Thank A Cop

I intended to write more about budgeting but a news story got my blood up.

I just watched a 2 minute segment of tearful women describing how their relative got in "an altercation" with a neighbor (I'm sorry, who knows that word except people familiar with legal defense jargon?), separated and then got shot by police when he answered the door holding a knife.

They're blaming the police.

"They could have done something else," one woman sobbed. "He wasn't the nicest guy but he didn't deserve that."

I don't know about you, but I don't generally answer my front door holding a knife. If I have a fight with my neighbor -something I've never done, by the way- I wouldn't let it reach the point where I might feel I have to answer the front door holding a knife.

Maybe I have better people skills.

I don't know the specifics in this case, other than the eyewitness testimony just recorded by the news that will probably be thrown out of court as "here say." What I do know is cops deal with the bottom-feeding 1% of the population 98% of the time. People the rest of us only hear about in headlines. People the rest of us would fear if stalled in an elevator with them. People who would rather shoot a cop in the face than do what he says.

It is not surprising such people get shot. What is extremely surprising is they don't get shot by cops more often.

Do I sound judgmental? You bet I am. I am sick and tired of the victim mentality just displayed on my television.

"He couldn't help himself." "He was just having an altercation." "Yeah, he had a knife but that's no reason to fear for your life or the lives of others and shoot him."

They're called consequences, people. They happen. Sometimes they kill you.

And before you go all "You're being rather judgmental, aren't you?" - uh, yeah. I totally am and I'm not backing down, either.

I once heard the best way to stay off Cops is to put on a shirt and some shoes. The best way to not get shot by cops is to not be in situations where they're likely to feel the need to shoot you.

Thank the next cop you meet, even if she's writing you a ticket. They put up with a lot of crap so you don't have to. They don't need yours added to the pile.

No Worries - I'm Poor

Before I got all bent out of shape over the new and improved salary, I should have sat down with my pen, paper, calculator and checking program.

Yeah, I'm definitely poor.

Dave Ramsey says when you make a monthly budget, you feel like you got a raise. I've never experienced that feeling. When I make a monthly budget, I feel utterly miserable at just how little money there seems to be.

TT: I'm not complaining. God has blessed me above and beyond what I deserve. I've never had to choose which bill to pay. I've never paid interest on a credit card. I've never paid a late fee or a bank fee, except for that one time I used an ATM that wasn't from my bank and discovered it came with a service charge. I had no school debt, thanks to my parents and a couple scholarships. I do know how to manage money in little increments and avoid the most common and costly mistakes people make that keep them poor. It's the "wealth-building" I haven't yet mastered. I've got "debt free except for the house."

This miserable feeling may be why I resist the monthly budget so very hard, even when Dave explains how vital it is. I don't like to see on paper how little I can afford without putting aside money every month. It's pretty much a few take-out meals. That's a hard truth to accept, so my sympathies for those who don't want to accept it.

I pulled out Total Money Makeover last night for a little light reading before bed. Sandwiched between the chapters on getting out of debt and investing, I did find the five times he repeated "save your money." They were all in a row and spelled and punctuated differently for emphasis.
I think he's telling me to save money.

OK.

I guess since the next chapters are about types of investments, he means I should invest/save money.

OK. 

Here's the rub, and maybe it's the rub for other "poor" folk like me.

I worry about my money being "liquid" enough.

Since I'm the only income and I have the furballs depending on me for food and such, I worry (yeah, I'm gonna use the word even if it's a sin) that I won't have the resources I need at the moment I need them.

This may be that "security gland" Dave talks about. Mine secretes when I consider I might not be able to take care of my family.

How much liquid is enough? A number seems to be emerging the more I work with Dave's plan, but I can't be sure until I reach it.

What I don't want to be, and what is absolutely not something Dave teaches, is a money-hoarder like Silas Marner. Money is active, so the best places for it in general are places where it can move, hopefully in good ways. To Dave, that means charities (the giving away) and mutual funds (the saving).

Wish me luck on my continuing journey to make wise decisions with the blessings of my new job. I'm praying daily that God will show me how to use His money to glorify Him.

Money Trouble

I'll begin by saying I have no complaints about my life. God has blessed me generously with resources, family, kindness, and patience above and beyond what I would supply were our positions reversed.

TT: Be grateful I'm not God. I would have killed us all before Noah, let me tell you.

With the new job comes a new and slightly improved salary. What's the problem, right?

Well, the problem is the turtle seems to come with a subconscious glass ceiling where money is concerned. Too little and I freak out. Too much and I freak out.

There's nothing wrong with having money. I have no problem with people being rich. I don't think I deserve what they have and I don't want to redistribute anyone's wealth to my bank account (or anyone else's bank account).

In my own life, however, I seem to have this idea that I can't have more than a certain amount in any of my emergency funds or I'm a bad person who's keeping God's money from doing God's work.

Weird, I know.

Again, I don't think God has anything against rich people. Lots of important Biblical figures were rich. Like ridiculously wealthy rich. Like move money to get to the toilet rich. Job. Abraham, et al. Joseph was the second richest guy in Egypt. Solomon the richest in the world. God didn't have anything against those guys.

Dave Ramsey, and his teacher Larry Burkett, equate wealth with an ability to be responsibly generous. Those with money ready can give faster, better and more than those who have no money saved and debt to their eyeballs and beyond.

The connection I can't seem to make is exactly when I cross from being "poor" to being "rich." Please remember the dollar amounts in question are so small as to make the poorest Californian laugh at me for worrying.

"That's my monthly house payment," they might scoff.

Well, if you want to know my feelings about California in general, read my other blog. Plus, Dave would say "broke is normal," so, take that, scoffing Californian!

Where was I? Oh, right. Money.

I'm revamping my budget, rearranging columns in what I hope to be a responsible manner. Having no real experience with wealth building, I'll have to trust Dave and hope to get used to this feeling of not struggling and equate it with "good."

I'm also rereading Thou Shall Prosper. God willing, the good Rabbi Lapin will encourage me yet again.

Decisions, Decisions

I'm trying to decide whether to keep Ranunculus Turtle the Website.

I'm not complaining. I'm evaluating. Since Elder Brother pays for it as a birthday present, it's imperative to evaluate right now.  

I don't go there much. I haven't been able to make Amazon Associates work with it (to sell books, you see, should I ever have books to sell). The last few times I've updated it, I've run into issues with loading and whatnot. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. The fonts tend to change randomly. It's just not as user-friendly as I'd hoped, although I still love the look of it.

It seemed like a great idea three years ago, but I wonder now if the blogs are enough. I don't visit my author friends' webpages. I go to their blogs. Or their FB pages.

I did create a wordpress page (not that I need another blog), because wordpress is considered professional and has some nice features. However, wordpress doesn't seem to have the ability to sell, either. Blogspot (this forum) does. I just need to add it back.

TT: Did you notice I took out the little ads? No one clicked on them and they were getting silly.

I think I can restore Amazon selling without adding the little adspace boxes. Haven't tried yet.
Anyway, it's one of those marketing things I've been kicking around while avoiding writing on JFA. I can find all kinds of motivation for stuff not manuscript related now that I've set writing goals.
At the moment, I'm cleaning house. I hope if I make a big enough mess, it will become a procrastinatable problem and I'll write to avoid dealing with it.

Mostly, I'm just trying to distract myself from jonesing after my lost farm. It isn't working.

Obstacles

Grace may think 500 words a day won't kill you, but I'm not making it. I can write 300-350. That's a page and a half for me. Takes 45 minutes to an hour.

I'm not entirely certain anything I'm writing at the moment will stay in the book. I'm just putting something down to get my brain moving in a forward direction.

I realized last night I've told the non-furry people in my life to leave me alone to write, but I haven't yet communicated the request to the furry people. I'm thinking maybe a walk for the dog and some laser playtime for the cats before I start anything. That might give me an hour of clear-of-obstruction screen time.

Of course, that means I actually have to walk the dog and play with the cats, something out of the normal for me. I might accidentally wear myself out and defeat my own purpose.

But a page and a half is something. I've got to be the turtle with the artichoke.

TT: Actually, it's the turtle with the cherry tomato, but I don't like tomatoes. Artichokes are delicious but hard to eat and occasionally painful and fibrous and annoying. Kind of like writing a novel. Getting to the end is great, but the spiky parts in the middle require careful management.

Mostly, I seem to be out of the serious writing habit. I've let other, easier parts of life sprawl around and take up space, and I need to squish and hack and stomp them out of the way until I have some clear brain-space to exercise my creative muscles and get this novel out of the oven and onto the cooling rack.

I don't think I can mix any more metaphors, so I'll get on with my day and let you get on with yours.

Inspired - Not So Much

Grace Bridges set the goal of 500 words a day. I have no idea what she's writing, but she claims 500 words a day won't kill anyone.

TT: Of course, the last I heard, she was trying to exercise and write at the same time. That doesn't sound terribly safe...

Anyhoo, last month was dismal in the writing department. I'm starting to wonder if books 1 and 2 were flukes. Past Ties went back into the drawer mid-summer with the sinking realization I may have written that book 17 years ago and there's no way to excise the cheese without killing the recipe. I've had Justice For All, sequel to Star of Justice, open on my computer for 2 months. Time to get serious.
So, I'm grabbing at that 500 word a day goal and giving it a shot. I've only made it once, but I've gotten close several times and, hey, at least I'm writing something new.

I may be writing total crap but it's on the page where I have a chance to make some useful compost out of it.

I have absolutely decided my writing progress suffers because of poor time use. I won't go without sleep to write, so something has to go during my awake hours.

One of those things has been Farmville - to a degree. I'm rather upset with Zynga at the moment, but I'm hoping they'll come around. To ease some withdrawal pangs, I've been stopping by my farm once a day to do simple chores and help out neighbors who haven't called it quits yet. Should Zynga continue to act like horses' hinder ends, I expect to renounce Farmville entirely. As I said, I'm upset.

Another thing that's falling by the wayside for a bit is people. I'm sorry, folks who like me for some odd reason, but I can't hang with you and finish a book at the same time. You want the book, you'll have to wait. I've changed my answering machine to reflect this - in a slightly nicer way, mom - but here's a more formal announcement.

I'm writing. Please leave me alone. Unless I call you to gripe about plot complications. Then listen politely for no longer than 10 minutes, tell me to put on my big girl panties and get back to work, and hang up. You may appear briefly in the book as a beheading but I'll probably remove that in the editing process.

Probably.

Having declared my intentions publicly, I'll no doubt lose any desire to continue with the goal but that's the risk I take in posting to my blog. On the other hand, since I resolved this, I have moved the plot forward, fixed a few glaring errors, made some major plot decisions and resumed thinking constructively about the story at odd times during the day.

In short, I'm writing again.

This is good.

Fun Facts About Motion Sickness

I've suffered motion sickness from the tender age of 3 months. It's a constant companion, the violently nauseated elephant in the seat next to me on any ride anywhere of any duration.

My family learned early to give me the front seat in the car. My friends' parents learned late, which is why I had few friends in elementary school.

TT: I grew up in the age of the Chevy station wagon, that marvelous invention where all children can pile into the very back of the vehicle next to the smoking tail pipe with no fresh air and press their noses against the back window and look the wrong way at 35 mph. Oi. My stomach turns just thinking about it.

I stopped riding with non-family by the age of 12. I was tall enough at that point to put my foot down and mean it. I would rather walk home than puke in one more car.

Buses were out. Carnival rides? Don't make me laugh. Do you know how boring Worlds of Fun is when you can't ride anything, including the trolley from the parking lot?

Motion sickness only got worse with age. I hadn't realized how much it affected me until a 20 mile trip put me in bed for 24 hours with light blindness and nausea (the symptoms of motion sickness are much like those of a migraine headache -minus the pain- and can last just as long). That left some time for reflection on how telescoped my life had become. I don't travel much outside a 10 mile radius from my house, and motion sickness may be the reason.

This spring, I took the plunge and got those motion sickness patches everyone raves about. I had a wedding to attend and I didn't want to find a bucket to match my dress.

The patches worked. I was very careful, of course, to ride up front, keep my eyes forward, not bend over, not eat anything that might cause hiccups or a blood sugar spike - in short, I didn't trust the patches. But they seemed to work.

Huzzah! Freedom!

I used another patch on my recent trip to the Kansas State Fair, with fabulous results in the motion sickness department.

However, one side effect not mentioned by the pharmacist who gave me the patches is blindness.
Not permanent blindness, thank God, but when I lost the ability to read fine print on the last day of my trip, I thought 40 had caught up with me in one fell swoop. When my reading ability returned 3 days later, I thought brain tumor.

(It's not a tumor. It's not. Not a tumor)

Turns out scopalamine is a very powerful dilating agent. I suspect my eyes were wide enough to have a cop yelling "Out of the car! Who's your dealer?"

TT: Not that I think cops would actually behave that way. I'm exaggerating for humorous effect here, people.

Anyhoo, it's not a tumor and 40 caught up with me by making my eyes better. So much better, in fact, I now must drop a wad of cash to buy lenses that don't over-correct my improving vision.

The moral of the story? The next time a child tells you she must ride up front with you or bad things will happen to your upholstery - believe her. Some smells just don't come out.

What Happens When the Turtle Is Uninspired

For blog writing, anyway. I'm always inspired by food, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.



Round Pants?

My most recent jeans-buying excursion this summer (after I can't tell you how many years) led to the exciting realization I fit into size 10s.

TT: Personally, I think clothing manufacturers have fiddled with the sizes. In the last ten years, I've worn things marked "6" that are bigger than things marked "8" from 20 years ago. Yes, the turtle still has clothes from 20 years ago, despite the fact she hasn't fit in them in almost that long.

Anyhoo, happy that the nice pants fit, I bought them and took them home, where I noticed the black pair are round at the top.

TT: The most annoying part is they fit well in the store. I have no explanation for it except magic.

So I have these pants that fit my legs but leave an inch plus gap between waist and fabric. It's a bit like an egg cup. Who's built like that?

Women fall into three general shapes: apple (top-heavy), banana (no waist) and pear (bottom-heavy).
The majority, myself included, are pears. I don't know anyone who's egg-shaped, so why are the pants made like that? Maybe they're supposed to hug my hips, but if that's the case, my rise is too low, cause when I put the waist around my hips, I need silk boxers and a heavy gold chain to complete the look.

Tis a mystery, and one of the reasons I don't shop for pants all that often. Most annoying part of the whole thing is I'm not sure they can be fitted. It would require all these little darts and denim just doesn't dart that well.

So, I'll wear them with baggy tops, pretend I'm a marsupial and stash stuff in the over-indulgent waistband instead of in the useless low-cut pockets, hoping, of course, it doesn't slip out through a leg.

Tailors, FYI, fashion in this decade is stupid. No wonder America is fat. You're making our clothes too big.

Too Much Food?

One of the beauty parts of my new job is all the food.

I'm starting to wonder if one of the down-sides to the new job is all the food.

Typical of life, isn't it? The thing you like the most is the thing that does you in.

After four weeks, I was starting to wonder if a day went by without food in it. People aren't bringing carrot sticks and cucumber slices, either. I'm talking cake, cookies, enormous cinnamon rolls, cupcakes; things absolutely on my list of "rare indulgences." Things that will make me fat if I ran those six flights of stairs eight times a day instead of walking four times a day.

I can't afford to eat like this, in any sense of the verb. Granted, this week (that would be yesterday, if you're paying attention) no one brought anything, so maybe I just joined up at a weird point in the cycle. Doesn't matter. The turtle is pulling back on the office offerings. I've already sworn off vending machines (that way lies obesity and poverty). I can swear off silly snacks every day.

Naturally, I make exceptions for the really good snacks. As that sage Joey Tribianni teaches, "If you're gonna do it wrong, do it right."

Haunted

Not quite a week since Mica took The Long Step. I can't stop thinking about her.

I listen for her. Her constant, nagging, bone-shivering wail ended Tuesday, but I wake up in the middle of the night, straining to hear it.

I pull food out of the refrigerator and cry when I don't have to lock her in the bathroom to keep her from eating it before I can dish it onto my own plate.

I come home and wonder why I don't have to clean up the undigested contents of her ailing stomach.
You might think I should be relieved about all this.

I'm not. Not yet.

You see, I seem to live in a fantasy world where I can heal all hurts and solve all the problems plaguing my charges. I seem to think I have the power to extend life beyond its natural bounds simply because I wish it to be so.

I don't have that power, no matter how much or how often I wish I do.

I can't keep a cat alive. I can't stop death from taking my friends one by one, not even if I had all the money or medicine in the world.

I can't stop missing them when they're gone, even if they are annoying, sickly, or troublesome in their old age.

I loved Mica. She wasn't always troublesome or sick or annoying. We had many good times known only to us.

I'm so sorry, my friend. If I had the power, I would give up some of my life to have kept you here.
You know I would.

Please forgive me.

Please let me go.

Mica

"My heart is filled with silence. My friend stopped running today."

2 Samuel 12:23
See you on the other side, my friend. 

Less Is So Rare

What can I say? "No pressure" inspires me. Find out more at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Stringing Along

This Annie Dillard book I'm reading...

TT: I should be done with it. The thing's like 20 pages long. OK, maybe a 100. I could read it in an hour. But it fits really well in my purse, so it's become my "purse book." You know, that book you carry around for when you have to wait in a doctor's office or the drive-through? The book you never actually have time to read until you don't have it with you? That book. Which means I'm reading it in one or two sentence snatches. Once I buy a Kindle, I won't have this problem.

Back to topic.

This Annie Dillard book I'm reading... She doesn't really have a point I can see. Maybe that's the point. She'll give involved metaphors for the writing journey, then she'll give some straightforward accounts of her writing journey. I like those better. She'll quote some famous authors about their writing journey, then give two conflicting accounts of how writers write.

Like I said, I occasionally wonder what she was ingesting while she wrote it. She claims coffee and cigarettes, but she doesn't specify what kind of cigarettes.

I guess it's a book to show the variety of ways people write.

What I'm taking from it at this point is her idea of stringing sentences together. That's all writing really is. You can never capture the idea in your head with words, any more than you can capture the image in your head with paint or charcoal or ink (one of the reasons I stopped drawing when I hit adulthood). You're not supposed to. The idea starts the process, but in trying to capture it, you end with something completely different, like Monty Python.

This happened with Star of Justice. The original idea was to bring the reader on the journey of translating the Words of the Oread. As the story developed, that goal moved farther back in the minivan until it now rides the bumper. Is that bad? I don't think so. It was hard to let go of that original idea, but I did.

All I can say is Annie Dillard is helping me write sentences. I string them together until something pretty happens (keep stringing) or something awful (cut the string and try again), but the key is setting aside the time to string.

Writing is about the process. If I don't have a process involving writing words, I'm not a writer.
Simple as that.

Things I Love About My New Job

I could follow up with things I hate about my new job, but Elder Brother says I've earned my masters' in complaining and its time to focus on the positive. Here goes: 

-The exercise. I'm enjoying the walk. Maybe that will change when winter arrives, but maybe not. Once I can fly up those stairs without losing my breath, I plan to add hand weights.

-The elevated metabolism. Probably due to the exercise, but I'm finding myself "feeling" warmer overall  than I have in years. This in an environment where I seem to be parked under an air vent. It's a miracle!

-The scenery. I'm enjoying the variety of people and places I encounter on a regular basis. This may change once I'm actively taking phone calls but I'm going to stay positive. People are the spice of life.

-The food. People are people and where they gather, they feed. Good thing I'm getting all that new exercise. We've had Oreos, cupcakes and a chocolate bundt cake in the last 3 weeks.

-The change. This is the most surprising to me, but I'm enjoying all the differences of my new job from the old one. Not better, just different. In a good way. So far.

Sorry, Elder Brother. Couldn't resist the qualifier.

Sad Little Turtle in a Sad Little Swamp

Ah, the quandaries of the fiction writer. Read about a couple of mine over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

I finished the short story last night. I'm rather pleased with it, if I do say so myself. 

I'll have to say so myself; no one else has read it.

New Schedule

I'm loving my new job, but the new schedule is wreaking a bit of havoc.

Getting to work takes twice as long, so I'm leaving earlier and getting home later. It's still a much shorter commute than most people experience, I'm sure. Hence, less time for blogging and
commenting during the day. My lunch hour is two-thirds travel and one third making sure the dog gets her stretch time and the cats get their lunch. Not enough time to get on the computer anymore.

On the plus side, I've added five 20 minute workouts to my week of walking and stair climbing to get to and from my car. That's great! So great, in fact, I may elect to stay in the upper levels of the parking garage for the health benefits rather than moving down as lower spaces open.

Non-work-related noise is vermoot at work, so I'm cut off from my normal news sources. I'll have to listen to recordings at home or learn what an MP3 player is and then get one so I can listen in the car and on my breaks. This affects not only my current event knowledge but impacts writing and reading time, too.

I'm not too worked up about shake-up. Part of the reason for the job was embracing change. These are changes, and for the most part, they've been good.

Work seems to be going well, too. I'm learning new skills and hopefully making life a bit easier for my coworkers.

Had a silly moment yesterday. Most of the office was in a training meeting, and I tried to help answer phones only to realize I didn't know how to answer the phone. I could hear it ringing, but I couldn't make my phone connect with the line and, of course, the one person who could have told me how was already on the phone helping a customer. I got trained as soon as she got off the phone.

God is easing me into everything, and I'm grateful for that.

I'm hoping to adjust quickly and get back into a regular blogging schedule. They might be short posts, but I need the outlet. 

Wardrobe Issues

I need different light bulbs. All of mine burn yellow, which does not help when deciding if socks are black or blue. This morning's wardrobe depends on a correct answer to that question.

Shoes remain my stumbling block. I'll need to buy some more for the new job, but I'm waiting until my first paycheck. Between the crown, the one month of self-paid health insurance until the new job insurance kicks in and my car insurance payment (which just happened to fall in this month), I'm a bit squeezed. Thanks to Dave Ramsey, the emergency fund has kicked in, but that's no reason to push it. My feet will have to muddle through.

Besides, I hate shoe shopping. I hate most shopping, but shoes rank right up there with jeans. No matter what time of day I go, the shoes fit in the store and never really fit again. The styles are, naturally, horrible. I don't wear open-toed shoes, so the current sandel/flipflop trend is right out, leaving slim pickings. I don't do 5 inch heels or giant embellishments or tiny straps around the ankle guaranteed to break bones at the first misstep. Now that I'm walking two blocks and six flights of stairs four times a day, I can't afford that nonsense in the physical sense even if I liked it in the emotional sense, which I don't.

If nursing shoes came in brown, black and navy, I'd be set.

Except I wouldn't. I do like to look a little more put together than that. Not much, granted, but my days of sneakers with skirts mostly ended in high school. However, my bad hips and knees mean I need more support than the average shoe today provides and that catapults my shoe foraging into the specialty stores with specialty prices. I'll just have to be very careful.

In the meanwhile, my wardrobe will focus on black and brown, because those are the shoes I have.

Wow, I haven't been this materialistically self-focused in a post in a while. I must be feeling better.

I'd like to take a sentence and complain about those little slipper socks supposedly made to wear with normal shoes instead of hose. Do those actually work for anyone? They stay on my foot for about one hour. Then they ride down my heel and scrunch up under my arch and annoy me the rest of the day. Is it really better than wearing hose? Yes, it is, but not by much. I guess I just need longer trouser socks.

Repentance

God's been showing me some stuff - about me, about Him - over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Getting My Dragons in a Row

One of the beauties of a massive life disruption, like a new job, is a massive discharge of personal energy. So many new things happening spurs on other changes. I must make decisions about stuff previously decided, but I have a chance to look with a new eye, if I take advantage of it.

There's no reason not to evaluate my life choices on a regular basis. I just don't do it. Part of my problem of being too comfortable.

Well, I'm taking advantage of all the uproar to get my dragons in a row. Being dragons, they won't stay in a row, but it's a start.

I've never asked so many questions about insurance and investments. I've made phone calls. I've sent emails. I've looked stuff up online. I've sorted piles into files and analyzed data.

In short, I'm feeling quite grown up at the moment.

Through it all, I've asked God for wisdom when making choices about the life He owns, the life I previously considered "mine." It's not my life. I gave it to Him a long time ago. I just forgot.

He expects good stewardship of the resources He's loaned me. I want to do well by Him.

But I'm learning, every day, He's the one ultimately responsible for me. Whatever happens to me, it's His business. I belong to Him.

This isn't an excuse for bad behavior with the the shrugged, "God will take care of me." No, it's the realization that control is illusion. Only God is in control. I will rest in that fact and find peace.

How A New Job Is Like Farmville

A new player is drawn into the game with positive feedback, easily achievable goals and instant rewards. A new employee (if the employer is worth anything) experiences positive feedback (we're so glad you're here), easily achievable goals (you'll be watching a training film today) and instant rewards (why don't you take a break while I finish this?).

Somewhere around level 23, the FV player notices things aren't quite so peachy positive. Rewards are fewer and farther between. Mastery takes longer. Sometimes leveling up gets you nothing except one level closer to your goal of a level where you can plant or buy something you want.

A new employee cycles through "new" to "trained." This doesn't necessarily mean the employee is ready for any challenge. Generally, it means she has a lot of information she can use and a supervisor close by if she gets too befuddled. Depending on the job, it takes a little time to reach this stage, but it generally begins two to four weeks after hire. The glow wears off as "doing your job" replaces "good job." This can be a point of discouragement for a new employee, just like it is for a new player.

However, in FV, the real play begins around level 50. If you can slog through the Dead Zone, you'll rediscover your joy in the game and settle in for the long haul.

For the new employee, this happens, too. A season or four illustrate the general expectations of the work. Some things will change; some remain constant. Competence will increase, although so might a sense of boredom. Mastery of the skill allows for more time between practice sessions. Other positives include a better sense of coworkers and work environment. The pluses and minuses become more obvious. If pluses are greater, the employee continues in the job, satisfied. If minuses are greater, the employee looks for employment elsewhere, just like the disillusioned FV player seeks satisfaction in another game.

This is day two of my new job. Everything is shiny and new, but FV teaches me to expect a Dead Zone ahead. FV also teaches me that Dead Zone is neither endless nor useless. It is the time of tempering, where skills are polished and mettle tested. Without it, I cannot gain the higher levels I wish to reach.

Until I get there, though, I'm going to enjoy the easy stuff. 

New Job, New Shoes, No Worries

Did you know I started a new job? I'll tell you about it over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Cowboys and Aliens - a chick flick?

I hoped I would enjoy this movie from the first preview. Daniel Craig? Check. Harrison Ford? Check. Yes, it could be B or worse, but those two stars have a pretty good track record for picking winners.
Aliens attacking a small town in the Old West? Check. Olivia Wilde? Who cares? I stopped watching House when she joined. I assumed she was more window-dressing for the men-folk, as if they would need it with all the explosions and bullets.

Learning Jon Favreau directed edged my expectations up a notch. I tend to like his projects. Sitting in the theater and seeing Clancy Brown listed in the credits was buttercream frosting.

And I loved it. Yes, I could pick it apart for all the plot inconsistencies, doctrinal differences and sappy just-desserts-for-everybody-ness of it, but I won't. 'Cause I liked it. Daniel Craig deserves an Oscar just for his accent.

The funny thing is, I'm getting the impression the women viewers may like it more than the men. Does that make sense? It has the iconic male necessities for a popular movie, but most of the guys I talk put on their grimaces and make noises that sound like corny and cheesy and unrealistic.

Really? Aliens attacking a small town in the Old West is unrealistic? And giant robots with a secret base on the moon is a day in the life?

Since this is my blog, here's my opinion. Take it for what it's worth.

The big box office draws nowadays are men behaving like emotionally stunted 10 year olds. The Hangover I and II ring any bells? Movies whose names didn't register because I couldn't fathom the sheer immaturity involved in just the previews. And it's migrating over the girls, too, as Bridesmaids showed.

Cowboys and Aliens shows men being responsible men. Men risking their lives to save their families. That's why today's men don't like it. Today's men haven't been taught that sense of responsibility because today's women think men are unnecessary except as sperm donors. Since today's women are currently running the world, they may be right.

It's too bad. I learned I prefer my men tough and stubbly and ready to shoot or stab or punch their way out of situations, especially situations involving ruthless, locust-like aliens. Judging by the female audience response, I'm not alone in my preference.

So, let's stop feminizing our men, shall we, ladies? Let them spit and scratch and stab things in the eye. We'll need that when the aliens come back in the sequel.

A Crown

Turtles have terrible teeth. Why wouldn't we? We aren't supposed to have teeth.

I've gotten fillings almost as long as I've had teeth. I think all my baby teeth were filled, until they fell out, and most of my adult teeth have had some kind of work.

It's not for lack of hygiene, either. I brush. I floss (how many can say that honestly?). I stay away from sugary drinks. Except chocolate almond milk. Love the stuff. I get cleanings twice a year. The current theory is high fever at 3 months rotted my teeth bones. Could also be they were never meant to be used 24/7.

For the record, I've always had good dentists. My blood pressure drops when I go there because that's the one place I know I get a warning before anyone does anything that could be painful. Where else on earth does that hold true?

Anyhoo, I finally got a cavity that needed more than a filling. I wanted to ignore it, but the twinges and the temperature sensitivity got to me. I brought it up at my last check-up and heard that dreaded word: crown. 

That word isn't as dreaded as the hyphenated root-canal, but it's close. Mostly because I didn't know what it was.

To make a crown, your dentist files down the existing tooth and then glues a fake tooth or crown over it. It takes two visits - a long one to file the tooth down and make an impression and a shorter visit 3 weeks later to put the new crown on.

Lots of people have crowns. Lots of people groan and wince when you tell them you're getting one.
I don't know why.

I just finished my first visit, and it was ridiculously simple. For me, anyway. I just had to lie there and relax.

Half my face is numb, so I won't know how truly painful it was for another couple of hours, but at the moment, I'd say it was among the easier fillings I've had, including the last filling done on that same tooth before we figured out it was time for a crown. That filling involved a numbing shot in my jaw that gave me cold sweats after I figured out exactly how that shot had been administered. Sometimes I wish my brain didn't work so hard to solve certain problems.

Even better, this temporary crown shouldn't interfere with my night guard, which means I'll have a much better 3 weeks than I expected.

The kicker? My tooth coloring is A1.

I'd expect nothing less.

Sleepless

I'm not the only one failing to get shut-eye over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Pray for America

Despite a few misgivings on my part, August 6 has arrived before Jesus' return. God willing, thousands of Christians will gather in Reliant Stadium in Houston, TX to fast and pray for our nation today. Thousands more will gather in churches or homes around the country to join them in Spirit if not in body.

We should be praying for our nation daily, but this public reminder and reaffirmation of the God in whom we trust, according to our currency, is miraculous to me.

God is the foundation of America. Not as a theocracy, but as the guiding Light of men and women devoted to Him, doing their best to do His will daily. 

George Washington, in his farewell address to the nation, said our Constitution is designed for a moral and religious people, and is wholly unsuited to govern any other. Without God, we have no basis for moral behavior. Only the Lawgiver, who demonstrates both justice and mercy in the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, gives meaning and order to life.

Meaning and order are two things dramatically missing from today's culture.

Lord Jesus, forgive us our sins. Turn our hearts away from idle pursuits and back to You. Convince our hands and feet and checkbooks to follow our renewed hearts. The heat we feel now is nothing compared to the agony of eternity without your love and mercy. Do not forget us in your anger. Be merciful to us, O God of mercy. Delay judgment one more time as we humble ourselves before you and turn from our wicked ways. 

Keep the faith, brothers and sisters. God is faithful.

God's Covering

Yesterday was ridiculously busy.

My first day of vacation before I leave my old job for good should have been a play day. That's what I expected when I asked for it several weeks ago.

Instead, I got to help plan Grandma Turtle's memorial service (I'll need to pick another Scripture verse. The one I wanted was met with near-boos by those whose experience with Grandma differed from mine). I accepted a feline house guest, which brings the tally to 7 cats, one dog for the next few weeks for those who can count. I filled out paperwork for my new job. I went to a visitation for another dear friend who's taken The Long Step.

That's a lot for a turtle.

Add to it my emotional parting from work the night before (my last official day), my inability to reach Mom in the morning, which led to such confusion when she showed up to drive us to the church that I LEFT MY FRONT DOOR WIDE OPEN for about 3 hours, and the emotional freak out when I got home and discovered the open door.

God must have stationed an angel to guard that opening because every cat was in the house and no one had burglarized me. I have no other explanation. I couldn't have invited disaster more openly if I'd run an ad in the paper.

That's how yesterday went. No matter what obstacle arose, God smoothed it down. What could have been one of the worst days of my life became a day for praise.

Believe me, I praised. I'm praising Him for today's rain, too, and for whatever else He has planned.

I'm sure it will be better than I expect.

Grandma Turtle

My second publication. The shorter version made the paper. This one is listed on the Penwell Gabel website, but I like it better.

Esther Georgia Tolbert, 98, passed away July 26, 2011 at Rolling Hills Retirement Community. Esther was born to John Murrison of Scotland and Alice Kriner Murrison in Chapman, KS on November 1, 1912 as the youngest of eight children.

She married Arthur I. Tolbert on May 21, 1937. They ran a dairy farm until retiring. She never learned to drive a car, but she drove a tractor when Art needed help harvesting. As well as rearing three children and a nephew, she also raised chickens, a crow, a lamb, two coyotes and a litter of skunks. She could outrun any calf born on the farm. And she did it all wearing a dress and with her hair styled.

She loved flowers and displayed the offerings her husband brought her daily from his flower garden. She was known for digging up a plant and plopping it into a pot to keep. They always grew. She kept a sprig of Jacob’s Coat in a vase on her kitchen table.

Esther was a member of Tecumseh United Methodist Church until they moved into town. Then she joined Oakland United Methodist Church, where she attended and served until crippling arthritis made travel impossible. She preferred the King James Bible, and thought other versions “read like stories.”

She was an excellent cook and hostess at family gatherings, where chocolate pie and lime Kool-Aid were staples, even when, in later years, the main meal was catered by KFC.

She loved to read and kept the Topeka Library busy bringing her romances and mysteries to the end. She branched out into one fantasy book, written by a granddaughter. Esther also loved to give and receive greeting cards and took great care in selecting them for special occasions. Although arthritis made it hard to write, she always signed birthday and Christmas cards for her family and friends.

Esther was preceded in death by her husband of 70 years, Art, who died October 11, 2007, her son James I. Tolbert of Topeka, KS, her nephew Carl Sisson, and two grandsons, Cory Tolbert of Topeka, KS and Damon Gjovig of Overland Park, KS. Survivors include her daughter Lois Gjovig and her husband Jon, her son Robert Tolbert and his wife Diane, her daughter-in-law Sammy Tolbert Peck, seven grandchildren, ten great-grandchildren and numerous friends and relatives.

Funeral services will be 10 a.m., Monday, August 8, 2011 at the Oakland United Methodist Church, 801 NE Chester, Topeka, 66616. Interment will follow at Penwell-Gabel Cemetery, Topeka. Mrs. Tolbert will lie in state after 1 p.m., Sunday, August 7, 2011 at the Penwell-Gabel Parker-Price Chapel, 245 NW Independence Ave, Topeka, where the family will receive friends from 4 to5 p.m. Memorial contributions may be made to Oakland United Methodist Church. To leave a special message for the family online, please visit www.PenwellGabelTopeka.com.

The Hazards of Cutting

My thoughts on pushing me the reader too fast over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Some Stories

Here's a famous one.

Grandma Turtle had a duck pond. Some of her ducklings disappeared. One day, she noticed a duckling with a bite taken out of him. She grabbed her hoe and went poking around the pond. She dragged up a giant snapping turtle and whacked his head off with the hoe. 

TT: Normally, this story should make me sad for the turtle, but I've heard it so many times, it's a legend. And it speaks volumes about my grandma.

When I was about five, mom and dad took a cruise. Grandma came to our house to watch us while they were gone. House of Wax with Vincent Price was on spooky theater at 10 PM and I begged her to let me watch it. I don't know why. I guess I liked Vincent Price. I convinced her that mom would have no trouble with me staying up past my bedtime to watch it (two lies). I didn't get more than 15 minutes in before I got so scared, I hid under the covers. "Well, if you're not going to watch it..."
Grandma turned off the TV.

I still haven't watched the original.

Before they retired, grandma and grandpa lived on a farm. We often went out to visit in the summer. One time, I got an enormous cattail sliver in my palm. I was young, so maybe it wasn't that big. But grandma had to take it out, and she did, bless her, with me screaming at the top of my lungs the whole time. My brothers wisely vacated the area during the procedure.

Last one for today.

The only game of tiddlywinks I ever played was against Grandma Turtle. She won. When I started to whine, she leaned in close and said, "If you're old enough to play, you're old enough to lose."

Words of wisdom from the salt of the earth.

So Much

Funny how life gives you long stretches of nothing and then everything seems to hit all at once.

I have a new job.

I haven't started yet, but I have given notice and I'm counting down to the end of the old and the start of the new. It seems I'm sorrier to leave them than they are to see me go. It's a good reality check to know I'm not irreplaceable. Hard on the ego, of course.

And Grandma Turtle died this Tuesday. I'll write more about that later, but it's a bit too fresh yet to process. Mostly I just cry and stare at the wall in the troughs and focus on getting ready for my new job at the crest of the sorrow wave.

Sorrow comes in waves, you know. You just have to ride them out and hope you don't throw up.

Grandma would smack me in the head for being silly about crying. I know she's happier with Jesus. But, unless the world ends or I die in a bus accident, it may be a long time before I see her again. That's a hard thought.

So I'm a bit more absent-minded than usual, and I'm not hearing as well as I did a few days ago.
I'd appreciate your prayers. You know I'm praying for all of you.

Baffled

Totally forgot to share my post over at

The New Authors' Fellowship. 

My apologies. It's been a long week.

Can't Win for Losing

On the off chance my mid-nightly awakenings were caused by changing my alarm time (and forgive me for wanting an extra half hour), I changed the alarm back to 4:25. It kinda worked.

I woke up at 3:36.

Hey, that's an additional hour and twelve minutes. I won't complain.

The heat is getting to everyone at the Turtle household. Cats and dog not eating like usual. Cats and dog throwing up food for no obvious reason. Everybody melted over furniture or puddled into carpets, as if 82 degrees in the house is unreasonable. It's not unreasonable.

Heck, if it were only 82 degrees outside, I'd have the windows open. How would they like that, I wonder?

I shared a "funny" on FB the other day. One of those church signs: "Satan called - He wants his weather back."

That's no joke.

I hope you are praying for some heat relief. Satan may be lord of the air, but he can't lift a finger without God's permission. It's possible we're only enduring the heat because we haven't asked the One who made the weather to have mercy.

God is merciful. I thank Him for that daily.

Which also reminds me... I hope you're aware of the call to fast and pray for the nation taking place in Austin, TX on August 6. It is about time some non-church leaders stood up and reminded us all that God is in charge. I won't be in Austin, but I will be praying. Please join us. God will hear us, if we ask.

The Magic Number

At my house, this week anyway, the magic number seems to be 224. As in 2:24 AM. That's been my wake up time for the last four days.

I don't know why. Part of it could be the A/C kicking on. Two times seemed to be Mica having a very loud freak-out in the basement.

I planned everything to make my sleep as trouble-free as possible last night, and what should happen but Caleb -my perfect cat-dog who never gives me any trouble- woke me up at 2:24 AM.

It's a conspiracy. I'm sure of it. Don't know who's planning it, but I'm sure there's someone.

I wouldn't mind waking up then so much were I able to go back to sleep, which, so far, I really haven't managed.

TT: A friend once told me she loved waking up in the middle of the night because she'd get all excited about how much longer she had to sleep until she needed to get up. Glass half full, I guess. I wouldn't really know anything about that.

Well, I'm not excited about 3 hours of wakefulness in the dark.

My eyes are so red I'm wondering if I've been swallowing jello shots. The heavy glasses prescription doesn't help. My thick lenses magnify everything into "HELLO! MY EYES ARE RED! HOW ARE YOU?"

I think it mostly has to do with the heat. The A/C appears to kick on for the first time around 2:24 AM and then I go through too cold (while it's blowing) to too hot (when it stops and my covers turn into potholders). Not much I can do about that.

In the meanwhile, I pray when I wake up at night, so if you have any pressing issues you'd like me to present to the Big Guy on your behalf, let me know.

Not like it's out of my way.

Made Me Laugh

I totally stole this from an email, but it made me laugh.

It's so hot and dry in Kansas

…the birds have to use potholders to pull the worms out of the ground.

…the trees are whistling for the dogs.

…the best parking place is determined by shade instead of distance.

…hot water comes from both taps.

…you can make sun tea instantly.

…you learn that a seat belt buckle makes a pretty good branding iron.

…the temperature drops below 95 F (35 C) and you feel a little chilly.

…you discover that in July it only takes two fingers to steer your car.

…you discover that you can get sunburned through your car window.

…you actually burn your hand opening the car door.

…you break into a sweat the instant you step outside at 7:30 A.M.

…your biggest motorcycle wreck fear is, "What if I get knocked out and end up lying on the pavement and cook to death?"

…you realize that asphalt has a liquid stage.

…the potatoes cook underground, so all you have to do is pull one out and add butter.

…the cows are giving evaporated milk.

…farmers are feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying boiled eggs.

…the Baptists are starting to baptize by sprinkling,

...the Methodists are using wet-wipes,

...Presbyterians are giving rain checks, and

...the Catholics are praying for the wine to turn back into water!

Art Imitates Life

Mine certainly is, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Duh

I'm officially an idiot.

I've been cleaning and cleaning: washing curtains, treating carpet, bleaching the tub in a frantic attempt to find and remove the source of that pervasive, oniony smell in my house.

All the while, I've been putting kitchen scraps into my kitchen compost bin. Only this morning did I remember putting onions in the compost bin earlier this month. Source of the smell? Huh. Maybe.

D'oh!

Anyway, the compost bin got dumped outside and cleaned this morning. Let's hope that solves the problem, shall we?

Normally, I empty it immediately following an onion deposit. Must have gotten distracted.

Which reminds me, if I don't thaw some chicken, I'll be eating chocolate for dinner.

Like that's a problem. Or a novelty.

Facebook Fun

I love these things. I love to talk about myself, and this is a socially acceptable way to do it without being accused of overt arrogance. I tagged a few folks my as-yet-breakfast-deprived brain thought of, but my apologies if I missed you. Feel free to copy and paste to your Notes. Just tag me, OK?

1. What time did you get up this morning?
4:25

2. How do you like your steak?
Medium rare but I prefer turkey

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema
That really stupid new vampire movie based on a comic book and sort of old West meets Eastern Catholic? My not remembering the name shows my utter contempt for it.

4. What is your favorite TV show?
Stopped watching TV when NBC cancelled their newest Christian Slater/Madsen Amichek series after two episodes. Rot in the third ring of Hades, NBC execs! You don't own me anymore!

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
Kansas, but with a reinforced basement tornado shelter. Gotta get me one of those.

6. What did you have for breakfast?
Haven't decided yet. I went to the store last night and I have SO MANY CHOICES! Maybe a little of everything.

7. What is your favorite cuisine?
Chinese food, with American ingredients but Chinese techniques.

8. What foods do you dislike?
Things that make me bloat.

9. Favorite Restaurant?
Taco Bell

10. Favorite dressing
Raspberry Vinaigrette

11. What kind of vehicle do you drive?
Suzuki Grand Vitara. I pretend it's a Subaru Outback.

12. What are your favorite clothes?
Anything that hangs without pinching. Bras are not on this list.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance? 
Hershey PA before they moved the factory to Mexico. But I'm not going to Mexico just to smell chocolate-scented air.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?
1/2 empty

15. Where would you want to retire.
Don't plan to retire but Arizona's dry heat sounds better every year as the arthritis encroaches.

16. Favorite time of day?
"any time it's quiet." Hear, hear, Caprice!

17. Where were you born?
Topeka KS

18. What is your favorite sport to watch?
Gymnastics. Those people are crazy.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back?
Rachel. She's too busy being Wendy in Peter Pan. 

20. Person you expect to tag you back first
Good question.

21. who are you most curious about responses?
Julia.

22. Bird watcher?
More of a listener. I stop for sounds and don't start again until I find the source. Rather annoying, actually.

23. Do you consider yourself attractive?
Absolutely! You're reading this, aren't you? I rest my case.

24. Pets?
So, so many.

25. Any new and exciting news that you'd like to share?
shhhhhh. Not yet.

26. What did you want to be when you were little?
a dog.

27. What is your best childhood memory?
My cat Sugar riding on top of the car because she was so mad at my mom for yelling at me. We stopped the car, Sugar got in and nuzzled my face until I got to school.

28. Are you a cat or dog person?
I'm guessing "cat," although I claim to like both.

29. Are you married?
No. I do wear a wedding ring but it was my grandmother's.

30. Always wear your seat belt?
Yes

31. Been in a car accident?
Several. I was driving for only one and my car stalled while turning left. Could have been killed (my car was aluminum) but the other driver had good reflexes and I'm pretty sure an angel stepped between us.

32. Any pet peeves?
So, so many. Oh wait, pet PEEVES?

33. Favorite pizza topping?
Not allowed to eat pizza anymore, but when I did it was hamburger.

34. Favorite Flower?
Buttercups. Duh. Actually, I love smelly flowers: marigolds, roses, peonies, hyacinth.

35. Favorite ice cream?
Peppermint.

36. Favorite fast food?
Taco Bell 5 layer beefy burrito. I shouldn't eat them, but, oh, how I love them.

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test?
I don't remember failing, although I remembering thinking "I should have failed. Why didn't I fail? I don't want to drive!"

38. From whom did you get your last email?
Newsmax. chuckle.

39. In which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Make Dave Ramsey proud. Say "no" to credit.

40. Do anything spontaneous lately?
I hope not.

41. Like your job?
I really do.

42. What was your favorite vacation?
Summers at my relatives' cabin in the Ozarks, before it got all commercial.

43. Last person you went out to eat with?
my brothers and their women. hmm. That could be a book title. 

44. What are you listening to right now?
American Family Radio. Nicole Spawnberg, I think.

45. What is your favorite color?
Cobalt Blue

46. How many tattoos do you have?
none. Scared of needles. And pain. And bloating.

47. Coffee drinker?
I hate coffee, but I've learned to appreciate a white chocolate mocha latte with a shot of cinnamon. It tastes almost nothing like coffee.

48. How many children do you have?
No human children.

49. Pick one super power... what would it be??
Telekinesis, hands-down. HA!

50. Do you return shopping carts at the grocery store?
Every Single Time. Lazy creatures, do you not know GOD is watching?

51. Signature Drink?
Water with lemon.

Hot Enough for Ya?

Yes, even I am feeling the heat over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Normalizing

My knees are killing me.

I'm not allowed to talk about them. Mom once threatened to cut them off if I brought them up again. Seems Dad had bad knees, too, and she's just tired of hearing about it. Must be the weight of the turtle shell. Hard to carry around the troubles of the world and keep your knees healthy.

The return of humor indicates (I hope) a return of some much needed emotional balance. My diabolical plan to give my troubles back to God seems to be working. I'm glad He's willing to take them.

I don't have much to say this morning. Mostly I wanted my dear readers to know I'm alive and well (eggs that rattle when you shake them are not edible, FYI) and moving forward.

I'm nearly done with Nor Iron Bars a Cage by Caprice Hokstad. I'll have to post reviews here and on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. I'm just glad she has book three in the works. I do like the world of Byntar.

I need to write reviews for Fred Warren's The Muse and Odd Little Miracles, too. And the Iguana's Winter. That's been my reading so far this year. I also need to edit Elementals based on all the wonderful feedback from my crit partners. It's past time to write a blurb while I'm at it. Can't believe I don't have one yet. That's supposed to be the first thing you write. And I've decided to get those author headshots out of the way while I have mostly decent hair. Who knows when some mad barber may attack me in the night, shear my beautiful locks and plunge me back into the pit of hair despair?

Man, that's a lot to do. Maybe I'll just go back to bed. If I stop blogging now, I could get an hour.

Later.

That's It

I'm calling it. 2011 is officially my Worst Year Ever.

Definitely worse than the Adjustment Disorder of 1996. That only lasted three months, although I did consider suicide at the lowest point.

Probably worse than the Nervous Breakdown of 1998. I can't be entirely sure of that since I spent the first half of the breakdown sobbing uncontrollably while awake and the second half in a St. John's Wort induced euphoric stupor.

OK, it could be a tie.

But, if I declare this my official Worst Year Ever, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing the pressure is off, and I can enjoy all the little tortures I'm otherwise trying to ignore.

For example, severe 20 minute crying jags can count as aerobic exercise. I'm certainly getting more out of them than the Health Walker. Plus, like engaging in reverse peristalsis, after each bout I get anywhere from 10 to 40 minutes of complete calm. That's a real plus. 

This could be that mid-life crisis I've feared has arrived two decades too early. Or it could be some kind of once a decade emotional catharsis. A turtle version of Pon Farr, if you will, except instead of getting laid, I get emotionally screwed for a year or so. That's not so bad if I get 9 good years to balance.

The worst part? I honestly don't have anything to complain about. For all intents and purposes, my life is pretty great. Which is why I don't get why I'm not happy about it.

I just have to accept, for the moment, if I'm not miserable, I'm not happy.

I can live with that.

A Call to Prayer

I could have blogged about how much I hate fireworks, but I went in a slightly more constructive direction over at 

The New Authors' Fellowship.

For the record, I hate fireworks A LOT.

Edit Like the Wind

Since Vaulter reminded me how much I love my firstborn, Star of Justice, I've been locked into edit-land. Don't know why. Not like I'm submitting it anywhere at the moment. Doesn't matter. It's just nice to remember why I started writing in the first place.

Vaulter's done but I'm only halfway, so I have a lot of work to do before the end of the month.

Most of the edits have been itty bitty adjustments like removing "said" and replacing it with a beat of action. Jeff the Publisher recommended that a long time ago. I started doing it during the MLS contest, but I've missed a few spots.

I've also gotten rid of a bunch of "telling." Passive voice descriptions of this, that and the other. Stuff you're smart enough to figure out or completely unnecessary to plot.

Not that I'm overly concerned with plot in this one. This is one of many books planned for this world. Word count also doesn't bother me. I refuse to cut 66K words just to make it fit the 100K "first book" publication category. Decided that a long time ago, and I'm sticking to it. Doesn't mean I won't cut out words that don't pull their weight, but I'm not cutting chapters just because. I like my chapters.
Sound a bit diva-ish, don't I? Well, when you're my publisher, we'll talk.

If the power stays on and the tornadoes stay out of it, I should be done with this pass-through by the weekend. Tell Cilla to be patient, dear Vaulter. Turtle's working on it.

After that, I'm thinking it's time to pull Justice for All out of the file cabinet. I've missed my little band of ruffians. Maybe they've missed me, too.

Lessons for Life

I would have posted this yesterday, but I lost power around 6 AM, and by the time I got it back, I'd forgotten about everything else. Could be a life lesson.
Find out over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Tip of the Iceberg

Days of clear, beautiful weather forced me to see my fear of storms as the tip of the iceberg.

For several months, most of this year, actually, stress has built in my life.

Job stress. Self-imposed self-improvement stress. Political and economic stress. Dying cat stress (a dying cat who was well enough to snatch half a chicken breast off my plate and resist my efforts to pry it from her needle-sharp teeth. No fallout I've detected from that little adventure, praise the Lord. One of us now eats lunch in the bathroom, and I'm not telling which one).

Those are the bad stresses.

I've found good stresses, too. New family member stress. Writing and critiquing stress (you're in the good list, Vaulter, never fear and don't stop!). Reading stress. I like the changes, but they require adjustments and that takes its toll, too. 

As I've knelt before God, giving Him my fear of storms, I'm finding all these other fears and stresses crowding to take its place. One by one I'm giving those to God, too, because the vast majority of them are as out of my control as the weather.

I'm also reducing those stresses as best I can, one stress at a time.

It's like I've been sunburned. Where normally I could walk outside without trouble, for the moment, any light or warmth hurts my skin. Only my skin is my psyche and the sunlight is the world.
I'm limiting exposure. Easy on the nightly news and its multiple tragedies (just the weather, please *grin*). Earlier bedtimes until I catch up on the sleep I've missed. Exercising daily to use up that adrenaline. One extracurricular task a night, either critiquing or reading or writing, but not all three and not any if something else is planned, like family time.

And prayer. Kneeling before God every day, at least once a day, reciting my "You take it; I can't" list. Because I can't take it. I'm done with worrying. God will have to be in control.

Memorizing scripture. I'm halfway through Psalm 91, which I learned yesterday is called "the warrior's psalm." That one follows me into sleep at night.

The surprising thing is how this snuck up me. Since my nervous breakdown all those years ago, I'm pretty sensitive to these kinds of emotional pitfalls. In the past, I've spotted them way before they got this bad.

Well, I'm not going to worry about it. God can take this mystery, too.

Adrenaline

Funny thing, adrenaline. As a chemical, it's pretty neutral. It's whole purpose is to prepare your body to do something - run or fight. It shuts down your brain, your stomach, everything but the muscles you'll need to accomplish one of those two goals.

Some people enjoy the rush of adrenaline. Thanks to roller coasters, bungee jumping, para-sailing, whatever, they've learned to associate that flood with pleasure.

I never learned that. I don't ride roller coasters. I don't drive fast or enter houses with possible burglaries in process (OK, once, but I vowed never to do it again). For me, two sips into a caffeinated drink have me wondering if I need a doctor and some Valium.

Part of my journey away from phobias is dealing with adrenaline. No person can pump adrenaline all the time. It burns out your body and your brain, like pressing "turbo" and holding it down.

I think I've been pumping adrenaline too long. At least three weeks, near as I can figure. I'm getting rushes at weird times, when literally nothing is happening, and no storm is forecast for a solid 48 hours.

I don't like it. Hard to type with shaking hands. Hard to eat lunch when your stomach clamps up and says "no admittance."

What to do?

Well, the exercise thing seems the best solution. If my body says "run or fight," I suppose I should run or fight. That will use up the adrenaline, I hope. The bonus is it gets me in better shape to run or fight if I have to do those things for real at some point.

I'm trying to look at this as a "win-win."

One side-effect is a new sympathy for those in real harm's way. Firefighters. Police officers. Our deployed military men and women. I'm getting a little, tiny glimpse of what it's like to live daily with an impending sense of doom. God be with them all. And their families. We're not designed to endure that kind of stress constantly.

Yesterday on Family Talk, Dr. Dobson interviewed the Monetti's, a military family who wrote the book Called to Serve for military families. The wife, Penny, talked about her obsessive behaviors when her husband first deployed. I heard my story and some tips to help. The biggest tip is to give it ("it" being my problem of the moment) to God daily. It has to be daily.

And that's what I'm trying to do. The AA "I am powerless against..." is my new mantra, followed by "It's yours, Lord. I can't do it. You'll have to."

He is. Thank you for your faithfulness, God. It is my shield and rampart.

Ah, Sleep

I must have slept last night because the alarm surprised me.

Sleeping is good. I need sleep. I wish I could sleep all day long today, but I can't. At least I'm not working off one hour like yesterday.

I'm "feeling" better, which makes me wonder if the threat of exercise really is enough to make my brain stop sending panic attacks. This will be useful to remember should I get published.

I'm not cured. Based on past experience with severe emotional trauma, I'll take longer than a day or two to recover, but I am better. God and I talk every day, sometimes constantly, it seems. My friends and family continue to pray.

I've reduced my weather-related searches to just the news in the morning and the evening (unless we're in an active spurt of weather where something is happening right then that I should probably know about). Part of obsessive thinking is obsessive behavior. That stops here. It's not helping and I can control it.

One of the things I remember from Steve Leavitt's talk is when a panic attack starts, rather than fight it, you ride it out. Like the "fear is the mind-killer" mantra from Dune. "I will face my fear. I will allow it to pass through me. When the fear is gone, only I will remain."

It's also like surfing, but I'm a nerd so I have to go for the sci-fi over the sport reference.

I also realized I need to remember the fun in my life. I got so freaked out I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't play Farmville. These are the fun parts of my life. How can I live past the irrational fear if I don't combat it with fun?

That all sounds great, but in the midst of irrational fear, it's hard to make yourself care about breeding pigs. I just couldn't. Too bad, really. I missed the father's day special where all babies got the dad's pattern. I'll get over it.

Even as I write, with a beautiful day ahead and no threat of bad weather (at the moment), my stomach is twinging a bit. That's how I know it's irrational fear. 

Thanks for the prayers and the support, my dear readers. God is bringing me through this. I'll be praying for you, as well, that He covers you with His feathers so you may rest under His wings.

Fear and God's Plan

The turtle doesn't get more real than this, over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

No Time

"There never seems to be enough time to do the things that you want to do once you find them."
I don't know who originally sang that song, but in my brain, the voice is Roger Whittaker.

It always comes down to time, doesn't it?

When I wrote Star of Justice, I had no friends. OK, I had one, but she was sporadic in her attentions. No Facebook. No 2-3 hour phone calls from all over the States. No blogs. No Farmville.

In short, nothing but me and the computer.

Well, I had church, but I'm ashamed to admit attendance took a back seat to writing on more than one occasion. I just couldn't spare the time. I had a book and it needed out right now!

My life is fuller than it was. Friends call. Facebook beckons. Family needs attention, and I'm happy to give it.

But it can really take a bite of my writing time.

All of which means, I love you, but if I don't answer, I'm writing. Hopefully, you'll forgive me when the book comes out.

So Much Fun

Vaulter pestered me into giving her Star of Justice to read.

For the record, I'm not withholding the mss out of fear. I've had about 8 non-writers read it and give constructive criticism on plot. I could use a few writers to do the same.

I hate to ask people to read it because it's enormous. Last time I counted, 166K enormous. That's a lot of words to read for busy people with other, smaller, technically more pressing projects on their laptops.

For whatever reason, Vaulter took up the gauntlet on her own whim. She's been sending chapters ever since.

Which reminds me, her new second name is Shredder.

Anyway, I'd forgotten how much I love Star of Justice. There's a fond place in my heart when I think of it, but I haven't really looked at it in a while.

It still makes me smile, and laugh, and cry. I love the people. I love the problems. I can't believe this is my first book. Elementals may have more polish and read faster and reach a different audience, but Star of Justice is my first born, and I love it.

It's not perfect, as Vaulter's red comments will attest, but it's not hopeless.

Even better, I'm reminded how much fun writing can be. When I'm not writing Past Ties, that is. It may be time to set Past Ties aside and start (or finish) something else. Something fun.

Perhaps the Star of Justice sequel.

Willy Wonka may have the right of it.

"You can't go back. You've gotta go forward to go back. Better to press on."

The Art of Witness, or A Huge Can of Worms

Kat Heckenbach got me thinking last week. How about you?
Let me know at The New Authors' Fellowship.

Elder Brother, the comment I referenced happened on Kat's post Christian Fishbowl. I knew I wrote it; I forgot where.

Split Personality

I added the "personality" for you, Kat, lest you thought this post was about sundaes. *evil grin*

While wandering the blog world this morning, noticing the many and varied aspects of the writing world, once again I am struck by how much there is to know.

Writing is a business as well as an art.

TT: Those business books I'm reading say everything is a business, but what do they know? Spoil sports.

A savvy writer is supposed to know trends, competition, price points, contract laws - all kinds of stuff. Enough stuff for a full time job and a half.

Not saying I'm a savvy writer. Far from it. In fact, I have a day job.

How do people split themselves into all these spheres of interest? I started with three blogs about my top three interests at the time: writing, politics and Farmville (those are listed in order of creation, not order of importance, hehe!) I quickly learned I don't have the mental energy to devote myself fully to all three interests all the time.

As I seek to improve myself with all this business reading, I'm trying to be more "present" at work. That's exhausting! No wonder I avoided it for so long. So, I'm wearing myself out during the day to come home and pour more energy into other things.

TT: Part of me thinks this is what people call "growing up." No wonder I've avoided that, too.

I've tried to balance the amount of time spent on each things each day, but that just doesn't work. I end up with 30 minute segments and no real attention given during that time.

I'm not willing to give up my interests. They are important to me and I'm not built to be only one thing, unless it's hungry.

I'm wondering if the key is cycles. The energy level remains the same, but the focus may shift depending on the needs of the moment or the future. Writing fantasy? Political blogging will have to wait a bit. Election cycle? No outside reading. New Farmville feature? Oh, yeah, everything else stops.

TT: Mostly kidding there. Farmville is like eating to me. I just do it and move on.

I'm gonna have to find a way to make it work. Like everything else in my life, "slow and steady" may play a part. Plant the crop, reap the harvest. Read one thing a day, gain the knowledge. Pay attention now and benefit later.

If this works, I deserve a sundae. A turtle sundae.

Snickers

We'll try this post again.

Last week, a female co-worker asked where I got my pants.

First reply "no idea."

This happens to me quite a lot, actually, the not knowing where my clothes come from. I shop so rarely, you'd think I'd be able to name each piece and the date, but no. I inherit clothes the same way I inherit furniture.

After thinking a moment, I said, "They might have been grandma's."

At which point, I heard a snicker from another office.

He's allowed a snicker or two. It's a ridiculous thing to say. How many near 40 year olds would admit to wearing the clothes of a woman over twice her age?

Well, you have to understand a few things.

One, Grandma Byrd and I were almost exactly the same shape. In her younger days, she was one inch taller than me, but otherwise, we were identical. I have pictures of her at my age wearing dresses I now have and have worn and we could be the same person. It's a bit scary. Although osteoporosis twisted her up near the end, she never gained a great deal of weight. Her clothing sizes remained the same.

Two, Grandma Byrd wore separates, like me. She preferred slacks and a shirt to a dress. She also wore funny socks. I suspect I'll pick that up eventually.

Three, Grandma Byrd was far more stylish than I will ever be. To wear her clothes is a serious step up for my wardrobe. I tend toward bohemian - lots of crochet, loose shirts and long, baggy skirts with Sketchers. I generally prefer comfort to anything else. It's not like I have to look at me.

TT: Mom continually threatens to turn me in to What Not To Wear, but it would be useless because a) I know how to dress better, I just don't, and b) you'd have to drug me unconscious to get me on a plane and I'd spend the next week throwing up during shoots anyway, so what's the point?

Therefore, my co-worker can snicker all he likes, but I'll go on wearing grandma's clothes and look better for the change. You can ask mom.

Two Sides

Grace Bridges posted a link this morning about publishing backwards.

I find no fault with the logic. My problem is it puts writing firmly into the "business" category and appears to leave out the "inspiration" part. It could be seen as chasing trends instead of creating your own.

I must tread carefully, lest I be misunderstood.

There is wisdom in finding out what the market wants before putting in the work. Professional writers do this all the time. They send out the query before they ever write a word. Saves time and for the professional, time is money. I'm not knocking it.

But what if my goal is simply to write something, or to write something potentially controversial or unpopular or just plain odd? 

We'll take the tired-from-overuse example of J.K. Rowling. Market research wouldn't have helped her. Trying to build a fan base from the back of her station wagon while writing a book on leftover restaurant napkins would have been a serious waste of time. But Harry was what she had and she did her best with him. Her best turned out pretty good.

I don't intend to be the next Rowling. God forbid, in fact. Talk about out of control. But I do want to write stories I like, and those may not be the best bets market-wise.

I have the luxury of not needing to sell to survive. My next meal is not dependent on my next royalty check or advance, thank you, LORD. To put it in Dave Ramsey terms, at the moment I have a hobby, not a job. I prefer it that way. Publishing is good, but writing must be better. Otherwise, my focus gets all skewed.

As I told Grace, the blog author's main point seems to be get busy or get out.

That point I can support completely.

Memorials

God continuously reminds us He is in control over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Viewpoint

I'm writing along last night and bam! Roadblock. End of chapter.

Now what? I've been comfortably settled in Gavran's head for a while. Feels natural. Do I stay there or jump to Shah, my psyonic? Readers might enjoy her empathic perspective.

"Who tells the story?" It may be the first decision a writer makes, right after "What story do I tell?"

In Star of Justice, all views are Caissa's, except for a tiny bit with Merritt at the end. In Elementals, four people share storytelling duty, and I forced myself to add Spidraax for balance. I mean, Cahnar got some head time, why not the other guy?

I've written from four viewpoints so far in Past Ties, with the likelihood of an additional two or three.
Why does this matter?

First, viewpoint determines what information gets shared. If that character doesn't know it, the reader doesn't, either. This leads to the question "Does any character have information that must be shared or cannot be shared yet?"

Second, some viewpoints are more fun to write. This is entirely dependent on what the author perceives as fun, but I have noticed a resistance when I try to write as certain characters. I'm guessing this happens to other writers, too. 

Of course, each character has a unique perspective. Some have special ways to process the world, like the psyonic Shah whose talent allows her to see past and future snippets of people's lives. That must be considered when deciding who tells what best.

Some readers don't like multiple viewpoints. I don't mind them, as long as the reason for switching is sound and obvious. On the other hand, I prefer getting to know one or two characters deeply rather than ten on a surface level. That's smacking of a short story or anthology and those annoy me.

I don't know that I have a reason to switch at the moment, so I'll try staying in Gavran's head. I can always rewrite later.

I hope this book is worth all the trouble, but I fear the only lesson I will take from it is when to quit.

Special Kind of Crazy

Those who know me know I have an inordinate fondness for cats. This leads to the occasional stupid decision (like owning six at once). For the record, six is too many and I will not own six cats at the same time ever again, so help me, God.

Mica, my oldest, has a chronic digestive problem. She eats the wrong stuff and bad things happen, things that cause starvation and dehydration rapidly in a cat whose max weight in the three years I've owned her was five and a half pounds.

The problem is worsening. I knew it would. It's chronic. It can't be cured, only controlled. For a while. Want to know how?

With pills. Three a day, if I remember correctly. Pills which more than double the cost of Mica's monthly upkeep. So, I can give a resistant cat three expensive pills a day to help her keep food down, even though I know from past experience the stress of taking the pills will cause her to eat her own hair and throw up food that costs four times what I feed the dog who outweighs her 10 times, or I can do nothing and let her die.

This is where the crazy comes in. My head knows she's dying. I can't stop that. Any additional course of treatment will mean pain and anger for both of us, and, frankly, only possibly delay the inevitable.
But my heart wants to do anything to save her, because, pain in the ear that she is, I love her. When she's happy, she's infectiously happy. When she's not...well, she could have been a momma.

One of my favorite movies is The Three Lives of Thomasina. It's a Disney movie about a Scottish cat.  Go figure. In one scene, the vet and the "witch" are tending a wounded badger. The vet announces, "It's a bad wound. Kinder to put it out of its misery." "And wonderful to give him his life," the "witch" responds.

I wish I could give life. I wish I had the power to heal with a touch and an act of will, like Leetah from Elfquest. But I don't. So I wait and give Mica what time and love I can, without pills.

I read a poem on one of those memorial stones recently that said it perfectly:

"If love could have held you, you never would have gone."

She's not going today, and hopefully not tomorrow, but one day soon, we'll say good-bye here and not meet again until I take my own Long Step.

Crazy as it sounds, I will miss her.

Distracted

I meant to write something this morning. Can't remember what.

Oh, yes, I can. Something about wearing my grandmother's clothes.

But I got distracted into commenting. First, by Vaulter's patriotic, blood-boiling post over at The New Authors' Fellowship, then by Mike Delosso, who continues to puzzle over the strong reactions he gets from killing dogs in his novels.

TT: I wrote a post about him a few weeks ago, although I don't think I mentioned him by name.
Might as well. He seems comfortable using animal-killing as a means of demonstrating the nature of his villains. That is one way to do it. If not for that, I would probably read his books. They seem to have a paranormal bent to them and I like that kind of story. His most recent book, Darkness Falls (I think), got a bad review because a dog died and upset the reviewer. I'm with ya, dear, whoever you are.

I suppose it's nice to let other bloggers know they're being read and understood. Left me without a lot of time for my own blogging, though. Oh well.

Maybe I'll talk about grandma tomorrow. My title would be "Snickers."

Hey, I wrote on Past Ties last night for about an hour. Possibly total dreck, but it felt good. We'll see if I can keep it up.