,000+ word work in progress was gone, just beyond my reach into the Land of Lost 0's and 1's.
I won't kid you. I sat down and cried.
I am not the most tech savvy person in the world. Keyboard, mouse and monitor are about the extent of my repertoire. Most anything beyond that I turn over to my hubby so he can put those two engineering degrees he has to work. But, I thought I had one more trick up my sleeve, so I thought I'd try it before I gave up completely.
It worked.
There was my entire document in all its beauty. Even the formatting was still intact. I was and still am so overjoyed I decided to blog about it.
And, now, I gonna go burn the damn thing to disc.
And the file wouldn't open.
Word informed me in all its smug, Microsofty goodness, that the file was corrupt. I tried all the recommended recovery efforts and nothing worked. It appeared that my entire 20,000+ word work in progress was gone, just beyond my reach into the Land of Lost 0's and 1's.
I won't kid you. I sat down and cried.
I am not the most tech savvy person in the world. Keyboard, mouse and monitor are about the extent of my repertoire. Most anything beyond that I turn over to my hubby so he can put those two engineering degrees he has to work. But, I thought I had one more trick up my sleeve, so I thought I'd try it before I gave up completely.
It worked.
There was my entire document in all its beauty. Even the formatting was still intact. I was and still am so overjoyed I decided to blog about it.
And, now, I gonna go burn the damn thing to disc.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
More Criticism of Criticism
My big time-waster today was heading over to Amazon where I got sucked into reading a thread in the Romance Forum. The thread was "What books have you hated but that everyone else adored?"
I was captivated by the title, so in I went.
My favorite thing about this thread was the way posters would say things like It's nice to see no one is being slammed for their opinions and them reel off a couple paragraphs about how much they hate Nora Roberts. I guess that's because it's easier (not to mention much more fun) to talk smack about something than to praise it.
I grew up in a town that is really in the middle of nowhere. There was one radio station you could pick up and they played atrocious music. I had a really cool teacher in Junior High who used to let us listen to the radio while we did math problems. We were doing this one day, when one of the other students piped up: "You know what the sad thing about this is? That someone worked really hard on this song. They put hours into it until it was just what they wanted. They were proud of it. And, after all that work, it sounds like this."
For this reason, I rarely put a book down without finishing it. I figure that the author put a lot of effort into writing it, I at least have the obligation to finish the story.
Now allow me to pile on.
In my life there have only been a couple of books I couldn't finish. The first was The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I got ¾ of the way through the second book and thought "This book is about walking." I made it just as far in the movies. The other book was Traveling with the Dead by Barbara Hambly. I love vampire novels which was why I picked this one up, but it put me to sleep. I just could not get into it.
For the record (and so I don't sound like a total hypocrite), I am currently waiting with baited breath for the next installments in series by Patricia Briggs and Karen Chance (because I loves me the werewolves and the vampires).
Your turn. Dog pile on the writers!
I was captivated by the title, so in I went.
My favorite thing about this thread was the way posters would say things like It's nice to see no one is being slammed for their opinions and them reel off a couple paragraphs about how much they hate Nora Roberts. I guess that's because it's easier (not to mention much more fun) to talk smack about something than to praise it.
I grew up in a town that is really in the middle of nowhere. There was one radio station you could pick up and they played atrocious music. I had a really cool teacher in Junior High who used to let us listen to the radio while we did math problems. We were doing this one day, when one of the other students piped up: "You know what the sad thing about this is? That someone worked really hard on this song. They put hours into it until it was just what they wanted. They were proud of it. And, after all that work, it sounds like this."
For this reason, I rarely put a book down without finishing it. I figure that the author put a lot of effort into writing it, I at least have the obligation to finish the story.
Now allow me to pile on.
In my life there have only been a couple of books I couldn't finish. The first was The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I got ¾ of the way through the second book and thought "This book is about walking." I made it just as far in the movies. The other book was Traveling with the Dead by Barbara Hambly. I love vampire novels which was why I picked this one up, but it put me to sleep. I just could not get into it.
For the record (and so I don't sound like a total hypocrite), I am currently waiting with baited breath for the next installments in series by Patricia Briggs and Karen Chance (because I loves me the werewolves and the vampires).
Your turn. Dog pile on the writers!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Bits and Pieces
I will be the first to admit that I have been a little remiss in the blogging department of late. However, I refuse to accept responsibility for my laziness. It's the Boy Scouts' fault. Really.
So allow me to just address some bits and pieces …
I am happy to say that I finally managed to get a bunch of books mailed out. So, if you won one last weekend, it's on the way.
I have been completely stressed out of late over The Second Seal. My plan was to have it ready for purchase by Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm even going to manage to get it out by Christmas. L I blame my husband and his lack of editing help for this (he NEVER reads my blog, so he'll never see this.). I am convinced that all of my goofing off during the month of June had nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever. And I'm stickin' by that.
On a more positive note, I am quite pleased with my current WIP. I thought it was going to be a ghost story, but it has morphed into a supernatural detective story. I really like the main character and the story is evolving nicely. It may even turn into a series. We'll see …
Finally, I must sing the praises of one of my favorite new authors and mySpace friends, Justine Musk. I just finished her book Bloodangel and it's one of the best books I've read this year. Really, really good. If you enjoy supernatural apocalyptic stories, I'd say you oughta pick it up.
So allow me to just address some bits and pieces …
I am happy to say that I finally managed to get a bunch of books mailed out. So, if you won one last weekend, it's on the way.
I have been completely stressed out of late over The Second Seal. My plan was to have it ready for purchase by Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm even going to manage to get it out by Christmas. L I blame my husband and his lack of editing help for this (he NEVER reads my blog, so he'll never see this.). I am convinced that all of my goofing off during the month of June had nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever. And I'm stickin' by that.
On a more positive note, I am quite pleased with my current WIP. I thought it was going to be a ghost story, but it has morphed into a supernatural detective story. I really like the main character and the story is evolving nicely. It may even turn into a series. We'll see …
Finally, I must sing the praises of one of my favorite new authors and mySpace friends, Justine Musk. I just finished her book Bloodangel and it's one of the best books I've read this year. Really, really good. If you enjoy supernatural apocalyptic stories, I'd say you oughta pick it up.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Horror Movies Part Two
Okay, time to get back to what I was working on when I got sidetracked by horror movies earlier this week. My husband recently brought home on DVD “The Devil’s Rejects,” Rob Zombie’s latest foray into cinematic horror. I watched his first movie with my hubby. It’s called “House of 1000 Corpses.” After that one, I decided I didn’t want to see any more Rob Zombie horror films.
No more for me, thanks!
I love horror movies, but I hated “House of 1000 Corpses.” Everyone dies in the end and the bad guys walk off into the sunset. It was as if mass murderers documented their crimes and cast themselves as the heroes. Totally unsatisfying as far as endings go since it puts the viewer in the very uncomfortable situation of having to identify with the killers. It simply did not follow my expectations of how a horror movie should end.
This raises the question, when you read (or watch movies, which ever you’d like to talk about), do you expect the story to end a certain way? Do you find it satisfying or not when it does? Ever read or watched something that ended in a completely different manner than you thought it would?
No more for me, thanks!
I love horror movies, but I hated “House of 1000 Corpses.” Everyone dies in the end and the bad guys walk off into the sunset. It was as if mass murderers documented their crimes and cast themselves as the heroes. Totally unsatisfying as far as endings go since it puts the viewer in the very uncomfortable situation of having to identify with the killers. It simply did not follow my expectations of how a horror movie should end.
This raises the question, when you read (or watch movies, which ever you’d like to talk about), do you expect the story to end a certain way? Do you find it satisfying or not when it does? Ever read or watched something that ended in a completely different manner than you thought it would?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Horror Movies Part One
Okay, I have been a little remiss in posting here, but I PROMISE to do better from now on. So, Let's get down to business, shall we?
It’s almost October and I can’t wait. It’s my favorite month. I love Halloween. I love things that are creepy and crawly. I love scary movies and you can’t swing a dead cat (figuratively, of course) without hitting a bunch of those in the month of October.
You know, I was going to blog about actual writing stuff tonight, but … screw it! Let’s talk about horror movies instead! I’ll save the writing stuff for a “Part Two” later this week.
Like I said, I love horror movies. I really love bad horror movies, so much that there are too many to name. So I will settle on a major release film that often gets overlooked: The Prince of Darkness. It’s a John Carpenter movie that stars Donald Pleasance and the blond guy from that TV show “Simon and Simon.” And his gigantic, porn-star mustache. Plus, there’s a cameo by Alice Cooper. And it’s about the Devil. If you haven’t seen this movie, put it on your To Watch list.
Your turn. What’s your favorite horror movie?
It’s almost October and I can’t wait. It’s my favorite month. I love Halloween. I love things that are creepy and crawly. I love scary movies and you can’t swing a dead cat (figuratively, of course) without hitting a bunch of those in the month of October.
You know, I was going to blog about actual writing stuff tonight, but … screw it! Let’s talk about horror movies instead! I’ll save the writing stuff for a “Part Two” later this week.
Like I said, I love horror movies. I really love bad horror movies, so much that there are too many to name. So I will settle on a major release film that often gets overlooked: The Prince of Darkness. It’s a John Carpenter movie that stars Donald Pleasance and the blond guy from that TV show “Simon and Simon.” And his gigantic, porn-star mustache. Plus, there’s a cameo by Alice Cooper. And it’s about the Devil. If you haven’t seen this movie, put it on your To Watch list.
Your turn. What’s your favorite horror movie?
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Editing Progress and Summertime Fun
I am finally starting to see the end of the tunnel as far as the rewrite on the Second Seal goes. I am currently reworking the climax and when I am finished with that, it’s just editing. It’s a good feeling to finally, finally have this thing looking and reading like a real novel. Hopefully the end is near.
Summer is nearly over and my oldest son heads back to school on Monday. He’s ready. I’m ready. The baby will be despondent because he’ll lose his buddy. The dog may also be a little blue because she’ll lose her buddy, too.
The dog of which I speak (Rommy) is a half-husky, half-cocker goof ball that we rescued from the dog pound in Fairbanks. She weighed 17 pounds when we got her and has since ballooned to 40. We’ve had to start feeding her diet dog food and she has slimmed down a bit. Texas has been an interesting experience in adaptation for her because she is a dog that loves to run and romp at -20. She also, without a doubt, belongs to my oldest son. They have a love/hate relationship. When we lived in Alaska and the two of the m played outside in the snow, she would wait stealthily until he was paying her no mind. Then she would blindside him, knocking him face-first into the snow. As a final insult, she’d steal his hat. It was great fun to watch.
The boy was outside today, squeezing the last few precious drops of freedom from his summer vacation. It was not long before he came bouncing into the house with a great smile on his face.
“What have you been up to?” I asked.
“Oh, I was swinging,” he replied. “Then I stopped and Rommy came over and pushed me down.”
I pretended to be shocked. “Why did she do that? You didn’t pull her tail, did you?”
“No, I didn’t pull her tail,” he said, playing along.
“Did you tweak her nose?”
“No, I didn’t tweak her nose.”
“Did you tug on her ears?”
“No, I didn’t tug on her ears,” he laughs.
“Oh, honey,” I said, really hamming it up. “You didn’t tell her she was fat, did you?”
“No, I didn’t do any of those things! She just did it because she felt like it.”
Scamps. Both of ‘em.
Summer is nearly over and my oldest son heads back to school on Monday. He’s ready. I’m ready. The baby will be despondent because he’ll lose his buddy. The dog may also be a little blue because she’ll lose her buddy, too.
The dog of which I speak (Rommy) is a half-husky, half-cocker goof ball that we rescued from the dog pound in Fairbanks. She weighed 17 pounds when we got her and has since ballooned to 40. We’ve had to start feeding her diet dog food and she has slimmed down a bit. Texas has been an interesting experience in adaptation for her because she is a dog that loves to run and romp at -20. She also, without a doubt, belongs to my oldest son. They have a love/hate relationship. When we lived in Alaska and the two of the m played outside in the snow, she would wait stealthily until he was paying her no mind. Then she would blindside him, knocking him face-first into the snow. As a final insult, she’d steal his hat. It was great fun to watch.
The boy was outside today, squeezing the last few precious drops of freedom from his summer vacation. It was not long before he came bouncing into the house with a great smile on his face.
“What have you been up to?” I asked.
“Oh, I was swinging,” he replied. “Then I stopped and Rommy came over and pushed me down.”
I pretended to be shocked. “Why did she do that? You didn’t pull her tail, did you?”
“No, I didn’t pull her tail,” he said, playing along.
“Did you tweak her nose?”
“No, I didn’t tweak her nose.”
“Did you tug on her ears?”
“No, I didn’t tug on her ears,” he laughs.
“Oh, honey,” I said, really hamming it up. “You didn’t tell her she was fat, did you?”
“No, I didn’t do any of those things! She just did it because she felt like it.”
Scamps. Both of ‘em.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Just another day amidst the chaos
Today:
The boys and I are stuck at home today because we are waiting on a very important delivery. Approximate delivery time: sometime between 8am and 5pm. We aren’t going anywhere. Nor can we play in the backyard because we would not be able to hear the doorbell. Plus, it’s really freaking hot. So we are resigned to being indoors.
It starts when the doorbell rings.
I answer it and find a salesperson. Not just any salesperson, either. It’s one of those people who is selling magazines supposedly to earn points to win some damn thing or another. The problem is, their patter is rapid-fire and non-stop, giving me no opportune moment to slam the door in their face.
As I stand waiting politely to turn them down, my oldest son comes running to the door.
“Mooooooooommmmmmm!!!!! The baby poured water all over your computer!!!!”
I tell the still-yakking salesperson to hang on an slam the door on them. On to my computer. The baby has, in fact, poured water all over it. I shake my finger at him and scold: “Bad, Baby! No!” His lower lip trembles. His brow furrows. Tears brew at the corners of his eyes and then …
“Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He collapses on the floor in a heap.
My oldest son, who has keen powers of observation and a stunning grasp of the obvious, shouts at me: “Mom! The baby’s crying!”
“I can hear that!” I shout back. “Go get the paper towels! They’re on the counter!”
He darts off while I try to stop the flow of water that is running off the desk and onto the floor. He returns. No paper towels.
“I can’t find them!”
I head to the kitchen and grab the paper towels. They are sitting alone on the empty counter top. My son meets me in the halfway.
“Mooooooooommmmm!! The baby has gum!!!!”
I hand him the paper towels and tell him to get mopping. I chase the baby down the other hallway, into his room and corner him behind his dresser. Then I fish a wad of gum and paper (soaked in baby spit) out of his mouth. Once again, he collapses in a heap and wails. I leave him to his woe and go check on the progress of the clean-up. My oldest son in trying to mop up the water with half a paper towel and is really only succeeding in moving the water from the desk to the floor.
“Honey, you can use more than one,” I say and rip off a hunk of towels.
“Oh,” he says. Then he starts unrolling. The doorbell rings. I had forgotten about the salesperson.
Somehow, the dog has mysteriously entered the house from the backyard and charges for the front door, barking furiously. The doorbell is his invisible nemesis. The baby also hears the doorbell and (still crying) comes running as well. I open the door while trying to keep either of them from squirting past me and into the front yard. I slip out the front door, making sure I hang onto the handle. The baby (still crying) is pulling on it from the inside.
“Go ahead,” I tell the salesperson. He opens his mouth to begin his patter when I hear the telltale sound of the deadbolt. The baby has locked the door. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing. I ring the doorbell to get my oldest’s attention and the dog barks furiously. My oldest comes to the door, phone to his ear. He presses his face against the glass.
“Who is it?”
“You look busy,” says the salesperson, backing away from the house. “I’ll come back later.”
“You know who it is. Open the door. NOW!”
He lets me in just in time for me to see the baby, laughing and covered in flour, racing across the living room. As I turn to chase him, my son holds up the phone.
“It’s Dad,” he says. I take the phone.
“Hi, honey. How’s your day?”
The boys and I are stuck at home today because we are waiting on a very important delivery. Approximate delivery time: sometime between 8am and 5pm. We aren’t going anywhere. Nor can we play in the backyard because we would not be able to hear the doorbell. Plus, it’s really freaking hot. So we are resigned to being indoors.
It starts when the doorbell rings.
I answer it and find a salesperson. Not just any salesperson, either. It’s one of those people who is selling magazines supposedly to earn points to win some damn thing or another. The problem is, their patter is rapid-fire and non-stop, giving me no opportune moment to slam the door in their face.
As I stand waiting politely to turn them down, my oldest son comes running to the door.
“Mooooooooommmmmmm!!!!! The baby poured water all over your computer!!!!”
I tell the still-yakking salesperson to hang on an slam the door on them. On to my computer. The baby has, in fact, poured water all over it. I shake my finger at him and scold: “Bad, Baby! No!” His lower lip trembles. His brow furrows. Tears brew at the corners of his eyes and then …
“Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He collapses on the floor in a heap.
My oldest son, who has keen powers of observation and a stunning grasp of the obvious, shouts at me: “Mom! The baby’s crying!”
“I can hear that!” I shout back. “Go get the paper towels! They’re on the counter!”
He darts off while I try to stop the flow of water that is running off the desk and onto the floor. He returns. No paper towels.
“I can’t find them!”
I head to the kitchen and grab the paper towels. They are sitting alone on the empty counter top. My son meets me in the halfway.
“Mooooooooommmmm!! The baby has gum!!!!”
I hand him the paper towels and tell him to get mopping. I chase the baby down the other hallway, into his room and corner him behind his dresser. Then I fish a wad of gum and paper (soaked in baby spit) out of his mouth. Once again, he collapses in a heap and wails. I leave him to his woe and go check on the progress of the clean-up. My oldest son in trying to mop up the water with half a paper towel and is really only succeeding in moving the water from the desk to the floor.
“Honey, you can use more than one,” I say and rip off a hunk of towels.
“Oh,” he says. Then he starts unrolling. The doorbell rings. I had forgotten about the salesperson.
Somehow, the dog has mysteriously entered the house from the backyard and charges for the front door, barking furiously. The doorbell is his invisible nemesis. The baby also hears the doorbell and (still crying) comes running as well. I open the door while trying to keep either of them from squirting past me and into the front yard. I slip out the front door, making sure I hang onto the handle. The baby (still crying) is pulling on it from the inside.
“Go ahead,” I tell the salesperson. He opens his mouth to begin his patter when I hear the telltale sound of the deadbolt. The baby has locked the door. Inside, I can hear the phone ringing. I ring the doorbell to get my oldest’s attention and the dog barks furiously. My oldest comes to the door, phone to his ear. He presses his face against the glass.
“Who is it?”
“You look busy,” says the salesperson, backing away from the house. “I’ll come back later.”
“You know who it is. Open the door. NOW!”
He lets me in just in time for me to see the baby, laughing and covered in flour, racing across the living room. As I turn to chase him, my son holds up the phone.
“It’s Dad,” he says. I take the phone.
“Hi, honey. How’s your day?”
A Little Teaser
Here is an excerpt from The Second Seal: Bernard's Prophecy (note the nifty new title)
As Marji lay in the ditch with a gun pressed against her head, she'd been certain she was going to die. Those had been the longest minutes of her life, just laying there helpless, in silence. He knelt beside her with one knee in the middle of her back and the barrel of his gun against her head. She tried to keep her face out of the slime in the ditch but figured since she was going to die, it didn't really matter. Her only thought was please, God, don't let me die like this. She was nearly hyperventilating but she didn't speak, didn't beg for her life. Marji feared that whatever it was that stayed his hand, that kept him frozen next to her with his gun against her head, wanted the silence. If she spoke, he would kill her. The seconds ticked by and she braced herself for the bullet. She hoped at the very least, it wouldn't hurt for long.
Then his cell phone rang. Marji twitched before she realized he hadn't shot her. It was just his phone.
Kane took several steps away from her. "Hello?"
Relief flooded through her. When he answered the phone he'd lowered his gun.
"Hello? Hello? Goddamn cheap phone," he muttered and jammed it back into his pocket. Then he gave Marji a cold, hard stare.
Run, she thought. Run, idiot.
She scrambled to her feet quickly but he was quicker. He tackled her at the knees, knocking her to the ground. Marji put her hand out to catch herself, but there was some sort of muck in the bottom of the ditch and she slipped. Face first, she fell into the muck with Kane on top of her. He wasn't a big guy but he was strong. Pinning her with his body, he hit her on the side of her head. The blow was hard enough to make her ear ring. Then he hit her again, And again. Then everything went black.
When she awoke, everything was still shrouded in darkness. Marji's throat burned and it hurt to breathe. Her head ached horribly and she was nauseous. But she was alive. From what little she could see and hear, she guessed she was in the trunk of Kane's car. Her hands and feet were bound and there was tape across her mouth. Unfortunately, the revolting taste of the ditch muck was still in her mouth. Marji felt her gorge rise but knew if she vomited with a gag over her mouth there'd no place for it to go except back the way it had come. She knew she didn't want to deal with that, so she took deep breaths and tried to mentally force her stomach to behave. Thankfully, it worked.
That wasn't the last of it, however. Most of her nausea was caused by the slight concussion she'd gotten when Kane knocked her out. It wasn't going away. The bad taste in her mouth wasn't going away, either. Then there was the whole experience of riding in a trunk. The exhaust fumes burned her throat , her eyes and her nose. It also didn't help the nausea. She could feel every bump in the road. Occasionally, they'd hit a big one and she'd bounce enough to hit the lid of the trunk. The lid didn't fit very tightly, either. It bounced and rattled with every bump and she was certain it would eventually pop open. Then she'd bounce out and hit the pavement at sixty miles per hour.
I'd rather have a bullet to the head than that, she thought. Then they hit another bump and her stomach lurched once more.
It seemed like an eternity, but finally, thankfully, the car slowed. Marji thought they might stop soon. She was wrong. The car moved more slowly, but it was stop-and-go. There were also turns. Marji wished miserably that they would stop or at least get back on the highway. Where the roads were straighter.
Finally, they stopped. Marji heard the engine die and breathed a sigh of relief. The sudden silence was deafening. Then the trunk opened and daylight flooded in. She squinted at Kane's silhouette. He said nothing as he reached in and cut her bindings.
He yanked the tape off her face. "Get out."
She sat up quickly and the nausea hit her once more. It was stronger this time and, before she knew it, she threw up. It went all over the trunk and all over her.
"Shit," Kane exclaimed. He jumped back and glared at her. "You're fucking lucky you didn't get any of that on me, bitch. Fuck. Come on. Get out before someone notices. People don't usually ride in trunks, you know."
She climbed out slowly. She was still woozy and clutched weakly at his arm for support. He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling and another wave of nausea washed over her.
"You gonna hurl again?" he asked. She nodded. He managed to jump away just before she did so. Marji stood bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to calm her stomach and trying not to fall over.
Kane grimaced. "Warn me if you're gonna do that again. Now, move."
As Marji lay in the ditch with a gun pressed against her head, she'd been certain she was going to die. Those had been the longest minutes of her life, just laying there helpless, in silence. He knelt beside her with one knee in the middle of her back and the barrel of his gun against her head. She tried to keep her face out of the slime in the ditch but figured since she was going to die, it didn't really matter. Her only thought was please, God, don't let me die like this. She was nearly hyperventilating but she didn't speak, didn't beg for her life. Marji feared that whatever it was that stayed his hand, that kept him frozen next to her with his gun against her head, wanted the silence. If she spoke, he would kill her. The seconds ticked by and she braced herself for the bullet. She hoped at the very least, it wouldn't hurt for long.
Then his cell phone rang. Marji twitched before she realized he hadn't shot her. It was just his phone.
Kane took several steps away from her. "Hello?"
Relief flooded through her. When he answered the phone he'd lowered his gun.
"Hello? Hello? Goddamn cheap phone," he muttered and jammed it back into his pocket. Then he gave Marji a cold, hard stare.
Run, she thought. Run, idiot.
She scrambled to her feet quickly but he was quicker. He tackled her at the knees, knocking her to the ground. Marji put her hand out to catch herself, but there was some sort of muck in the bottom of the ditch and she slipped. Face first, she fell into the muck with Kane on top of her. He wasn't a big guy but he was strong. Pinning her with his body, he hit her on the side of her head. The blow was hard enough to make her ear ring. Then he hit her again, And again. Then everything went black.
When she awoke, everything was still shrouded in darkness. Marji's throat burned and it hurt to breathe. Her head ached horribly and she was nauseous. But she was alive. From what little she could see and hear, she guessed she was in the trunk of Kane's car. Her hands and feet were bound and there was tape across her mouth. Unfortunately, the revolting taste of the ditch muck was still in her mouth. Marji felt her gorge rise but knew if she vomited with a gag over her mouth there'd no place for it to go except back the way it had come. She knew she didn't want to deal with that, so she took deep breaths and tried to mentally force her stomach to behave. Thankfully, it worked.
That wasn't the last of it, however. Most of her nausea was caused by the slight concussion she'd gotten when Kane knocked her out. It wasn't going away. The bad taste in her mouth wasn't going away, either. Then there was the whole experience of riding in a trunk. The exhaust fumes burned her throat , her eyes and her nose. It also didn't help the nausea. She could feel every bump in the road. Occasionally, they'd hit a big one and she'd bounce enough to hit the lid of the trunk. The lid didn't fit very tightly, either. It bounced and rattled with every bump and she was certain it would eventually pop open. Then she'd bounce out and hit the pavement at sixty miles per hour.
I'd rather have a bullet to the head than that, she thought. Then they hit another bump and her stomach lurched once more.
It seemed like an eternity, but finally, thankfully, the car slowed. Marji thought they might stop soon. She was wrong. The car moved more slowly, but it was stop-and-go. There were also turns. Marji wished miserably that they would stop or at least get back on the highway. Where the roads were straighter.
Finally, they stopped. Marji heard the engine die and breathed a sigh of relief. The sudden silence was deafening. Then the trunk opened and daylight flooded in. She squinted at Kane's silhouette. He said nothing as he reached in and cut her bindings.
He yanked the tape off her face. "Get out."
She sat up quickly and the nausea hit her once more. It was stronger this time and, before she knew it, she threw up. It went all over the trunk and all over her.
"Shit," Kane exclaimed. He jumped back and glared at her. "You're fucking lucky you didn't get any of that on me, bitch. Fuck. Come on. Get out before someone notices. People don't usually ride in trunks, you know."
She climbed out slowly. She was still woozy and clutched weakly at his arm for support. He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling and another wave of nausea washed over her.
"You gonna hurl again?" he asked. She nodded. He managed to jump away just before she did so. Marji stood bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to calm her stomach and trying not to fall over.
Kane grimaced. "Warn me if you're gonna do that again. Now, move."
Thursday, August 9, 2007
You have to play this game with fear and arrogance.
That is perhaps my favorite line from what may well be my favorite movie, Bull Durham. When Kevin Costner said it in the movie, he was talking about baseball. I, however, have often found it applies equally well to other areas of my life.
For example, my first career choice: Radio. I can clearly remember the day I decided I wanted to try it. I was getting ready for school, listening to the local morning show and I thought, “Pfft! How hard can that be?” I started working at the local radio station when I was 16 and still in high school (We broadcast at a whopping 1500 watts on the FM side. Oh, and it was FM mono with this hellacious buzz caused by the fact that the owner piggybacked the FM signal off of the AM transmitter. We were a force to be reckoned with). I started off running Royals games on the weekend and moved to the afternoon music show for the kids, which I did during my senior year of high school. The funny thing about it was that the guy who owned and ran the station showed me how to run the sound board one afternoon, then said, “Play whatever you want. I’m going in the back to take a nap.”
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. So, I just sort of winged it. I took things I’d heard other DJs do, and did them in my own way (Little did I know that this is the age old way in which all radio people discover new bits and features for their shows. They steal them from jocks in other markets.)
I eventually moved on to a large market where I learned a lot of the mistakes I’d made in my first job. The hindsight was sort embarrassing and I guarantee that no tapes of my first radio job still exist (though I do have a few from when I was still just a pup). When I left my last radio job in Fairbanks, my Program Director told me: “I knew this was too good to be true. People with your talent and your experience don’t often end up in Fairbanks.” That was probably the nicest thing any of my many radio supervisors has ever said to me. But I won’t let it go to my head. Like many things in life, radio is a fickle mistress. Unless your name is Howard Stern or Ryan Seacrest, it doesn’t matter what you did yesterday. It’s what you do today that matters.
What I learned from all of that is that radio, like baseball, is a game of fear and arrogance. You live your life knowing that no one is better than you and that six months after you leave, no one will remember your name.
Though I’ve said this before in my life, I think I’ve finally left radio for good. Primarily because I have faith in myself and I think I can make this writing thing work. Yet as I embark on this, I feel once again like I am 16, sitting in a control room surrounded by equipment that I have just the vaguest idea how to use. But I have some ideas about what I wanted to do and a burning desire to do it. I still feel that I am feeling my way along in the darkness, knowing my goal is at the end. I know I’ve already made a few mistakes.
I recently read a piece in which another author was complaining about authors who … complain about other authors (no irony there) when they themselves have accomplished nothing. The author was very negative about those who did this, but I can understand the mindset. If you don’t think you work is worth being published then why should anyone else?
I think I can do this.
Fear and arrogance.
For example, my first career choice: Radio. I can clearly remember the day I decided I wanted to try it. I was getting ready for school, listening to the local morning show and I thought, “Pfft! How hard can that be?” I started working at the local radio station when I was 16 and still in high school (We broadcast at a whopping 1500 watts on the FM side. Oh, and it was FM mono with this hellacious buzz caused by the fact that the owner piggybacked the FM signal off of the AM transmitter. We were a force to be reckoned with). I started off running Royals games on the weekend and moved to the afternoon music show for the kids, which I did during my senior year of high school. The funny thing about it was that the guy who owned and ran the station showed me how to run the sound board one afternoon, then said, “Play whatever you want. I’m going in the back to take a nap.”
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. So, I just sort of winged it. I took things I’d heard other DJs do, and did them in my own way (Little did I know that this is the age old way in which all radio people discover new bits and features for their shows. They steal them from jocks in other markets.)
I eventually moved on to a large market where I learned a lot of the mistakes I’d made in my first job. The hindsight was sort embarrassing and I guarantee that no tapes of my first radio job still exist (though I do have a few from when I was still just a pup). When I left my last radio job in Fairbanks, my Program Director told me: “I knew this was too good to be true. People with your talent and your experience don’t often end up in Fairbanks.” That was probably the nicest thing any of my many radio supervisors has ever said to me. But I won’t let it go to my head. Like many things in life, radio is a fickle mistress. Unless your name is Howard Stern or Ryan Seacrest, it doesn’t matter what you did yesterday. It’s what you do today that matters.
What I learned from all of that is that radio, like baseball, is a game of fear and arrogance. You live your life knowing that no one is better than you and that six months after you leave, no one will remember your name.
Though I’ve said this before in my life, I think I’ve finally left radio for good. Primarily because I have faith in myself and I think I can make this writing thing work. Yet as I embark on this, I feel once again like I am 16, sitting in a control room surrounded by equipment that I have just the vaguest idea how to use. But I have some ideas about what I wanted to do and a burning desire to do it. I still feel that I am feeling my way along in the darkness, knowing my goal is at the end. I know I’ve already made a few mistakes.
I recently read a piece in which another author was complaining about authors who … complain about other authors (no irony there) when they themselves have accomplished nothing. The author was very negative about those who did this, but I can understand the mindset. If you don’t think you work is worth being published then why should anyone else?
I think I can do this.
Fear and arrogance.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Things my mother taught me
1. My mother taught me TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE.
"If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning."
My mom's biggest pet peeve -- when my brother and I wrestled on the couch.
2. My mother taught me RELIGION.
"You better pray that will come out of the carpet."
Reminds me of the time I was messing with our satellite dish (one of the big ones) and knocked it off its stand. I did a lot of praying that day!
3. My mother taught me about TIME TRAVEL.
"If you don't straighten up, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next week!"
You could run from my mom because she wasn't fast. But she had great endurance!
4. My mother taught me LOGIC.
" Because I said so, that's why."
I'm convinced this is a parent's best friend. I knew I was an adult the day this phrase came out of my mouth.
5. My mother taught me MORE LOGIC.
"If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you're not going to the store with me."
I never broke a bone as a child. It was probably so I would always be able to go to the store.
6. My mother taught me FORESIGHT.
"Make sure you wear clean underwear, in case you're in an accident."
This particular pearl of wisdom comes not from my mother but from my friend's mom. It is something we should all live by: "Always drive the speed limit because you never know when someone will throw a bag of nails out the window."
That woman was a genius! Funny thing was that it worked on my friend!
7. My mother taught me IRONY
"Keep crying, and I'll give you something to cry about."
What does this even mean?
8. My mother taught me about the science of OSMOSIS.
"Shut your mouth and eat your supper."
I remember reading Little Farmer Boy (Laura Ingalls Wilder) as a kid and coming across the scene where Almanzo gets in trouble for talking at the table. I always thought that rule alone would have doomed me as a pioneer child. I could never keep my mouth shut.
9. My mother taught me about CONTORTIONISM.
"Will you look at that dirt on the back of your neck!"
I don't know about this, but I am certain my mom had eyes on the back of her head and spies all over town!
10. My mother taught me about STAMINA.
"You'll sit there until all that spinach is gone."
I still hate spinach.
11. My mother taught me about WEATHER.
"This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it."
And still kind of a slob.
12. My mother taught me about HYPOCRISY.
"If I told you once, I've told you a million times. Don't exaggerate!"
Seriuosly. A million times. She counted.
13. My mother taught me the CIRCLE OF LIFE.
"I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
I always liked the Bill Cosby addendum to this: "And I can make another that looks just like you."
14. My mother taught me about BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION.
"Stop acting like your father!"
In my case, the bad example was my grandmother. It worked, though.
15. My mother taught me about ENVY.
"There are millions of less fortunate children in this world who don't have wonderful parents like you do."
The older I get, the more I discover that this one is actually true!
16. My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION.
"Just wait until we get home."
And I would hit the ground running. See 3 for the result.
17. My mother taught me about RECEIVING.
"You are going to get it when you get home!"
I refer you to the above.
18. My mother taught me MEDICAL SCIENCE.
"If you don't stop crossing your eyes, they are going to freeze that way."
I think the very act of having a kid embues one with some sort of medical knowledge. Mom kisses always make boo-boos better.
19. My mother taught me ESP.
"Put your sweater on; don't you think I know when you are cold?"
I am convinced my mom either had ESP or a vast intelligence network. MY husband once interviewed for a job and discovered his interviewer was from my hometown. Turns out he was the older brother of one of my brother's friends. I never even knew the guy had a brother. The next time I talked to my mom, I mentioned this to her. She said, "Oh, right. How is Jeff?" How the hell did she know that?
20. My mother taught me HUMOR.
"When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."
I have often thought my brother and I got some of my parents' best personality traits. My mom has absolutely no sense of humor, but loves to read fiction and loves sci-fi. My dad is very funny, reads only non-fiction but hates sci-fi. We kids have all those things (except the hate for sci-fi).
21. My mother taught me HOW TO BECOME AN ADULT.
"If you don't eat your vegetables, you'll never grow up."
My mom turned me from a picky eater into the exact opposite. I am very easy to split a pizza with.
22. My mother taught me GENETICS.
"You're just like your father."
Again, it was Granny. My grandfather's pet name for her? Toad. I kid you not.
23. My mother taught me about my ROOTS.
"Shut that door behind you. Do you think you were born in a barn?"
My most common retort to this: "Weren't you there?" Again, my mom has NO sense of humor.
24. My mother taught me WISDOM.
"When you get to be my age, you'll understand."
The price of wisdom is old age. And $1.67 . Exact change only.
25. And my favorite: My mother taught me about JUSTICE.
"One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!"
I'd be good with that. :-)
Friday, August 3, 2007
This is news, but is it good or bad?
I got this message from a friend:
I don't know if you have a Hastings Book store there but ours here buy books back, and guess what I saw on the shelf.. yep you guessed it YOUR BOOK. That means someone bought it and then resold it to Hastings but still your book is in a major store.. I thought it was good news.
This just goes to prove that I will go to ANY lengths to get my book in a major chain!
I don't know if you have a Hastings Book store there but ours here buy books back, and guess what I saw on the shelf.. yep you guessed it YOUR BOOK. That means someone bought it and then resold it to Hastings but still your book is in a major store.. I thought it was good news.
This just goes to prove that I will go to ANY lengths to get my book in a major chain!
Wanna go to Vegas and get married? 'Kay, sure.
August 3, 1997 -- A historic day in the annals of Western Civilization. It was the day that the Hubby and I, after dating for only five months and being engaged for two, threw caution to the wind, flew to Las Vegas and began our lifelong committment to sitting on the couch and getting fat together.
Break out the booze! We've made a decade! Free elephant rides and pantyhose for everyone! Huzzah!
Break out the booze! We've made a decade! Free elephant rides and pantyhose for everyone! Huzzah!
New York, New York -- We stayed next door at the MGM Grand and got married someplace in between. Despite my intense fear of heights, I actually rode that damn rollercoaster because I promised my husband I would. I hyperventilated and cried the entire ride. When it was over, I flung myself on the 100 degree sidewalk and hugged the ground. That sooooo sucked. But the rest of it has been pretty good.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
I Hate Dieting. And Editing. Passionately.
I may be the slowest editor on the planet. I am STILL working on the first edit of the Second Seal. I started this epic journey in February. It is almost August. I just keep digging myself in deeper. Things are progressing slowly because I am not only adding new stuff, I keep needing to rewrite the old stuff. Okay. I promise not to whine about that anymore (in this post, anyway). I am now less than 100 pages from the end. I did ten today and, if I can keep up that pace, I’ll be done soon. Then I can start again. :-/
This weekend, I started dieting once again. All was going well until I was thwarted by my husband. He brought home a bottle of wine. We all know it’s not a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. That can only lead to dancing in you underwear on the kitchen table, sending drunken emails to your entire address book, and buying Captain Kirk’s chair off of e-Bay.
This isn’t the first time he’s thwarted my efforts. The following is a true story:
My husband and I were at the grocery store one evening and I was feeling all warm and fuzzy toward him.
“I have a confession to make,” I said.
“What?”
“Whenever you diet, I sabotage you so that you will remain unattractive to other women and I won’t have to worry about competition.”
He laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“I do the same thing to you.”
So I probably should have expected it.
Now, back to work.
This weekend, I started dieting once again. All was going well until I was thwarted by my husband. He brought home a bottle of wine. We all know it’s not a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. That can only lead to dancing in you underwear on the kitchen table, sending drunken emails to your entire address book, and buying Captain Kirk’s chair off of e-Bay.
This isn’t the first time he’s thwarted my efforts. The following is a true story:
My husband and I were at the grocery store one evening and I was feeling all warm and fuzzy toward him.
“I have a confession to make,” I said.
“What?”
“Whenever you diet, I sabotage you so that you will remain unattractive to other women and I won’t have to worry about competition.”
He laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“I do the same thing to you.”
So I probably should have expected it.
Now, back to work.
Monday, July 23, 2007
More Summertime Blahs
My summertime blahs may have disappeared but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m being productive. I’m trying, but it’s just not happening. I am currently working on a little short story about time travel. Sci-fi isn’t usually my thing, but this one was my hubby’s idea. It was a story idea he came up with years ago, but every time he tried to write it, it came out “sounding like it had been written by an engineer.” His words, not mine. I think that means it was as about as riveting as a computer manual. So, he asked me to give it a go and I told him I would.
It goes but not all that well.
The first problem I have with this story is sitting behind me right now. Directly behind me. In fact it is sitting on my back, playing with my hair as I type. It’s my oldest son. Summer is almost over and he is bored. Now the baby is playing with my mouse and deleting part of this post. I just keep telling myself that distractions make me stronger.
The second problem is my computer. It is currently nothing more than a large paper weight. Some time in the past few months, a nasty little Trojan sneaked past my firewall and made itself at home. I have switched to our other computer, but I don’t like the keyboard and my files are still on the paper weight. Fortunately, I backup my writing constantly and had a good version of everything saved. But, my music is all gone. All my Tori Amos (sob!) is gone.
Sad panda. :(
It goes but not all that well.
The first problem I have with this story is sitting behind me right now. Directly behind me. In fact it is sitting on my back, playing with my hair as I type. It’s my oldest son. Summer is almost over and he is bored. Now the baby is playing with my mouse and deleting part of this post. I just keep telling myself that distractions make me stronger.
The second problem is my computer. It is currently nothing more than a large paper weight. Some time in the past few months, a nasty little Trojan sneaked past my firewall and made itself at home. I have switched to our other computer, but I don’t like the keyboard and my files are still on the paper weight. Fortunately, I backup my writing constantly and had a good version of everything saved. But, my music is all gone. All my Tori Amos (sob!) is gone.
Sad panda. :(
Monday, July 16, 2007
Hitchhikers, Love and Totally-Free Checking
I have been married for a very long time (we’ll celebrate our tenth anniversary in a couple of weeks). If I didn’t love my husband very much I would never have put up with him for this long. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a great guy. Funny, smart, good-looking and, most importantly, he puts up with me.
But, sometimes, he goes a little crazy.
Not like that guy in The Shining kind of crazy. He gets paranoid. Like the Ozzy/Black Sabbath song.
This always happens based on things I do. He, apparently, is above reproach. Allow me an obligatory eyeroll, if you will. And I promise not to mention the time he stopped to help the two guys (who had obviously been drinking) with car problems on a mountain pass in Colorado. At midnight. Or the scruffy guy we picked up in a mountain pass just outside of Anchorage. No, I will be fair and not mention those things.
This happened today. I wrote a check. He went paranoid. Then he went to dig up information at the one source paranoid people should never, ever use.
The Internet.
After his research stint, he tracked me down and breathlessly told me:
“If people have the number on your check, THEY CAN STEAL ALL OF YOUR MONEY!!!!!!” (emphasis in original)
I replied: “And you think all of those people who spend their lives sitting around thinking up new ways to steal money haven’t thought of this? Nor have the banks? You’re the first? If this were true, criminals would just back up their trucks and celebrate Free Money Day in Tahiti. Think, idiot!”
He admitted that I might be right (gasp!), but it was not enough to quell his paranoia. Cue the Ozzy song.
He called the bank and explained his concerns to the customer service person. She assured him that while it is possible, it doesn’t happen a whole lot. And even if it did, the bank is liable for the money.
Partial vindication.
This would not be the time for me to mention the occasion when one of those door-to-door magazine subscription people came to our house. We were just getting ready to leave and just gave the guy a total NO. As we pulled out of our driveway, the guy was still walking through the neighborhood, looking for other people tobother sell magazines to.
“You know, that would be a really good way to case a house,” says my husband.
Cue Ozzy, again.
We had to drive around the block until the guy left. He waved every time we passed.
Like I said, if I didn’t love my husband so much I would never have put up with this for ten freaking years.
And don’t even get me started about Y2K.
(Note: My husband insisted that he get to read this before I posted. I had to take out all of my account numbers, social security numbers and passwords that I’d planned on posting. Dang it.)
But, sometimes, he goes a little crazy.
What do you mean you
lost the checkbook?
Not like that guy in The Shining kind of crazy. He gets paranoid. Like the Ozzy/Black Sabbath song.
PARANOID!!
This always happens based on things I do. He, apparently, is above reproach. Allow me an obligatory eyeroll, if you will. And I promise not to mention the time he stopped to help the two guys (who had obviously been drinking) with car problems on a mountain pass in Colorado. At midnight. Or the scruffy guy we picked up in a mountain pass just outside of Anchorage. No, I will be fair and not mention those things.
This happened today. I wrote a check. He went paranoid. Then he went to dig up information at the one source paranoid people should never, ever use.
The Internet.
After his research stint, he tracked me down and breathlessly told me:
“If people have the number on your check, THEY CAN STEAL ALL OF YOUR MONEY!!!!!!” (emphasis in original)
I replied: “And you think all of those people who spend their lives sitting around thinking up new ways to steal money haven’t thought of this? Nor have the banks? You’re the first? If this were true, criminals would just back up their trucks and celebrate Free Money Day in Tahiti. Think, idiot!”
He admitted that I might be right (gasp!), but it was not enough to quell his paranoia. Cue the Ozzy song.
THEY"LL STEAL YOUR MONEY!!!
He called the bank and explained his concerns to the customer service person. She assured him that while it is possible, it doesn’t happen a whole lot. And even if it did, the bank is liable for the money.
Partial vindication.
This would not be the time for me to mention the occasion when one of those door-to-door magazine subscription people came to our house. We were just getting ready to leave and just gave the guy a total NO. As we pulled out of our driveway, the guy was still walking through the neighborhood, looking for other people to
“You know, that would be a really good way to case a house,” says my husband.
Cue Ozzy, again.
Does this font make
my butt look big?
We had to drive around the block until the guy left. He waved every time we passed.
Like I said, if I didn’t love my husband so much I would never have put up with this for ten freaking years.
And don’t even get me started about Y2K.
(Note: My husband insisted that he get to read this before I posted. I had to take out all of my account numbers, social security numbers and passwords that I’d planned on posting. Dang it.)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Summertime Blahs
It is summer.
In the shade of an apple tree,
you relax with a mint julep or nine.
Summer is no time for stress.
--Red Green
In the shade of an apple tree,
you relax with a mint julep or nine.
Summer is no time for stress.
--Red Green
Ah, summertime. I am so ready for it to be over. For the past week, I have had a severe case of summertime blahs. Don’t want to write. Don’t want to work. Hell, I haven’t even felt like answering e-mail. All I have really felt like doing is swimming with my boys and watching “Garfield” with my oldest. Quality ways to spend a day, let me tell you.
But, I think I am recovering. Time to get back to work.
Editing on the Second Seal has come to a screeching halt. Not that it was going badly. Quite the opposite, in fact. But, Big Things may be in the works and I need to set that project aside for now and focus on the things at hand. They may be very good things. Or they may be nothing. Or maybe something. Time will tell. I dying to say what it is, but I can’t. I might jinx it.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Alaska, a short story
Here is a short story I wrote late one night while listening to one of my favorite Tori Amos songs. The song always made me feel kind of sad and in denial, but nothing I could ever put my finger on. Until this popped out. Enjoy.
I stared at the paper for minutes, not fully prepared for what I was reading. It could have been hours. It certainly felt like it. When I read the words in front of me, it was as if time stopped and there was nothing in existence save for myself and those ugly words before me. Slowly, though, time began again. The clock ticked again. The fire crackled. And I crumpled the paper in my hand and flung it angrily across the room. It bounced harmlessly off of the wall and landed softly near the television. It wasn’t the paper’s fault. It wasn’t responsible for the foul message it carried. But the rage engulfed me and I felt I had to lash out. Killing the messenger, I suppose.
It wasn’t fair.
I’d been so careful. Led my life with my grand plan in mind and never deviating from it because to do so might jeopardize my final goal. Granted, I didn’t really know what that was yet, but that didn’t keep me from wanting to make sure I didn’t do something stupid and screw it up.
I’d always been careful for the same reason. Wasn’t that what everyone told you when you were growing up? You have to think about your future. Don’t live for right now. Think about what things will be like in ten years. Do you really want to have to live with the repercussions of something you did now, then?
Well, I bought it. No, I wouldn’t want to live with those repercussions. I’d do things the right way and everything would turn out okay for me. Better than okay. I’d win life’s lottery and get everything I wanted. Sort of the grand prize for doing what I was told.
What a crock!
I’d done everything I was supposed to. I’d planned so carefully and cautiously for my future, but now my future was gone. Stolen in a heartbeat by some stupid test that said I was going to die. I was only thirty. Fuck.
I was ready to go back and do it all again, to throw caution to the wind and perhaps get a second chance at the life I had never bothered to lead. I knew that wouldn’t work though. It’s amazing how quickly one can move from one emotion to the next when confronted by the inevitable. Of course we’re all going to die. I just hadn’t planned on doing it so soon.
I sighed and ran my shaking hand through my hair. Behind me, I heard the thump of the burning wood shifting inside the woodstove. I turned to look at it, the heat causing my skin to tighten across my face. I took a step toward it and held out my hand. It hovered only a few inches above the surface of the stove and I had to snatch it away quickly to avoid a burn. Briefly, I considered pressing my palm against the dark, scarred surface of the stove. To feel my flesh burn. To experience something not many others had. To do something different. Then I thought about how it would feel to yank my injured hand away and pull the injured skin from my hand. The thought of that prompted me to change my mind.
Instead I walked to the door and placed my forehead against the cold glass. Looking out, I could see that it was snowing again. It had warmed up again. The thermometer read minus twenty and that was warm enough for snow. It fell silently in large, fat flakes. No wind here to blow it off course. It fell straight, from cloud to ground, with nothing to impede its course. The way my life was supposed to be. Until today.
Then, as I watched the flakes drift slowly to the ground, something occurred to me. I opened the door and felt the bitter cold sting my face, causing an instant burning sensation in my cheeks. I stepped out onto the snow-packed patio and my bare feet complained instantly about the cold. I wiggled my toes in the snow, heard the door close behind me and the lock click. I’d stepped through. It was too late to go back now, even if I’d wanted to.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the frozen air and smelling the scent of the snow. Around me stood the thick growth of trees, mostly birch and aspen, that shielded me from the rest of the world. I turned my face toward the dark sky, only partially clouded, despite the snowfall. To the north, the aurora danced in the distance, a subtle and changing mixture of reds and greens, moving like a sine wave across the sky. It was like a private light show just for me. The full moon hung low on the horizon, its reflected light causing the snow to sparkle. My teeth began to chatter. In the woods, something moved.
I could do it, I thought. I could be free. Maybe this was what I needed.
I looked at the woods. They weren’t far. I bet I could make it.
With one final glance behind me, I tore off my clothes, jumped into the powdery snow and ran for the trees.
I stared at the paper for minutes, not fully prepared for what I was reading. It could have been hours. It certainly felt like it. When I read the words in front of me, it was as if time stopped and there was nothing in existence save for myself and those ugly words before me. Slowly, though, time began again. The clock ticked again. The fire crackled. And I crumpled the paper in my hand and flung it angrily across the room. It bounced harmlessly off of the wall and landed softly near the television. It wasn’t the paper’s fault. It wasn’t responsible for the foul message it carried. But the rage engulfed me and I felt I had to lash out. Killing the messenger, I suppose.
It wasn’t fair.
I’d been so careful. Led my life with my grand plan in mind and never deviating from it because to do so might jeopardize my final goal. Granted, I didn’t really know what that was yet, but that didn’t keep me from wanting to make sure I didn’t do something stupid and screw it up.
I’d always been careful for the same reason. Wasn’t that what everyone told you when you were growing up? You have to think about your future. Don’t live for right now. Think about what things will be like in ten years. Do you really want to have to live with the repercussions of something you did now, then?
Well, I bought it. No, I wouldn’t want to live with those repercussions. I’d do things the right way and everything would turn out okay for me. Better than okay. I’d win life’s lottery and get everything I wanted. Sort of the grand prize for doing what I was told.
What a crock!
I’d done everything I was supposed to. I’d planned so carefully and cautiously for my future, but now my future was gone. Stolen in a heartbeat by some stupid test that said I was going to die. I was only thirty. Fuck.
I was ready to go back and do it all again, to throw caution to the wind and perhaps get a second chance at the life I had never bothered to lead. I knew that wouldn’t work though. It’s amazing how quickly one can move from one emotion to the next when confronted by the inevitable. Of course we’re all going to die. I just hadn’t planned on doing it so soon.
I sighed and ran my shaking hand through my hair. Behind me, I heard the thump of the burning wood shifting inside the woodstove. I turned to look at it, the heat causing my skin to tighten across my face. I took a step toward it and held out my hand. It hovered only a few inches above the surface of the stove and I had to snatch it away quickly to avoid a burn. Briefly, I considered pressing my palm against the dark, scarred surface of the stove. To feel my flesh burn. To experience something not many others had. To do something different. Then I thought about how it would feel to yank my injured hand away and pull the injured skin from my hand. The thought of that prompted me to change my mind.
Instead I walked to the door and placed my forehead against the cold glass. Looking out, I could see that it was snowing again. It had warmed up again. The thermometer read minus twenty and that was warm enough for snow. It fell silently in large, fat flakes. No wind here to blow it off course. It fell straight, from cloud to ground, with nothing to impede its course. The way my life was supposed to be. Until today.
Then, as I watched the flakes drift slowly to the ground, something occurred to me. I opened the door and felt the bitter cold sting my face, causing an instant burning sensation in my cheeks. I stepped out onto the snow-packed patio and my bare feet complained instantly about the cold. I wiggled my toes in the snow, heard the door close behind me and the lock click. I’d stepped through. It was too late to go back now, even if I’d wanted to.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the frozen air and smelling the scent of the snow. Around me stood the thick growth of trees, mostly birch and aspen, that shielded me from the rest of the world. I turned my face toward the dark sky, only partially clouded, despite the snowfall. To the north, the aurora danced in the distance, a subtle and changing mixture of reds and greens, moving like a sine wave across the sky. It was like a private light show just for me. The full moon hung low on the horizon, its reflected light causing the snow to sparkle. My teeth began to chatter. In the woods, something moved.
I could do it, I thought. I could be free. Maybe this was what I needed.
I looked at the woods. They weren’t far. I bet I could make it.
With one final glance behind me, I tore off my clothes, jumped into the powdery snow and ran for the trees.
Friday, July 6, 2007
The Great Self-Publishing Debate
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--Robert Frost
You know what they say about advice … everyone has some to give and it is generally as useful as snow shoes for a Chihuahua. Or is that opinions? Hmm, it may very well be. Nevertheless, advice is often the worst when it a) is unsolicited b). doesn’t jive with what you’ve already decided to do or c). is contradictory to other advice you received.
Which brings me to my current dilemma.
I was chatting with one of my author friends the other day about book stuff. She mentioned something about deadlines and I responded that one of the best things about self-publishing is that all of my deadlines are self-imposed. Plus, as soon as I am ready to publish, I am about three weeks from holding a hard copy of my book in my hot little hands. My friend was somewhat astonished to discover that I was planning to self-publish my second book and strongly encouraged me to pursue a royalty publisher. Her reasoning was that books are a tough business and it is difficult to find ways to get your book noticed and sold without the benefit of a publisher behind you.
She is correct about this. Self-publishing is a tough road to travel. But here is where the contradictory advice comes in.
I have several other author friends who have a made a pretty decent career out of self-publishing. They have a strong Internet presence and that’s how they make most of their sales.
Here is the comparison between the two as I understand it:
- Self-published (SP) authors retain all rights to their work. Not so with royalty publishers.
- SP means no deadlines to meet or contractual obligations to fulfill.
- SP gives you complete creative control. Royalty publishers won’t print poor quality work (that can be a pro or a con, depending on how you look at it)
- SP (at least with my publisher) authors make 25% of the sale price per book. With royalty publishers, it is around 7%.
- SP are responsible for all of their own marketing and promotion. However, small royalty publishers may not have the budget to market your book, so you may be on your own with them as well.
- SP requires an outlay of capital to get started. You have to spend your own money. You can get your work published for a reasonable sum (between $500-$1000) but there are a lot of shady characters out there who just want to take your money. There are even self-publishers who pretend to be royalty publishers. Choose carefully. A royalty publisher won’t ask you for money. However, many small publishers may or may not offer advances.
- If you sign a contract with a small publisher, it may improve your chances of being picked up by a larger one.
If there is one thing I’ve learned from talking with authors at different rungs on the career ladder, it is this: There is more than one way to get there, it seems that everyone takes a road less traveled. I have never spoken to two people who have done things the same way. This is a difficult business, but I firmly believe that if you have the talent and believe in yourself, you’ll get there, despite all of the potholes and forks in the road.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Water, Water, Everywhere!
In the past month, every time I talk to my dad on the phone, he tells me how much it has been raining. I chalked it up to his great love of the weather since he has been known just to sit and watch the Weather Channel for hours on end. That is, until I received the following message from one of my friends who still lives in my hometown.
Row, row, row your boat and come get my ass out!
When I asked what she meant by that, she told me that Independence (located in the southeast corner of Kansas) was flooded in. All of the highways into were closed. And the waters were still rising.
She put some pictures up on her website, which I borrowed and posted here. That’s a lot of water.
This is about a mile from my folks house and right next to where my grandpa's house
My parents live very close to one of the rivers that runs near Independence, so I called to make sure they and my grandpa were okay. Fortunately, and because their house sits on high ground, they are all fine. My grandpa and his dog have moved in with them and with most likely be there for a while. His house is gone. So is his car. It’s all under water. Be he is okay and that’s the important part. I am reasonably certain that my dad and grandpa can co-exist without killing each other. At least for a little while.
Here is a picture of the softball fields along Park Street. Notice that the water level is just under the basketball goals in the middle of the picture.
What bothers me about the situation my family is in, is that I have no way to help. I can’t get there because of all the water between here and there (here is a link to a story in the Houston Chronicle about the flooding). What angers me is the way local media is handling it. My parents told me that they can’t get any information about what is happening. They don’t even know when the rivers are supposed to crest. The reason: It is a small town and the local radio station is completely automated. So, it continues to churn out today’s pop favorites while the town washes away around it.
Hopefully, the rain will stop soon. Until it does, please keep all of the people in the flooded areas in Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Missouri and Texas in your thoughts.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Plot arguments do not lead to domestic tranquility
I had a book epiphany today. The kind where you just stop everything you are doing and think, “My, God. That’s brilliant! I am such a genius!”
My incredible idea was that I should swap the back story part of book 2 (The Second Seal) with the one in book 3 (already written and currently gathering virtual dust on my hard drive).
Speaking of back story, here’s a little on this whole predicament:
All of the books in this series have four major storylines. Three of those are set in the present and the fourth is set in the past. The fourth storyline fills in the gaps in the other three and gives the reader a historical perspective on the rest of the plot. Except in The Second Seal. It didn’t really do that and I have spent no small amount of time trying to figure out a way to make that happen. However, all of my ideas fell a little short.
Until today.
I made a small change in a secondary character that tied him directly to the fourth storyline in Book 3 (I allude to this a bit in #2, but not a lot. You’d really have to be paying attention to catch it.).
The difficulty is in convincing my husband/writing partner/editor to do it. Because he is in love with the section from Book 2. I think this is because it is the last part of any of these books that he actually sat down and wrote. He loves it and is unwilling to change certain parts of it (more on this in an upcoming post). He really doesn’t want to make the change. I just think waiting until the next book is asking a lot of the reader, especially when it might help to know more about what is going on in Book 2.
I apologize for being so vague, but I don’t want to let any spoilers slip out.
Your thoughts?
My incredible idea was that I should swap the back story part of book 2 (The Second Seal) with the one in book 3 (already written and currently gathering virtual dust on my hard drive).
Speaking of back story, here’s a little on this whole predicament:
All of the books in this series have four major storylines. Three of those are set in the present and the fourth is set in the past. The fourth storyline fills in the gaps in the other three and gives the reader a historical perspective on the rest of the plot. Except in The Second Seal. It didn’t really do that and I have spent no small amount of time trying to figure out a way to make that happen. However, all of my ideas fell a little short.
Until today.
I made a small change in a secondary character that tied him directly to the fourth storyline in Book 3 (I allude to this a bit in #2, but not a lot. You’d really have to be paying attention to catch it.).
The difficulty is in convincing my husband/writing partner/editor to do it. Because he is in love with the section from Book 2. I think this is because it is the last part of any of these books that he actually sat down and wrote. He loves it and is unwilling to change certain parts of it (more on this in an upcoming post). He really doesn’t want to make the change. I just think waiting until the next book is asking a lot of the reader, especially when it might help to know more about what is going on in Book 2.
I apologize for being so vague, but I don’t want to let any spoilers slip out.
Your thoughts?
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
That's it! I'm moving!
Ah, home sweet Blogger. My new blog home. Sure, it looks a little different. Feels a little different, too. I think I’ll get used to that, but until I get this all figured out, please be patient with any mistakes I make. It is certainly better than mySpace which effectively locked me out of my own blog and then never bothered to respond to any of my pleas for help. Screw you, Tom! Blogger loves me more. Nyah!
On to more important topics for my ranting …
The editing of The Second Seal continues to go well. The latest installment had my husband charging me in a threatening manner with a large metal flashlight. This was not the result of our latest argument over what stays and what goes in the book. No, this was actual research. We were trying to figure out exactly where one character might try to club another, if he was only intending to hurt and not kill the other person. This was after he informed me that I had written (nearly word for word) a very similar scene, just pages earlier. Hey, at least I’m consistent.
For the record, we went with shoulder.
That explains why mine is killing me today.
:D
On to more important topics for my ranting …
The editing of The Second Seal continues to go well. The latest installment had my husband charging me in a threatening manner with a large metal flashlight. This was not the result of our latest argument over what stays and what goes in the book. No, this was actual research. We were trying to figure out exactly where one character might try to club another, if he was only intending to hurt and not kill the other person. This was after he informed me that I had written (nearly word for word) a very similar scene, just pages earlier. Hey, at least I’m consistent.
For the record, we went with shoulder.
That explains why mine is killing me today.
:D
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