Change of Mood

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a mood can change.

Skamper was happy with The Heights until, this morning, he got a windchime caught on his big fluffy tail and scared himself silly. I have no idea how big a setback this is, but his mood toward catwalks has definitely soured.

I woke happy and ready to dig out my vehicle, only to find a thin layer of snow needing my attention. I checked the state worker website for office closures, found none and moved my schedule up 30 minutes to allow time to get to work and beat the rush.

Apparently, while I was showering and cooking breakfast with the TV off, the state announced the office would delay opening until 10. I didn't know that. I happily cleared off and warmed up the van and got on the road by 7:15 as planned. I arrived at work at 7:25 and found out I didn't have to be here for another 2 hours and 45 minutes. Guess where my mood went?

In George MacDonald's The Lost Princess (or the retitled reprint The Wise Woman), Princess Rosamund's biggest fault is her slavery to her moods. She is a brat because the moment she becomes unhappy, everyone else must be unhappy, too, until she is made happy again. This is the flaw the Wise Woman must repair.

The fact is, nothing has changed. My careful plans went exactly as I wanted. I got to work, I beat the rush, and all is well. I left my house in order and the decision to go home for lunch is no different now than it would have been.

However, perceived circumstances changed. With different information, I believe I would have acted differently. The fact that I didn't and can't now causes anger and frustration. Those emotions are only heightened by the importance I personally place on my time, and this feels as though my time has been stolen by my job.

I wish I'd checked the website again later in the morning. I wish I'd read the ticker tape at the bottom of the TV (not that it would have helped since it was off by the time that notification started running). I wish I'd listened to a local radio station. Lots of opportunity for regret.

Have I learned? Yes. Before I pull the van out of the driveway from now on, I'll check the website. I'll look at the ticker tape. I'll call a blasted local radio station. I won't be caught again.

My life is my responsibility. The only person I should be mad at is me. Believe me, I am. (Although, I harbor a bit of snark toward the idea that an hour is adequate time to adjust travel plans in inclement weather. If you have far to travel, you'd be a fool not to be on the road early. I don't have far to travel, but anger is rarely rational)

I'm hoping this post cools me off and changes my mood, because, like Rosamund, I ain't happy and I'm inclined to show it. However, also like Rosamund, I'm learning to control myself regardless of mood. It's part of growing up.

Be well, dear readers.

Monday Morning Update

Simon and I are fighting over my chair. Our compromise over the last week has been he sits in my lap, which works until I have to get up. Maybe he's telling me the linens need to be changed in the other cat spots.

Skamper has joined Miss Kitty in The Heights. This morning, he used the scratching post to climb instead of jumping on shelves, and he and Miss Kitty played tag in 3D. No one fell off, but I'm going to attach a few more carpet bits up high for better traction, just in case.

Improvements may happen tomorrow if I'm off work again. Another big snow storm rolls over my state today with another 8 to 12 inches expected in my area by 6 AM tomorrow, plus 30 mph winds and possible ice. God gave us three warm days after Thursday's storm to melt (a bit) and clear off driveways and sidewalks, so I'm mostly ready. I also won't complain about the snow because 1) we didn't have any last winter, and 2) we need the moisture desperately.

That's all the updating I have time for this morning. Happy Monday, dear readers. Keep water and blankets in your cars and a full tank of gas (yes, I know it's expensive, but would you rather freeze to death for running out of gas?).

Moving Up

The catwalks were installed Saturday, as my FB Friends are fully aware. While Miss Kitty and Caleb (oddly enough) have taken full advantage from hour one, the others have reacted with skepticism, fear and disdain. They're playing hard to get, is all.

The top beam is 7 feet up (and needs to be painted - little miscommunication between me and Big Brother - ehem). One end touches the wall beside the front door, the other hangs over my computer desk. The overhang seems to be the biggest draw and possibly the favorite spot, which poses a problem since there's only the one. Cats. Sigh.

Simon hopped up there this morning on walkabout. I'm rather impressed with his thorough exploration. He doesn't jump well, but he did love the top of the fridge in his younger days.

You can see I've wrapped the bare pole in pic one in carpet and sisal rope for scratching and climbing ease. I'm doing the same with the second support post at the opposite end of the high beam.

I've hung wind chimes from the shelves because I'm crazy and the cats don't have enough ways to irritate me without being able to lean over and ring my chimes.

Speaking of irritating, Simon has come down from The Heights (oooh, think I just named them) and is squeezing himself into my lap and into my way while I type. Cats. 

Oops. Time is ticking away and getting pics into this post has taken too much of it. Check out my FB album Building Projects for more pics of the latest crazy from the Turtle. 

Big snow storm supposedly coming in the next 24 hours here in the Midwest, up to a foot of snow across most of the state. Prayers are appreciated for those southern areas looking at ice storms and severe rainy weather. Wouldn't mind a prayer for me, too, cause I could use a snow day. Didn't get much sleep this weekend and my mouthpiece needs an adjustment.

Happy Wednesday, everybody. Stay safe.

Teacher Wanted

Had an interesting discussion last week. The kind where your worldview accidentally gets challenged and leaves you pondering for a bit afterwards.

I met someone suspicious of "spoon-fed private school graduates" because "they don't know what the real world is like." Contrarywise, this person approves of "big university graduates whose teachers couldn't speak English" because "they know how to dig out solutions for themselves."

Huh.

This person had no idea I'm one of those spoon-fed private school folks, so the conversation was refreshingly frank. Was I spoon-fed? Is my incessant desire to find a mentor in every job and skill I undertake because I'm accustomed to "being taught"?

There is a benefit to being able to problem-solve in less-than-ideal situations. A good grade in a class of 400 may mean more than in a class of 3. I would argue it depends on the quality of the 400 and the 3, especially in this age where we regularly celebrate mediocrity.

However, the conversation started with the ridiculous cost of higher education and how a "bursting bubble" is on the horizon. We Americans can't afford the high price of college anymore, nor the debt incurred in pursuing it.

My minor is in education. I would argue that a teacher who can't speak the language of his students, and doesn't teach them the subject matter that is the whole purpose of his job, isn't worthy of the high wage he gets paid. Getting good grades in such an environment isn't a testimony to the brilliance of the student; it's a condemnation of the inadequacy of the professor. I would also have to wonder at the wisdom of a student who continues paying such a price for such a pitifully inadequate service.

Wow. Am I a snob, or what? 

In the end, my worldview remains much the same but I'm glad I had the conversation. I can be taught. I prefer it, in fact.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Enjoy the sun.

Winter Cleaning

I was surprised to awaken just before my alarm clock this morning, meaning I'd slept through the night. Been a while since that's happened, pretty much since I started that "health challenge" at work that asked whether I'd slept 7 hours. The challenge is over, so I guess the pressure to sleep is off. That, or taking my old teddy bear to bed with me worked. Dear Puff. I'm so grateful God brought you back to me.

The catwalk project was delayed thanks to a double-whammy of flu and studying. Good thing I hadn't bought steak. We've rescheduled for some evening this week.

Last week was spent cleaning and rearranging in preparation for the catwalk. The cats seem to like the new configuration even without the catwalks. That's a good thing. Unhappy cats fight more.

Little Brother Simon has been the main motivator for this stint of cat-related activity. He's my street tough, and his attacks on the other boys are coming more frequently. It's possible he has some sore teeth, and we're checking that out, too, but more likely it's just the eventual result of too many cats in too small a space.

TT: He's in my lap being all cuddly at the moment, the gooberhead. I really hope the catwalks improve his humor.

I'm reading A Memory of Light, too, the last book for Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. This has been a 20 year journey for me. Odd to finally see it end.

I've put my own writing on hold until that book is done. I can't write while I'm reading in my genre.

The good and bad part of Brandon Sanderson finishing the series is I don't like his writing style as much as Jordan's, so I don't despair while reading like I used to. However, the story isn't hurting me like it should. I can't tell if that's because I continue taking Saint John's Wort or because the author doesn't have the ability to engage my emotions. Doesn't matter, I guess.  The result is the same.

Happy Monday, dear readers. I hope to check in more often this week.

Catwalks and Leverage

Borrowing Big Brother's truck turned into a sibling shopping spree.

Have I mentioned Big Brother was a contractor with a degree in interior design? He's built just about everything you can imagine except a working lightsaber. Some non-working ones, but no laser beams yet. He looked at my drawings and got that "genius" face. The one where all the squiggly parts of his brain turn what I imagine into something that will look cool and work.

See, if you attach a 7' post to a 5' shelf and attach that to the wall, when a 20 lb cat jumps onto the post, you have not a shelf but a lever with applied velocity that rips out part of your wall and falls onto your computer table.

In short, disaster.

However, Big Brother has the knowledge to negate that leverage and moreover offered to build the entire structure for me. He has not made such an offer to Little Sister (because they don't have cats) and was not pleased with me for putting this idea in her mind.

TT: They have a vaulted ceiling in their front room. Can you imagine the catwalk configurations with that kind of space? Mwaahahahahaha! ehem.

Now, while this is more awesome than my wildest dreams, it also means I must move up my readiness schedule by two weeks. Therefore, the house is torn apart and I have 10' boards drying all over the place.

Do you know how hard it is to keep a cat off a board because it's wet yet not traumatize them so much they won't walk on it when it's turned into their "private jungle gym?" Big Brother had a few looks for me about that, too. We have a crazy aunt who hoarded cats. 'Nuff said.

I must also decide what furniture leaves, and that's the hardest part so far. My stuff may look like crap, but it has sentimental value. Plus, it's all cat-friendly, the importance of which should be obvious by this time.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Make it a great one.

Catwalks

This morning I turned over my calendars and got new insights into God's Word, zombie extermination and the world of the Fey. Snapshot of my life, right there.

A new month heralds a new obsession for the Turtle. Furbies didn't pan out as hoped, but this one has hovered in the back of my brain ever since I bought my house. I'd just never seen it done well before.

March's Cat Fancy magazine featured a story on homes that excel at cat-friendliness. One of them is The Cat's House in San Diego, owned by Bob Walker and Frances Mooney. I'd never heard of it, and it's remarkably hard to track down anything picture-wise online. I found YouTube videos from Animal Planet, and some books on Amazon, but I guess they're cashing in on the fortune and keeping pics to a minimum. Can't blame them. They care for up to 10 cats at a time.

What fanned the spark of desire into a flame of determination was a picture of their first "project": a scratching post room divider. The post is a floor-to-ceiling rope-wrapped support beam with a narrow catwalk anchored between it and the wall. The cats climb the post to get to the catwalk where they can lounge seven feet above their humans.

In this instance, the couple hung a picture from the bottom of the catwalk and painted everything bright red, which I wouldn't do (even though I kinda wanna), but the idea is fantastic. I'll be ordering their first book which appears to contain plans for what they did early on, but the scratching post looks fairly no-brainer, so I intend to build one this weekend. If all goes well, I'll incorporate a series of high catwalks and window ledges in every room as my budget allows.

So glad I didn't spend that $50 on a Furby.

The Jobby of Writing

Words are not my friends today, so go see what I wrote yesterday over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Love Your Work

I've hit the 5 month anniversary for my new job, and I'm finally finding my footing. This vocational shift was a big one (auditor? Really?), and I suspect will continue to surprise the snot out of me when I least expect it.

However, I am determined to do well.

Job satisfaction is important to me. More important than salary. I know, that's insane to most people, but I would rather enjoy what I do than make a ton of money in a job I hate.

You may say I have that luxury. I don' t have a family to support. Hello? Six cats and a dog? A home mortgage? A Farmville addiction. I have bills, too. I just refuse to be miserable 8 hours a day 5 days a week.

I've had jobs that weren't great. Jobs that were stepping stones to better jobs, and once to a worse job. Everybody has to do something they don't enjoy some of the time no matter what job they have. However, your opinion of what a job is and should be has a huge impact on how much you enjoy your work. 

See, I don't consider work a result of the Fall. Adam and Eve tended the garden before they sinned. That was work. We're supposed to work. We're supposed to do something with our lives and skills and creative natures. Work is good, which is why I refuse to accept the common notion that work is something you do until you retire. 

I love my work. I don't fully understand it yet, but every day gives me another puzzle piece to fit into the grand picture of what it is I do. I will be competent in my job. I will do the best I can, and not just the "good enough for government work" minimum.

Happy Monday, dear readers. It's a good day to go to work.

(Except the weather is supposed to be so nice today, I'd probably prefer to work in the garden. Oh well.)

Branding and the Turtle

Once upon a time, I learned about branding. It preceded the birth of this blog by perhaps one week. If you cared to do so, you could go back in the archives and look up my first post about it.

Thanks to Yvonne Anderson of the Lost Genre Guild, I just read a refresher course on blogging and branding that led to a few rearranges here in the Swamp. Hope you like the pics.

When I started blogging, I wanted to be somewhat anonymous. "Baby steps" was my motto and the Turtle inched her way onto the thin ice of the bitter lake of the Internet publishing world. I didn't want my name "out there" necessarily. What if I messed up? What if I changed my mind? Far better to have an alias I could ditch.

Enter the Turtle. Ranunculus Turtle. I do love her, and I'm not abandoning her, but she isn't easy to look up, is she? She is my face and voice. My avatar. She is more a part of me than I suspected. As we've journeyed together, I see she should have been a snapping turtle.

I am the Turtle. Yes, yes, perhaps it should have been Tortoise, but that doesn't go as well with "ranunculus," does it? And snapping turtles do live in ponds. 

Since I'm finally getting friends with cell phones who also use FB, I'm finally getting some photos of me to replace my turtle sketch, so I've added a few at "The Real Turtle" page. I also need to practice this "maximizing searchability" skill good marketers speak of. It involves using common key words likely to show up on searches.

Yeah. Like "common" is my goal. (Ooo, that was a bit elitist, wasn't it?)

Anyway, here's to new determination to make myself more visible to those who might want to meet me. I haven't bombed out, I haven't given up, and my mistakes are as much a part of my story as my successes. I will share them all.

Happy Friday, dear readers.

I gotta say, Fridays don't mean as much as they used to because I'm starting to love my new job. It's hard, somewhat thankless and silly, but I believe I can do it. Kinda like writing novels.

Changed My Mind

I was gonna write about writing as "job" or "hobby," and I did, but I'm going to save it for NAF. Can't remember when I post next, but I'll let you all know.

Since I already used all my blog time on that, I guess this is what you get today.

On a side note, I got 63 page views on yesterday's post. Not sure why or how. FB, maybe? Whatever.

Thanks for viewing, folks. Nice of you to stop by. I'll try for "more interesting" tomorrow.

Happy Thursday.

Sevens

One of my writers' loops have us all posting 7 lines from the 77th page of our WIP. I did this a loooong time ago on FB, but I was curious if anything has shifted since then. It has.

From Price of Justice: 

  Startled by a wet nose in the eye, (Caissa) jumped and groaned. She squinted at liquid brown eyes at the end of the long muzzle. Two enormous ears perked her direction. The dog whined.
  “Jasper?” The thin black and red dog was an old friend, companion to the one friend who had occupied her thoughts ever since she’d seen the druids. “Where’s Raven?” 
  “I am here, scholar.” The woman who spoke did not—at the moment—resemble a druid. 

Well, now you know at least two old friends resurface. What would an Ah-rahk story without Jasper be? Wrong, that's what.

However, I've also broken my WIP into smaller viewpoint-specific chunks for my first drafts. I don't have 77 pages of Rhami yet, so this is from page 7:  

  “I’d be happier with a tower,” (Rhami) repeated. “Wizards should have towers. The Great Harvarkoset—”  

  “Died wit’ his t’roat cut, stallion. His tower didant save him.” 

  He hunched further. The disastrous end of his most famous ancestor was a sore spot. “That’s not my point. My point was that he had one, and he was the most famous wizard ever.” 

  (Galena's) blade flashed in its steady journey up and down. “A tower don’ make you famous.”

Hmm. Using the "quotes" option totally wonked up the formatting. Annoying. Anyhoo...

Feeling a strong urge to write something other than a post. Gotta go.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Stay warm.

Back on Schedule

Being sick can throw a wrench into anybody's clockworks, but it seems to be taking longer than usual to recover my stride, especially considering my sickness lasted about 24 hours.

My insomnia is back, despite taking 5-HTP and Valerian Root prior to bed. Yesterday, I finally bought a memory foam mattress topper to soften my "firm" Tempurpedic mattress, so here's hoping that solves some of it. The rest, I suspect, is a result of holiday parties and a neck ache holdover from when I didn't wear my mouthpiece last Monday night.

The not-sleeping is irritating on another level. I joined a one-month wellness program sponsored by my insurance plan (and counting toward a reduced insurance price next year) called "New Year, New You."

TT: Normally, I wouldn't do such a thing because I don't like anybody telling me how to be healthy. I do just fine on my own, thank you, and better than the majority of Americans. However, I do want to add exercise to my routine and this seemed a nice way to get it started.

The requirements are ridiculously simple: get 7 hours of sleep, eat a whole grain, eat 3 servings of fruit/vegetables, and exercise 30 minutes. I get one point per activity per day, I need 50 points to complete it and I have an entire month to get those 50 points. The only thing I don't do now is the exercise.

Except, since I signed up, I haven't slept through the night. I keep waking up at 2 and 2:30 and 3:30, so I can't honestly say I've slept 7 hours. Elder Brother says it's performance anxiety. Murphy's Law is what I call it. The topper helped last night, though, so I may have solved this problem.

Also, thanks to Elder Brother, I have cable hookups in nearly every room in my house, including the basement, where my Health Walker resides. I can now watch TV and exercise without having to rearrange my living room (I have a very small house) or my schedule in any noticeable way. I'm trading goof-off computer time for walking time without losing TV time. Huzzah for me. The exercise should also help me sleep better.

TT: I should be out walking the dog, but one guilt trip at a time, please. I'll walk her when it gets warmer and the sun shines longer.

Happy Tuesday, everybody. Have an apple.

House of Poison, part II

The nausea was over at this point, so it shouldn't come up (much) in this post.

After spending a little time under a thermal blanket to restore my temp to something above a turtle on a frozen pond and sucking down a few more ice chips and some Gatorade, I was able to climb into mom's SUV and ride to the farm to recoup. Good thing, too. Second Dad was also sick, so mom didn't need to split her time between two houses 20 minutes apart.

Once I stopped throwing up, I got better. To my knowledge, I didn't run a fever. I had no aches, no congestion, no other digestive issues (see how PC I'm being in this post!). Also a good thing, because mom got sick about 8 PM and I got up to take care of her.

I thought about the plague. How the sick took care of the sicker until everybody died? Comforting, yes. I thought about Elvis while I was on the kitchen floor, so you see I'm a natural pessimist.

The next morning, while preparing what food I could for the two plague victims, I scrounged for something I could eat. My memory of the morning before was quite vivid, so I didn't want to go for the gusto like I normally would, but I didn't have many choices.

See, I mostly follow Joseph Christiano's Blood Type Diet, so I avoid certain foods. I have a whole list, but a couple of the biggies are wheat and milk. At my house, I have almond milk and gluten-free bread. Mom doesn't follow the blood type diet, so she has regular bread and regular milk, foods which don't sit well in my stomach on my best days.

TT: I'm not actually allergic, and The Wise Woman makes a habit of accepting any gift offered in kindness, so I don't bring up the food anymore when I'm there. It's not normally a big issue.

I ate dry wheat toast and hoped it wouldn't kill me. I ate a banana and hoped it wouldn't kill me. I ate some chicken enchilada and really hoped it wouldn't kill me (I can have chicken, but the cheese and tomato sauce are no-nos. I gave what I could to the dog).

Hence, House of Poison.

Again, I lived. I got home that night and mom and Second Dad are finally getting better, which leads me to believe they didn't have what I did, 'cause I'm pretty much back to normal. A day of non-poisonous foods have done wonders, although I'm still being careful. Unlike cats, I can learn.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Take that Vitamin D and B-complex and wash your hands. Thoroughly and often. You don't want this. 

House of Poison (or Why I Hate Throwing Up)

Warning: As you might guess from the title, this post is not for the weak-stomached. Elder Brother, turn away now.

At 3:30 AM Monday, I suspected I was in trouble. Rarely do I awaken with the desire to toss cookies (that usually comes after watching a political debate) but there I was, lying in bed, with that awful suspicion that vomiting would follow consciousness at some point. I made preparations, so the trash can was ready when the moment came.

I'd like to pause and reiterate that tacos, however delicious going down, are not nearly so coming up.

Adults know a calm follows the first round of vomiting (usually), so I had time to clean up, move the bag to the outside trash bin, blow my nose, sip a little water - you know, prepare for Round Two.

There's always a Round Two. Your stomach knows its unhappy. Round One gets rid of most of it, but Round Two finishes the job. Normally. This time was odd because Round Two took two hours to erupt. I ejected the bit of water I'd swallowed, the rest of the tacos, some of Sunday's lunch, I'm sure, and that should have been the end of it.

I texted Mom that I was sick, asked for some clear soda, unlocked the back door and went to bed.

By Round Three, another two hours later, I was in trouble. The trip outside was harder. My limbs were shaking. Dehydration was setting in. I had nothing more to expel, yet my stomach would not stop trying. I drank water in the hopes some of it would absorb before the next round. Stupid me should have texted mom that I was worse than previously indicated, but I didn't. I was likely already more than a little out of it.

Mom came with the soda, left it on the porch as requested and went on with her day. She never saw me or she would have dashed into the kitchen and called an ambulance on the spot, I'm sure.

I woke up on the kitchen floor about 10 minutes after her departure. I'd gotten out of bed to fetch the soda and ice chips from the porch and fainted, apparently.  I couldn't even turn over to crawl. How fitting for the Turtle. Flat on my back and down for the count.

My phone was in the bedroom a million miles away. The back door was locked (I'd managed that stupidity before fainting - joy!). I lay on the kitchen floor in my nightshirt in my 64 degree house and  the heat bled out of me. To top it off, Round Four presented itself.

As I threw up into a towel I keep in the kitchen to dry the dog during rain storms, I realized I had a very good chance of aspirating on my own vomit. How ignominious. Considering all the puking I've done in my life, to die that way was really too much.

Remembering that episode of Firefly "Out of Gas" when Mal gets shot yet has to repair Serenity's engines, I pulled myself upright enough to unlock the door. Good. Mom could get in. I might be dead, but she wouldn't have to break the glass.

Keeping the kitchen counter at my back, I found the bag of ice chips and sucked a couple down. Hopefully, I wouldn't aspirate on those. The dog finally came by to stare at me. How I wish I'd trained her to fetch a cell phone. Or drag me somewhere on command.

Obviously, I lived. I made it to the bed, and the phone. Mom and Little Sister came and got some fluid into me. I refused a trip to the hospital. My last bout of dehydration-inducing vomiting cost $900, two bags of saline and an IV phobia.

The rest of the story, and the explanation of the title, will come tomorrow. I'm out of space and time today. Kinda like when I was on the floor in the kitchen. Surreal, that was.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Try to keep it in your stomachs, OK?

Research and The Walking Dead

"Why do you write fantasy?"

"I hate research."

Been a standard answer of mine for years, but I'm coming to the point where I can appreciate the value of research. I don't know everything. Yes, take a moment to mark your calendar. The Turtle admitted she isn't omniscient. Didn't say I wasn't a know-it-all.

Tim Ward at NAF turned me on to Ramez Naam's non-fiction book More Than Human about human enhancement. While he's answering some questions, the most helpful thing he's done so far is give me some names. Real people doing amazing things in the fields of robotics and genetics that I can look up and study a bit.

TT: Why would I be researching that for my fantasy novel? chuckle.

Since I've been limiting my Farmville play, I had a few minutes this morning to read some other people's blogs. K.M. Weiland reminded me I've wanted to read the C.S. Forester Horatio Hornblower series for a while. I ordered some of those from Amazon and downloaded a bunch of samples from books I've been meaning to check out. Daughter of Smoke and Bone and The Secret of the Rose, recommended by Kat, were two.

I hope Horatio will come in handy when I write the prequel to Star of Justice. Some of that takes place on the ocean (Hope you'll enjoy that part, Caprice and Grace. I intend to plump it up for your sakes. Ships make me throw up so I don't spend a lot of time dwelling on them). Of course, that's two books from now. Don't want to get ahead of myself. On the other hand, I intend to have a good library to get me through the Zombie Apocalypse. It won't all be interrupting brain function and running from renegades, as The Walking Dead has demonstrated.

TT: Anybody else having a hard time waiting for February's season premiere? Little Sister keeps posting Darrel pics on my FB wall to taunt me.

Happy Friday, dear readers. Enjoy the warmth. Cold front's coming. 

Smaller Bites Equal Bigger Returns

Tuesday night writing went the way of the dodo, not because of social activities, but regular life getting in the way. A grocery trip, an NAF post and raw chicken to cook so I would have food add up to loss of writing time.

Not wanting to "let a missed meal turn me off eating forever," I got back to work last night.

Why haven't I done this sooner? Oh, right, I'm an idiot.

It is so much easier to focus on Rhami when all of Rhami is right there in front of me. The problems are obvious, instead of the vague sense of "something's off." Yeah, it's off and there's why.

I've thought of details I should add, new struggles for him to overcome, even created a few extra people to round out his life so it isn't as empty as the set of Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

I may also be messing up the timeline. Meh, who cares? I created the timeline; maybe it needs some messing up. There's no rule stating everybody's stories need to end at the same time. The point is to maintain tension.

I added almost 500 words again last night. That's 1000 words in two sessions compared to 1000 words for December. This was a good idea.

TT: I also noticed this version of the WIP was 66 pages. That makes Tuesday's math correct, which makes me happy. HA! 

Another good idea is breakfast. Jimmy Dean chicken apple sausage and scrambled eggs are calling. I must answer. Turtle needs food badly.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. Enjoy the rain.

A Change of Place

I'm getting a new office at work. You can read about it over at

The New Authors' Fellowship

(I'll post some pics once I'm settled)

Success

I won't crow too loudly. I just started this new tack, after all, and starting tonight, I have all that socializing messing me up again. I have got to get rid of some friends.

I was half an hour early everywhere yesterday. Woke up early. Finished farming early. Washed dishes early. Turned the TV off early. Put the cats to bed early. 

I was so early, I almost put off writing. I mean, I've got my schedule of avoidance down pat. Why mess it up?

That's hardly the adult way to handle things, though, so I buckled down, copied all the Rhami parts of my WIP into a new file and got to work.

I added about 500 words. Wow. Haven't done that in one session in a while. They weren't dialogue words, either.

Rhami currently has almost 16K words for his story, and near as I can figure, I'm halfway through the book. If past is prologue (I love that phrase!) and I want to maintain symmetry, Rhami gets another 16K words to finish his bit.

TT: As suspected, Caissa has the lion's share of the WIP, as it should be, but I'll deal with her later. This one-character-storyline-at-a-time idea appeals.

Of course, I have no idea how to convert "16K words" into real story, any more than I could convert fractions into decimals without a calculator. Except maybe I do. If a page is about 250 words, Rhami gets 64 more pages. I used a calculator for that, but it doesn't feel right, especially since his current bit is 44 pages. OK, so 44 to 64 pages remain for Rhami. I can do that. Who gets next treatment depends on where his story ends.

Hey, a plan! Cool.

Happy Tuesday, everybody. Enjoy the sunshine.

A New Tack

My Dear Friend once advised me to stop comparing my books. Like children, each is different. Each will require different things of me, and each will provide different things to me.

Of course, with all this "different" flying around, I have to wonder when any of it will be the same. When will my book-writing learning curve stop climbing and finally get 'er done, ya know? If past is prologue, never.

My WIP stymied me - again - this weekend. I was doing fine until I switched viewpoints.

TT: I was initially doing fine until I scheduled a social event that got me home after 9, and I had no time to write before bed. I'm now 4 pages behind my writing schedule. A lesser me would give up and start eating potato chips, but a great Bible study teacher once told me when you miss a meal you don't give up eating, so don't give up anything else just because you miss one session.

So I sit down with the laptop to make up for lost time from the various social events, and I switch viewpoints. I'm staring at the screen wondering what event can happen in the time allotted that won't screw up the timeline for anybody else. That's when it hits me. I should be writing these stories independently instead of concurrently.

Concurrently worked for Elementals, but Elementals is a multi-viewpoint tale of two sisters told in the same timeline where they start together, diverge into different events and regroup at the end. When writing, I rotated viewpoints between sisters, and it worked. I don't know why.

I can't seem to do that with 5 viewpoints. It's too complex. I find myself jabbering on with inconsequentials instead of moving the story forward.

TT: Thank you, plotters, for pointing out that if I'd written an outline before I started, I wouldn't be having this problem. If I'd been able to plot an ending, I would have finished the book a year ago. I can't make up my mind.

Here's the new tack: I'll plot and write each viewpoint, starting, I think, with Rhami. He and Caissa would be the "main" characters, but they don't necessarily have to be in the same place at the end. Everybody else can hang from their timelines. Perhaps I'll end up with five novellas instead of a monster novel. At .99 each, it might be worth it.

Why do I do this to myself?

Happy Monday, everybody.

A Good Start

"Why do you call me 'good?' Is anyone good but God?" -Jesus

I titled the post intending to tell you the good things that have happened yesterday. Instead, I pause and wonder, "What is good?"

I think "good" is when I'm happy. When things go my way. When I have a comfortable home, food to eat and enough money to pay my bills. When I'm not coping with depression or money mistakes or lack of sunlight or aching joints.

Is that good?

Should I define "good" as what God wants? What God provides? A couple of months ago, I would have shoved that definition into any orifice you'd care to offer and walked away. But that is what the Bible says.

God is good. He is not tempted by evil, nor does He tempt anyone. Even Job recognized God's supremacy allows Him to do whatever He wants, and our only response should be praise because what God wants is good. Don't get me started on Job.

I told God yesterday after coming home from my good day that I didn't want to take Him for granted. That I know people say we can't know Him completely without trials or suffering, but I'm pretty sure I can, and I'm willing to try if He's willing to give me a pass on the pain.

He probably chuckled. I suspect I amuse Him a lot.

My good day involved titling the Dodge quickly and easily (to all appearances) and getting permission to change offices at work (a boon that made me realize how much my current workspace has weighed on me, even more than my current workload, which is monumental). See, I don't need much to make me happy, so most days are good days for me.

Happy Friday, dear readers. May all your days with God be good days.

Editing and Writer's Block

Somewhere in all the posts flying around my online writers' groups (or elsewhere. I've read a lot lately), someone said the best thing - or maybe it was the hardest thing - in a first draft is to turn off the internal editor and put words on paper. I know this. Lesson One for an Experienced Writer.

TT: Lesson One for an Inexperienced Writer is "not everything you write is gold." See the problems we writers face? No wonder we talk to invisible people.

The other bit, though, was the light going off. Editing is reserved for writer's block.

Nice.

I shut my inner editor up by telling her I'll edit later. I'll need to. I reread a bit from a week ago, and even I have no idea what I was trying to say. It's bad when I can't read my own handwriting, so to speak.

Applying this rule, along with "make something happen when you're bored," work has resumed on Price of Justice.  We all know how much I hate word counts, but I'm spending time every day moving the story forward an inch at a time. If I can produce 300 words a day, I'll be done with the first draft in June.

Oh, how I wish that "if" didn't loom so large in my mind.

No matter. I'll keep writing, 10 words a day if that's all I can get out, until it's done. I won't worry about reader expectations, alternate endings, or arbitrary deadlines. Writing used to be fun. It will be again.

Good-bye, 2012. You sucked

I can't remember ever being so glad to see the back-end of a year. I really hoped the Apocalypse would come, but even that was a bust for 2012 (unless the die-hards are right, and it did start small and intends to build, but, hey, that sounds like normal life to me, so how would we know?).

Let's recap:
A backyard destroyed first by arborists, then drought, then Bermuda grass (the only thing to survive the drought)

Mom's highly traumatic and nearly fatal neck surgery

My highly traumatic and nearly fatal publication of my first novel (I sure thought it was going to kill me, anyway)

The 25th anniversary of my father's death

Two close friends experiencing on-going, major life traumas that almost completely destroyed my emotional support system (didn't do them much good, either)

The first anniversary of Grandma Turtle's death

Complete and utter writer's block encompassing even my blogs

Lavender Squeak and the accompanying vehicular homicidal urges (I more than once considered wrapping that POC around a light pole. The only thing that stopped me was the fear I'd hurt myself worse than I hurt the van)

2012 election results (hardly surprising, though, were they?)

Diagnosis of clinical depression

Switching from a job I love and do well to a job where that remains to be seen

Sounds fun, don't it? 

On the up side:
We've already gotten more snow this winter than last winter, which should help with the drought and the backyard.

Mom came through the surgery, and the neck works. Everything else is falling apart, but the neck works.

Star of Justice is out and well-received by the 10 strangers who've read it.

My friends are getting their lives together.

I met my publisher in person, and, more importantly, liked her in person.

Lavender Squeak has been replaced with Dodge Caravan, who can't help but be a better van 'cause the bar's pretty low.

The 2012 election results just mean Jesus is coming sooner.

I got a clean bill of health from my doctor.

God and I finally had it out, and we both won.

I'm treating the clinical depression.

My new job includes a new salary, which should come in handy when the results of the 2012 election start hitting my bank account next paycheck.

My writer's block is slowly dissolving. 

I met my goal of reading the entire Bible chronologically in a year.

Of course, all the "bright side" events have happened in the last two months or so, which means the majority of 2012 sucked. Like a novel. All garbage and hardship until the end. I guess that's an optimistic way to think about it.

So, good-bye, 2012. You will not be missed any more than Lavender Squeak.

Happy end-of-the-year, dear readers. Best good-bye ever. 

Struggling with Words

My Christmas present to myself - other than St. John's Wort - was a new laptop. I probably spent way too much, but I wanted a touch screen. I regret nothing.

I am puzzled, however, by the manufacturer's admonition not to block the vent fans despite their placement on the bottom of the laptop exactly where it rests on my thigh/table. I assume there's some kind of special stand I'm supposed to buy. Since I spent plenty on the device already, I will attempt to get Big Brother to make me a stand both sturdy and lightweight. He's a mechanical genius. Should be easy.

The whole purpose of the laptop is writing. I bought it to write on, away from the distractions of the Internet and the cold of the front room. A laptop can sit on top of my electric blanket in any chair emptied of cats in my house, or at World Cup, if the cats look too comfy. So, here's to new writing and finished first drafts.

Last night's venture into uncharted territory was a study in conflict.

First, my conflict in trying to write while keeping the laptop vents unblocked. I'll allow you to imagine what that looked like.

Second, my conflict in writing what should be a simple fight scene yet refuses to be so.

Perhaps it's the lack of weapons. This is a surprise, close quarters, two-on-one skirmish. I'm gonna have to interview Big Brother on some down-and-dirty fight techniques 'cause I'm coming up blank. Perhaps it's the terrain. An excellent use of my non-writing, TV time would be mapping some of these places my characters populate. Perhaps it's my unfamiliarity with the attackers. Their personalities and motivations play into this fight. It's probably all of these things.

Anyway, it's taken three nights of writing and rewriting to get this scene on paper, and I'm pretty sure it continues to suck. I won't know for a while, though. Tonight I move to the next scene because I ended last night's work with a definitive blow to the head.

It's only fair. They hurt me. I hurt them.

Know Your Place

I started reading Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin. Right off the bat, I'm immersed in Small Lumber Town Mississippi climate and culture. Excellent stuff. Muggy, buggy heat. Afternoon storms. Chicken coops and the smells that go with them. All the meat I crave from my books.

All the meat my current WIP lacks.

The trick, of course, is to know your place. The author obviously knows Mississippi. He couldn't put that much detail into describing a place he's never been. Half the fun of this story for me is the description. The sensory details as I experience a place I've never been. 

Once again, I must admit I don't know the places I'm writing about. Or the people. I'm working on a scene where three strangers make an entrance and join the storyline. I have to name them, describe them, give them personalities - you know, bring them to life. I don't know if they'll stick around for one chapter or become integral to the plot, but, either way, they're here now and they should bring something interesting to the mix.

I don't remember having trouble with this in my first two books. Now, though, I resist the idea of bringing in anybody new. What if I get angry comments if I kill one of them?

TT: I am never going to live Gowan down, btw. He was a red shirt, people! Get over it!

That's the problem. I've gotten too serious. Too much is riding on this being a great book. I'd settle for it being a finished book.

Descriptive words about places I've never been and people I've never met. Sensory details that make a made-up world live and breathe and sweat and bleed. That's the impossible goal. That's the windmill I've chosen to fight.

Yee haw.

Happy Thursday, dear readers. 

Teacher Wanted

I started a new job in October. It actually started in September, but I moved into the new office in October.

It's a really new job, as in, other people have done parts of it before, but most of the legislation that defines what I'm doing got passed January 2012, and I'm the first person trying to make practical sense of the new legislation, so no one has really done any of it yet.

It's scary. I'm very good at presenting a calm, knowledgeable exterior, but I'm not very good at figuring things out by myself. I've always - always - had a teacher, until now.

TT: You might think this is an opportunity for me to "grow up" and "act like an adult." I would argue that's an "American" way to think and rather silly. There is nothing wrong with wanting a teacher. Jesus Himself said no student is above his master. If I'm my own teacher, I cannot do better than I'm doing now.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not completely alone. I have a deputy and two part-time support folk who are doing their best to get me where I need to be. It's just not as...structured...as I would like. The most irritating part so far - other than how often I forget things I do know in the scramble to learn other things - is how my support people seem to think my freaking out is a normal part of the process. They all did it; therefore, it's completely normal.

No one should have to freak out as part of their job. I know it happens. I was a foster care case manager, after all. Had I freaked out a little earlier and more publicly, I wouldn't have had a nervous breakdown. However, it is my nature to limit the trauma of change, mostly because I find change so traumatizing.

It may be a difference in learning styles. I would never throw a child into a pool with the admonition "sink or swim." I would never drop someone off at the DMV for the first time and say "go pay your taxes." I wouldn't hand someone the phone and say "order a pizza" without showing them how. You know why? Because my student nature learns the wrong lessons. I don't learn "Hey, I can swim" or "Hey, I can survive the Portal to Hell" or "Hey, I can feed myself as long as I have cash or a credit card."

I learn "Hey, I can't ever trust that person again. They will frighten and abandon me because they don't care enough about me to show me what to do."

TT: If you followed the Lavender Squeak fiasco (still on-going, btw), you know this is the major issue I had with God. We've gotten past it, by His grace, but my nature hasn't changed.

I believe I will enjoy this job. I see a future where I'm competent and caught up and able to teach a successor how to do what I do with competence and efficiency.

I just wish that future didn't look so far away.

No Comparison

Been hearing some disturbing things in my writers' groups. Things like "it takes 10 books to get noticed and 30 books to get famous." Or something close. Shock shut me down for a little bit when I heard it.

That is one statistic I hadn't heard yet. 

I guess it's a good thing I don't want to be noticed or famous. Even assuming America exists long enough (which I don't believe it will), it would take me 60 years to produce 30 books at my current rate.

Did you hear the one about the grandfather clock? The little alarm clock asked how old it was and the grandfather clock began to explain just how many ticks it had ticked and the alarm clock blew a gasket just thinking about it. "How do you do it?" the alarm clock asks. "One tick at a time."

I can't afford to think about "30 books from now" or "10 books from now" or even "the next book." Well, maybe the next book. That gives me hope there will be a next book.

It really gets annoying when folks start rattling off all their "next book" ideas. Good on them, yes, for being all energetic, but I'm old and tired and my brain turns more toward spreadsheets than RPG maps these days.

Praise God the depression has loosed its hold, or I'd be eyeing the toaster oven and considering how the laptop might fit inside.

On a slightly brighter note, taking my recovered, non-lazy writing goals to heart led to a spurt of rewriting that has turned out pretty good. Instead of a polite "oh, how do you do, why, yes, we know the same people" boring scene, I now have a "whoa, sorry about kneeing you in the back, I guess that's a bit unfriendly since we're actually on the same side, huh?" scene. It was easier to write, too. If I really want to get excited, I should throw in some blood and head-lopping, but it might be a bit early in the relationship.

Happy Friday, everybody. Be safe. It's icy out there.

The Lure of Laziness

Going through some self-examination over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Too lazy to say more.

The End of Lavender Squeak?

Not quite yet, it seems.

For you who don't know, I bought a van. It went horribly, horribly wrong. I went briefly insane. I got better. Go back to Oct 4 and you can catch up if you really want to, but I wouldn't recommend it.

I found a used car dealer willing to trade in two vehicles for one. He found a used vehicle in my price and interest range. December 8 I traded in my trusty but dying Chuga (that's the Suzuki's name) and the bitterly disappointing Lavender Squeak and drove home a 2000 white Dodge Caravan that doesn't have an alarm system to screw me over.

TT: I haven't named it. I'll wait a month. I'm also not going to talk about it. I've gotten a little superstitious.

I didn't have the title for Squeak yet, which struck me as a bit odd, but they said it could be 45 days and we hadn't quite reached that limit. The salesman assured me they had done this before and it wouldn't be a problem.

The salesman called me last Friday to ask if I'd gotten the title yet. No. They hadn't, either, and they sold Squeak at a dealer auction that weekend (Dear God, let it please be for parts!).

He said I could go to Titles & Registration (one block from where I work) and pick up my title. Figuring this was one more way the Chrysler gods wanted to screw me over that van, I took some vacation time and walked the block to sit for an hour with butterflies eating their way through my stomach in anticipation of what would go wrong at this State agency only to find out my title hadn't been released at the county level yet and they couldn't help me. I would have to return to The Mouth of Hell, excuse me, the DMV Annex, and get them to push it through. Yes, I had to return to the same people who refused to help me twice previously and ask them to not help me again.

TT: Some of you are thinking, "Why didn't you call before you went? Wouldn't that be easier?" It would be easier, if the DMV ever answered their phone OR returned their messages OR even had a phone at The Annex, which as far I could see, they don't.

So I took more vacation time and drove to The Annex, where I met a lovely lady who had no idea who I was (or that I was barred from receiving any help at that location for whatever reason they arbitrarily assigned to me and me alone of the 100 other people there the two times and five and a half hours I was there). She took my paperwork and 15 minutes of my life and pushed the registration through.

Turns out I hadn't signed something. Really. Wonder when they were going to tell me that?

By the time that was done, I was out of time to return to Titles & Registration, so I went early Monday morning, only to find out it was mailed. Deep sigh. So, here I wait for the title to arrive so I can drive it over to the dealership. I'll probably get in an accident on the way.

I predict in six months' time, I will be sideswiped by the new owner of Lavender Squeak, destroying my newest vehicle completely, yet leaving Squeak mostly unharmed. Some paperwork flummox will list me as owner of both vehicles, and I will be fined for driving without insurance.

So be it. I'll turn it into a Japanese horror movie script. I wonder what Lavender Squeak sounds like in Japanese? 

Flickering Furby Fascination

Tuesday night I glance over at the TV and see a child hugging a Furby. My attention focuses. Furbies. Good. I'm curious about Furbies, so I'm glad I'm seeing a toy commercial featuring them. Except it isn't a toy commercial. It's a battery commercial.

Duracell batteries.

Furbies run on Duracell batteries? I knew they took batteries, but I thought they were like calculator batteries. Or cordless phone batteries, the ones with the little wire prongs on them. Or cell phone batteries you plug into your computer at night where they recharge and download software upgrades.

What kind of Artificial Intelligence runs on Duracell?

The toy kind, I guess.

This was the first moment I realized the Furby may not be everything I hope. If it runs on Duracell batteries, it isn't meant to last forever. It isn't meant to be an evolving friend and companion. It's just a bit of fake fur over plastic with a voice chip and plasma screen eyes possibly intended to keep Duracell in business.

Yes, you're thinking that's all it ever was, but I say it could be so much more. Hasbro is totally missing the boat on the adult Furby market.

Furby could keep my schedule for me, like the iPhone's new SIRI (is that how it's spelled?). Furby could be my alarm clock and contact address book. Furby could help me practice Spanish or harvest my Farmville farms when I can't get home on time. Furby could be a smoke/carbon monoxide detector. Furby could go to nursing homes and visit residents frightened of cats and dogs. Furby could come equipped with a camera and be able to answer my question, "Furby, what did the cats do today?" with video.

TT: No screen in the stomach, though. That's too close to Teletubby Land and those things creep me out way more than Furbies. Not sure why. They're very, very similar when I think about it.

Yes, all those things would take time and training of the Furby, but that's part of the fun. Taking a little alien owl-thing and making it a useful and beloved member of the family. 

The Duracell information really knocked the wind out of me but I'm pretty stubborn, so I decided to do more research.

I got hands-on with Furbies at Walmart (not too hands-on. They were in boxes). But I could feel the fur (very nice - no problem there) and look over the advertising text. Nothing too distressing other than the mildly threatening "you never know who your Furby will be." Does that mean it could turn out badly even if I'm nice, or good even if I'm mean to it? Is its personality set from Day One At Factory, or will nurture win out?

All the questions I had at the start.

So I'm conflicted. I want to test my mettle against this reportedly most irritating toy of all time and see who wins, but I'm afraid I will ultimately be disappointed, either because the win was too easy or just impossible. There's no point spending money on disappointment.

Thus, the Furby fascination flickers, attracting layers that say more about my obsessive nature than about Hasbro or Duracell.

Blog Meme: The Next Big Thing

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I didn't know what a "meme" (pronounced meem) is. I looked it up. Second definition according to Dictionary.com is "an idea or element of social behavior passed on through generations in a culture, esp. by imitation."

I can live with that.

Kat Heckenbach tagged me as part of a string of authors promoting their Next Big Thing, so I get to return the favor. I'm linking back to Kat's original post so you can check out her Next Big Thing and I am to tag 5 other authors to continue the madness.

1) What is the title of your next book/work?

Price of Justice. It started as Justice for All, but as the story grew darker, this title took over.

2) Where did the idea come from for the book/work?

My head? I wrote Star of Justice to stand alone, but it contains a lot of consequences with no clear reasons. Price of Justice offers some explanations for otherwise random occurrences in Caissa's life.

3) What genre does your book/work fall under?

Adult fantasy. The sword and sorcery kind, not the bow-chicka-bow-bow kind. Yes, I say that to people.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Merritt was easy. Rufus Sewell. He's got that rumpled sexy thing going on. I don't even mind his age. Although, thanks to some FB questioning, I have to admit, there's a little Mandy Patinkin/ Inigo Montoya in there. Of course, Kevin Kline totally nailed the character in French Kiss. Why don't I know any young actors?

Caissa was harder, but Ellen Page could do it. She can present that innocent but determined air Caissa exudes. Have you seen Inception? 

While Kate Beckinsale and Scarlett Johansson seem to have cornered the market on kick-ass females (and Kate has the advantage of an English accent), I choose Milla Jovovich for Raven. She can pull off grace, elegance, height and a 1000 yard stare just fine. The transformed parts would be CGI anyway, but she could do the stunts in a pinch. Yes, she's impressed me with her Resident Evil franchise and her apparent agelessness.

Gamaliel has always been Terence Stamp. Always. When you read his dialogue, hear William Harcourt from Alien Nation. I would do a cartwheel on Youtube if he agreed to read the audio version of Star of Justice. Whoa, I just got sweaty palms thinking about that.

Price of Justice has a newbie joining the group, Keirbannan Rossamathalid, who could be admirably played by Ali Larter. OK, Resident Evil may be influencing me too much, but I know she would work with Milla.

Rhami Harvarkoset remains uncast at the moment. Benedict Cumberbatch could do it if he were two feet shorter. Maybe trick camera angles if Peter Jackson directed? My other thought is Simon Helberg, aka Howard Wolowitz, looking especially Jewish in that head shot. He's got the size, nose and sex drive, but I don't know if he could overcome, you know, being Howard Wolowitz. Little Sister suggested Eric Stoltz, and while he doesn't physically fit the image, he has the acting chops to pull it off and he may need the work.

Dear Galena. Grace Jones set the standard for bald black barbarians in Conan the Destroyer, and I haven't seen anyone do it better. I could cop out and choose Gina Torres, who has the screen presence, but, frankly, I need a berserker. I saw a photo of a supermodel on FB earlier this year that had the look but bless my soul if I can find it now. I guess a casting call is in order.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

No good deed goes unpunished.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I have an indie publisher who seems interested.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Two years and counting.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

This is pretty standard epic fantasy fare.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The characters. Their lives go on after Star of Justice. My readers might want to know about that.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest? 

That isn't enough? Sheesh. What do you people want from me? Oooh! Somebody kisses Raven. You'll never guess who. Never. And I won't tell you you're right even if you do. 

Mwahahahahahaa! ehem.

I'll tag Keven Newsome, Katherine Coble, Fred Warren (not because he hasn't done it, but because he has and won't have to do it again), Cindy Koepp, and Kristen Stieffel. Get at it, boy and girls. I'll link to your actual posts once they're up. You have a week. Except for Fred, 'cause he's done it.

Furby Fascination

Is it just me or are eggs getting harder to crack? I swear, I've lost the ability to judge how hard I need to tap those little buggers against the counter. I'm either smashing them to pieces or ending up with eggshell in my food because I have to peel it like a boiled egg. Yes, I buy cage free brown eggs, but does that make that much difference in the shells?

This post is about Furbies, but I had to get that off my chest since I just washed egg off my hands and counter.

I've become fascinated with Furbies. I vaguely remember hearing about them when I was younger, mostly that college students were teaching them to swear, but I didn't want one.

Now that I'm older and, apparently stupider, I'm fighting the urge to get one.

It's the AI thing. Can I train a computer program? I've trained cats and dogs, so the answer is probably "yes," but I wouldn't know that until I tried. What if I get a bad one? What if it doesn't like me? What if they don't offer upgrades? What is the life expectancy of a Furby, barring accident or injury?

Do the ones made in 1998 still work? My computers from that time don't. Do they eat? Will it learn to sleep through the night? How do I discipline a Furby? Do timeouts work? Will it get along with my cats? Does it get jealous?

The Flash knew someone who had one and has since given it away. Apparently, she removed the batteries and it kept talking to her. That makes sense if you don't want to lose all the programming during a battery change, right? Hmm.

I don't need a Furby. I'm really hoping as is the way with all my severe interests this will fade if I resist for two weeks. But I kinda wish I knew someone who had one who would let me Furbysit. Except sitting with someone else's isn't the same as having my own. Then I think about starting a Furby rescue and rehabilitation, where I take abused and mistreated Furbies and retrain them into more productive members of households and find them new homes. Would that be possible?

Oh, the things that bother me.

Happy Monday.

A Random Post as Proof of Life

Yes, I'm alive. Things got a little hectic 'round here, and I remembered I'm supposed to be blogging sometime late last night.

The Irish Kiwi with a German Twist has come and gone. She really gets around for a flightless bird.

I've discovered Orange Leaf frozen yogurt. Not sure this is a good thing.

Rented my first car yesterday (job related). Now terrified of driving it into a retaining wall. I have that history, you know. It's a 2012 Ford Taurus, and I feel like I'm driving a coffin.

Got Lavender Squeak back from yet another mechanic who told me to cut my losses and run away. I am negotiating a double trade-in with a local used car dealer for a 2000 Dodge Caravan with 117K miles. CarComplaints reports no trouble with anti-theft devices on these vehicles; just a lot of transmission problems and engine rebuilds. I can live with that.

Learned all salads are not created equal. Who knew something green and fresh could so wrong so quickly? I ate it anyway, but the last few bites were all about willpower.

I can walk a mile in about 16 minutes. Pretty sure this is pathetic. However, my doctor says most of his patients don't even bother to try, so I get points for that. He also gave me a clean bill of health.

If you can avoid it, never be the next patient of a phlebotomist who just got a call from her son's school/social worker/principal. I'm thinking she left some needle in there because my arm still hurts from a week ago.

My To Be Read pile has reached staggering proportions. I need to stop picking up Kindle books on sale and start reading them. Here's hoping I grabbed good ones. My next read should be The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. It cost 8.99, which is officially the most I've paid for an ebook. Hope you're right, Kat.

Enjoying the Christmas music this year, although the Michael W. Smith one where's he got that choir is a little like the guys from Hee Haw joining the Boston Philharmonic. Love Michael W. Just sayin'.

That's enough. Happy Tuesday.

Chillin' with Logan's Run

Just a slice of a week with Grace Bridges over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Jump over and help us out, will ya?

Another Pleasant Surprise

Turns out the new commenter on my blog last week has a blog of her own and wasn't kidding about enjoying Star of Justice.

Remember how I said I wouldn't read my reviews? I meant it, not that I've been able to stick to that intention because people - coughGracecough- keep telling me about them.

So here's another review of Star of Justice that amazingly doesn't mention the off-color comments, extreme violence and slow opening. That's why I mention them now.

My favorite quote?

"It takes you to a world, shows you interesting questions and then gives you mind-blowing answers. And then gives you more answers that take your already-blown mind, throws the pieces up in the air and blows them again."

 Mwahahahahaha! ehem.

Anyway, Star of Justice as experienced by Katherine Coble.

Here's me reading her review.

Thanks, Katherine. You are my official favorite person of the week.

Now I have to go read her post about Twinkies and Magic Unicorn Sex 'cause who wouldn't? 

The Hawk and the Sparrow

The promised blog post.

Last week, I'm walking the stairwell in the parking garage, talking to God about the van.

"You're gonna have to show me what to do there, Lord. I continue in my cluelessness."

I look up and spy a dead male sparrow on the landing. I pause.

"You know, Lord, in some Native American cultures, that's a sign. Finding a dead animal is a negative response to whatever I was just thinking about. If I didn't know better, I'd say the universe is out to get me where that van is concerned."

I picked up the sparrow - yes, with my bare hands - and kept walking. I'm not leaving a corpse in the stairwell to pass four times a day until someone callously kicks it over the side and it ends up rotting in the basement level. Call me crazy, but I can't live with that.

Three more steps up and I hear rustling. Another bird is trapped between the stair rail and the giant windows that form two walls of the stairwell. This is a common occurrence. I've rescued four trapped sparrows and one bat since I started walking this parking garage.

"That's a pigeon. A brown pigeon. A brown pigeon with a sharp beak. Holy cow, that's a hawk!"

Now I know what happened to the sparrow.

The hawk is not happy to see me and its fluttering efforts redouble as it seeks a way out of its confinement.

Leaving the dead sparrow and my purse on the step, I pull on my winter gloves - yes, I put on gloves. Hawks have beaks that rip through flesh - and approached. I've grabbed a few birds in my time and this wasn't any different, other than the size (try to grab around the widest part of the breast with the wings folded to avoid injury to either of you). I had to turn him sideways to get him out of his tight spot.

Unlike the sparrows I've rescued, this hawk never took his eyes off me. He didn't blink. He didn't cry or snap his beak. He just glared, with a look remarkably similar to my cat Skuttle.

You look delicious, mama.

A few steps to open air allowed the hawk to fly away almost as soon as I opened my hands. I went back for my purse and the dead sparrow, who is now resting in peace in my front yard.

Does it mean anything? A hawk chases a sparrow into a parking garage stairwell window, killing its meal and trapping itself.

Have I been the hawk and the sparrow my issues with the van? Am I the sparrow who escaped the hawk of my problems by dying to self and letting God take me out of there? Is the sparrow the van and I should just bury it? So many possibilities.

I'm just grateful I was there to offer aid to both. A hawk shouldn't be trapped in a stairwell, and a sparrow shouldn't be left to mummify. That's as much meaning as I'm willing to ascribe for the moment.

Unorthodox Orthodoxy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Long Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday, dear readers.

Old Van, New Worldview and Douglas Adams

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

Read more about my search for answers over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

It's Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diluting the Drama

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

My brain is telling me something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday, dear readers.

Day Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thursday.