New Life

I love Spring. Had I married, I would have done it on the Vernal Equinox.

Just finished a Bible study series using The Life, by Bill and Anabel Gillham. Interesting stuff. My favorite Bible study leader loves the Gillhams, so I've seen samples of their videos previously, but this time we went through all of them.

Here's the nutshell:

The Fall broke the spiritual connection between man and God and plunged man into spiritual death. Christ's sacrifice restored the spiritual connection. When a man accepts Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come. Bill's favorite verse is Gal 2:20, and you can read that in the link.

OK. We become new. What does that mean? Why, then, do we continue to do what we do not want to do, like Paul laments in Romans 7?

Dr. Gillham, in his Oklahoma way, says we become "spirit critters" when we accept Christ but we remain in our "flesh suits." Our flesh suits have spent however many years being trained to act dead to Christ, because that's what we were, but our flesh doesn't control us. Christ indwells us through the Holy Spirit and Christ leads our mind and will.

Sin can attack from the outside, but it isn't in me anymore. Christ is in me. Christ leads my mind and will. Sometimes sin wins, because it uses first person singular pronouns when it attacks to make me think it's my idea, but my acceptance by Christ remains secure. I am His; He is mine.

That's just semantics, right? What difference does it make?

It's the difference between "good me" fighting "bad me" vs. sin trying to squeeze back into a space already fully occupied by a risen Christ. The war was won by Christ. The little battles are won by allowing Him to occupy my flesh suit and teach me to be the spirit critter He raised from the dead when I accepted His lordship.

Naturally, the videos go into far more depth, and provide the scriptural teachings and in-depth illustrations that bring the idea to life, but I thought I'd give you a taste since I may be writing more about it as I continue to ponder.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers, and Happy Spring. The old has gone. The new has come.

Dream a Little Dream

I awoke from a story dream this morning. One of those dreams that sort of makes sense, that has tension and characters and possibility for a writer. Hasn't happened to me in a looooong time.

Put my schedule off. First, because I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to see how it played out, which isn't easy to do with Focus on the Family interrupting on the alarm clock.

Second, because I had to write it down. I have to write it down. I'll absolutely forget the whole thing before I shower if I don't. Of course, I had to capture the feelings when I wrote it down. Details don't matter much in dreams, although some details make it fun. It's the feelings I'd convey later, should I play around with this subconscious plot attempt.

I started fleshing it out. What would this story look like? Who are these characters and why are they here? Should I stick with the reality of what I saw or go for some symbolism, which, let's face it, is what comprises most dreams? All kinds of choices.

Farmville got in the way (shocking). Kept having freezing issues with the program.

Thinking about this potential story got me thinking about Price of Justice, and Rhami's dilemma, and how easy it would be to solve. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Is that what I want to do, though? Is it good drama or real life? I should write a short story about how Rhami wed Galena. I could publish it in a collection with other backstory shorts set in Ah'rahk. What would I call my publishing company if I ever self-published? What would my publishing logo look like? Why can't I find anything to wear? Don't I know I have a meeting today with strangers? I have to look professional. I've got to get gas, too, maybe at lunch. The weatherman says snow is coming mid-week, and it will be the one-in-ten chance he's right if I don't put gas in the van.

Yep. That's how it goes sometimes, and that's why I'm glad I wrote it down.

Happy Tuesday. Sweet dreams.

Back To Work

If not posting is any indication, the vacation went well. For three days, bright, sunny weather called me out of bed at the crack of dawn and I hit the ground running until the sun ran out and the heat retreated south. Then I stayed in bed with the covers drawn over my head. Eh. I would have done that anyway most Saturdays.

The problem with vacations (and one reason I forget to take them) is the catching up required upon return to the daily grind. I'm curious about how many messages I'll have in my voice mail. My last day off garnered four.

The weather has turned mostly gloomy and cold again, and I'd much rather spend those days in the office anyway. I don't feel like I'm missing anything outside. I do hope the sun makes at least a brief appearance daily. This Turtle feels his absence. 

I did seed a patch of The Swamp, which sounds simple but required moving dirt from here to there with a shovel, hoe and rake while removing the snapped branches and churned up rocks that led to such despair last season. Ah, well. New year, new plan, new strength. God willing, the moisture will continue at a useful pace and I can put my Swamp in order.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Love God and love your neighbors, for all the commandments are summed up in these.

Vacation: Day One

I often forget to take vacation. I never go anywhere (on purpose) and I rarely do anything (on purpose), but I have learned I must get away from my daily job, whatever that is, no matter how much I like it or I become very, very cranky. Everybody needs a break. Even God.

God has provided (if the weatherman is to be believed) three beautiful weather days for my vacation. I intend to make good use of them in The Swamp. You might think March is a bit early for working in the garden, but last year I planted tomatoes in March and harvested in April. Of course, last year was weird.

This year has been more normal weather-wise, so I likely won't be planting, but the compost needs turning and dirt needs moving and dead plants need removing and ground needs preparing - all that sort of thing. Since I also need exercise and plenty of sunlight for mood enhancement, this should work well.

At the moment, I'm waiting for the plumber to replace the main shut off valve in my house. It isn't broken, technically, but it failed to perform to standard during last week's toilet valve replacement. I'd rather deal with it in controlled circumstances than wait for it to blow up on a holiday weekend and cost me time and a half plus the water bill.

I've discovered it's very easy to round up cats when you don't plan to do it. They can't anticipate what you don't know. Everyone but Caleb is in the guest room, and none of them are happy about it. They'll thank me when the scary man invades their basement hideaway and makes loud noises and bad smells. Or they won't. They're cats, after all.

I'll also be dropping off the tax stuff at the accountant's. Let's hope that all goes well, shall we?

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. The plumber arrives.

Random Tuesday

The honeymoon's over. I woke up 20 minutes before my alarm. I got up and broke a nail on my bedroom door frame. Here's hoping that's the worst that happens today and not an omen. My vacation starts tomorrow, so mostly, I just have to live through today.

Last night, I learned the best way to cook raw black beans is in a crock pot. Alas, I learned it too late to save the onion. I also spent two hours concocting a layered, meatless casserole that turned out to be bean dip. It tastes OK, and the black beans add crunch, but I'll need to rethink that idea.

I'm starting to feel like a cemetery auditor. Not sure exactly what that means, except when I get to work, I have a plan for the day, I execute the plan, and normal people react like I know what I'm doing. Doesn't mean I do, just means I'm fooling the masses. Maybe that's how it works in any job. I have learned the answer to nearly every question is "check the statute." Isn't that the answer to nearly every question anyway?

The cats continue to gain familiarity with the catwalks. Miss Kitty is up there 60% of the time, and the rest join her at various times throughout the day. I can't remember the descriptive phraseology, but cats have territories that relate to time. A cat may choose a sunny east window in the morning, move to a southern exposure in the afternoon and camp out on the vent in the evenings and he won't care that another cat has taken one of his spots after he vacates it. That's a good thing. The more spots I provide, the less chance they'll all want the same one at the same time. Except they're cats and that's how they roll. Anyway, Miss Kitty, Skamper and Skuttle have all played tag in 3D, so I'm getting value for my investment.

I will finish my taxes tonight. I don't care anymore if I get back everything I've got coming. I just want it done.

Farmville has added yet another farm - Atlantis. I'm sure Caprice is thrilled but it's officially too much. To keep morning play at the one hour I've allowed myself, I'll have to ignore 3 or 4 farms from now on, and stop harvesting most of my buildings. I may catch up on the weekends. I may not.

Since I've officially stopped paying attention to word count, I'm writing again. That's good.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Keep a nail file handy. You may need it.

That's It; I'm Fat

I love Daylight Savings Time (even if it is an example of government over-reach). This is the first time in two months I've slept in. Yes, I consider 5 AM sleeping in.

I'm hesitant to say the depression is over, but it sure seems over. I'll finish my second bottle of Saint John's Wort and give life a try on my own again. Same with the 5-HTP, although I might continue taking that one for another bottle. The problem with that is it works best on an empty stomach, and my stomach is almost never empty.

Which brings me to my point. I'm fat. Oh, not the "downward side of fame" actor fat, but more the "fourth season of prime time hit" fat, where the steady paycheck is assured and you don't have to look good for it (Have you watched Castle lately? Come on, Nathan, I expect more of you).

Those who know me in person may raise a skeptical eyebrow, but I assure you, a 5'9" frame and loose clothing hide a multitude of sins. I'm not seeing it in my face yet (just the sagging jowls and neck wrinkles of typical aging), but that will come. 

My clothes tell me I'm fat since I don't own a scale. Scales are liars. Don't trust them. Don't associate with them. Don't even let them in your house. A scale can make you think you're fat when you're not. A scale can make you think you're fit when you're not. Best to avoid them.

My problem, of course, is the age-old problem of many fat people: too much of the wrong food and too little exercise. I've managed my weight most of my life by choosing food wisely and limiting indulgences, but I suspect the age has come when that's not going to be enough. Exercise, my old enemy, must be engaged and harnessed if I have any hope to avoid the Marlon Brando trap.

I'm saying "fat," but odds are I'm just "over-weight" at this point. I was within acceptable limits at my physical in January, so my current state is doubtless too much wheat. This always happens when I consistently ignore my blood type diet. I've followed this diet for about 10 years and maintained my weight without difficulty by sticking to the "80/20" guideline, eating more "beneficial" foods than "avoids," and the barest minimum of exercise.

I have a health assessment coming up in early May. I plan to up my exercise quotient and lower my wheat intake over the next two months to see if I can get a better score than I did at the doctor's in January. Nice to have a goal.

If you know your blood type and have trouble with your health, you might just check out that website. It's done me a world of good at very little cost (I got the book used on Amazon). If you don't know your blood type, you can find out by giving blood. That's how I learned. 

Happy Monday, dear readers. Thank God for it. He likes that.

Pressure Cooker

P.A. Baines may have been born in South Africa and live in Holland, but I get where he's coming from. This post was cooking before his comment on yesterday's blog.

I don't like pressure. Never did. After my nervous breakdown, I like it even less, and in my utterly control freak way, I do everything in my power to avoid it.

Except getting published.

On the other hand, what most new authors don't understand is that first book rarely gets noticed. You're mostly writing to family and friends, and accidentally gather a fan or two. No problem. Not with the first book, anyway.

The pressure builds.

First, the expectation to write something else. For you younger, on fire writers, that's no problem. You're raring to go. (I've never written that before. Is that a colloquialism, or do normal people know what I mean?) The clock is ticking from the moment your book goes on sale. When's the next one coming out? What are you writing now? How much have you written? Gaargh!

Second, the expectation the next book will be at least as good as the first book. Should be better, really. I mean, you have all that practice under your belt. You've got it down.

Third, the expectation that you won't screw up the characters other people now love. Don't you dare kill so-and-so. Don't you dare ruin that happy ending I imagined. Don't you dare reveal that secret and spoil the magic.

If you manage to survive all these expectations and actually produce something that, by the grace of God, gets published and doesn't land you in the looney bin, you're expected to do it again. Only now the expectations are higher, because you met the last ones. It's like that Mario Bros. game where the cavern ceiling collapses on you for eternity.

There's no way out of this trap, except death. That's why Robert Jordan died, you know. Too much pressure. Watch out, Brandon Sanderson. You're next.

Happy Wednesday, anyway. The sun is shining, and that is always good.

I Just Felt Like Writing

You know that scene in Forrest Gump when he's been running for a while and a reporter asks him why and he says, "I just felt like running"? No one believes him, of course. Why would any intelligent person go through all that hardship and discomfort just because he felt like it? Only the people who know Forrest (maybe two? at this point) know why he's running.

When I was younger, I drew all the time. I have the sketchbooks to prove it. I was pretty good, if I do say so myself. Why did I stop? Because the feeling went out of my drawings. Somewhere in college, I stopped drawing emotion and started focusing on technique and the result was a taxidermist's dummy compared to a living bird. I can see it happening in the sketchbooks, and I could feel it happening inside me. So I stopped. I rarely pick up a pencil anymore because the result is disappointing.

Is writing the same thing for me? I couldn't stop myself from writing Star of Justice. If you'd tied my hands behind my back, I would have written with a pencil in my mouth. I finished Elementals, and it's as full of life and emotion as anything I drew in my teens, but it was a knock-down, drag-out to finish it.

Now... Now, it all feels dead and lifeless. The technique is OK, but I've lost the emotion. I look through all the story beginnings I wrote years ago and it's like thumbing through my sketchbooks.

Professional writers are all about the discipline, the outlining, the Butt In Chair that gets it done. Stop whining about your muse and study your character if you're stuck. Polish your technique. Focus on excellence. But if the result is a Frankenstein's monster parody of life, why bother?

I've been dragging Price of Justice along by the hair for two years. I'm half done, as far as I can tell, and I don't care whether or not I finish. The story mocks me with it's two-dimensionality; it's caricaturic nature. I just don't feel it.

I'm torn between giving up and pushing on. I don't care about making money or my name on a cover or a bestseller list. I care about a story I love. If I can't write that, I'm wasting my time.

Maybe I just felt like writing.

Angry Morning

Ever wake up angry? My eyes opened at 3:59 AM, and I knew the struggle had begun. The struggle to keep the day from being an angry day.

I hate waking up too early, because I can't go back to sleep. As the Earth tilts toward the sun, I'm waking earlier every day. When Daylight Savings Time starts this Saturday, I won't notice. I might even get an extra minute or two before the alarm goes off.

The sun was out Saturday and I didn't mind that sleep eluded me. I was busy, busy with chores. The sun vanished behind a film of clouds Sunday and I could barely drag myself out of bed. Still couldn't sleep, though. I could lie there with my burning eyes closed and wish I could sleep, but that was it. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be dreary and cold. I'm tired of dreary and cold, especially when I can't sleep through it.

Was it ever possible I slept through a night? It seems impossible.

My mouthpiece is part of it, I'm sure. I have an alignment later this month. Hopefully, that will help.

Everything else I want to write is just angry complaining, and I don't need to spread that around on a Monday. It's all illusion anyway. I have nothing to complain about, really. My life is great. It's just my mood that sucks this morning, and, by the grace of God, that will change for the better.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Enjoy what you can and let the rest go. It's just dragging you down.

Financial Squeeze

Been a while since I didn't have to get up early and shovel my driveway. At least, it feels like it's been a while.

Part of me wants to share minor life details, like Skamper is back on The Heights. Part of me wants to rant a bit about life. Part of me is hungry and wonders why the turkey sausage and eggs aren't cooking.

How are the rest of you surviving? I got a raise in September, have no debt except my mortgage and I'm just scraping by. At least, it feels like I'm just scraping by.

I use Quicken to keep track of my money, and by the time I schedule the necessities from gas, pet food, utilities, mortgage and tithing, I have nothing left over for groceries. I still need to file my taxes and this is the first year I wonder if I'll owe the government. That raise probably moved me to a new tax bracket.

I'm not complaining. I'm one of the very few Americans who's in a good financial situation. All the years of listening to Larry Burkett and Dave Ramsey, putting money aside, living (mostly) within my means, and a few providential circumstances mean I'm not frantic every second of every day wondering how I'm going to feed the cats. However, I know most people aren't like me, and I can't imagine how they're making ends meet. I guess they're not.

One thing I have learned listening to Dave is it's never too late to start managing money, and managing money always means managing yourself first.

I've fallen off the wagon plenty of times. I can be extremely frugal for a long time and then -wham!- I can't control myself any longer and buy supplies for a catwalk (I always have the money when I do it, but it means I might be tight somewhere else for a bit). I've learned to let off steam in little ways, like a Melted Snowball once a week, to avoid those big wonk-outs.

The emergency fund is also a lifesaver. A thousand dollars kept in reserve for when the unexpected creeps up, like a cavity where there was no cavity 6 months before. I can't plan for everything, and the emergency fund stops an emergency from becoming a crisis that will bury me. The trick with the emergency fund, though, is to replenish it whenever you use it, so you might be tight for a bit afterwards. Hey, at least you don't owe 17% interest on a credit card.

I'm praying for all of us, dear readers, but the solution is complicated. It involves changing yourself, changing the culture and changing the political climate that says the government should own everything, including you and your money. Prayer is the only way to change any of that.

Happy Thursday. God is generous, and He's waiting to bless You if you'll cast your burdens on Him.

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.