Greetings, you wonderful human! How are you? How have you been? To say I’ve been living a busy writing life is to gloss over details, and in order to post before midnight, I must.
To start, look at this gorgeous bit of mail. I mean, seriously, even if I didn’t have work inside here, I’d want to own this issue. It is stunning. Thank you to Kim Chinquee and everyone who works on Elm Leaves Journal for including me – which is an understatement since I’m part of the launch/eclipse festivities:
Can you believe that????
And, as if Kim wasn’t awesome enough, the poor thing relapsed with Covid and she offered me her VIP ticket to John Irving at Babel. I mean…
Thank you to Barbara Cole for facilitating the transfer and to everyone at Just Buffalo for all the amazing things they do. What an awesome experience after the pleasure of meeting Karen Schubert at Drop Hammer.
Not too far away. Thank goodness I stayed an extra day to write, think and relax and enjoy my view.
I’m busy with a rewrite and honing my first page and pitch. Seriously, it’s been fun, and a lot and I am so glad you stopped by. Sorry it’s a short but thank you for reading!
Hi. According to my camera roll, for the past two weeks, I’ve only existed in the past. On Valentine’s Day, I took pictures of the three roses Husband brought home for me – without prompting or any sort of reminder – but didn’t post them. Before that? No pictures since the last blog post.
If I have been there, in the past, I’ve resurfaced in more ways than one. Floating on my back today, the wind and rain mimicked an ocean. I looked down at my feet and saw the swirly black sands of a place in the Adirondacks where I dared to go swimming – or at least I walked in up to my knees. W, Husband’s twin, in a blue cap, sat back near the trees. Husband stood between us on the dry rippled sand. I was back with Vonnie on a past perfect pre–Y2K February day at the Atlantic. Seashells near the pier were mostly shards. Walking alone for a stretch, I felt the surging power on my legs, the grip. I imagined other beaches, mostly tan, but some pink, some white, and then I think I worked on my chakras.
Anyway, I started a course of acupuncture when I could no longer carry the weight I had on my shoulders.
The first session, I was anxious and apprehensive, but so willing to try anything for relief that I was willing to pay in cash for it until the new insurance sent out a “wellness card.” [Why yes, I DID meditation and Pilates and Yoga and STOP. My body, my choices and it worked.]
Of course it could be a placebo effect, true, but I had listened to a segment of People’s Pharmacy on NPR where a – white, I assume – man had discovered this network of membranes connecting the organs and tissues that no one had ever noticed before (eye roll emoji) and had written a paper and was ready to go to a conference when he finally talked to somebody else and – surprise- the wise man said, “Yeah, that’s the chi. Been telling you nit wit westerners for how long? But sure, you discovered it.”
And then I heard that – what I assume was a white – man admit how damned dumb he – and countless others were by wasting research grant money all because they wouldn’t listen – or hear – or try to understand what acupuncture was all about. Boom. There. Click, click. The tension in my back was from a chi blockage. I knew it. My fear of needles fell away and I made an appointment.
Today was the fourth session, and the first on my back. (I asked for people with a larger bra size than mine about spending 50 minutes uncomfortably, and Dr. Cara assured me she has a pillowy solution, so don’t let that detour you.) The shoulder pain had nearly disappeared after the second session. I’m continuing to address other issues and I’m keeping notes on the experiences, but I do want to mention that a few hours after the first time, I felt an actual shift. It was brief and intense, but so real. As if to bolster the truth of the feeling, the universe rearranged people’s schedules so now I’m not going alone to the Writers Conference of Northern Appalachia. The Bitchy Cheerleaders – novel critique group of yore – are all going to be there – knock on wood and pray for good weather. So, that’s what is going on with me. I hope you’re doing this well, too. Thank you for stopping by and for the read. (Oh – and I hope to share things to read with you soon. I’m writing. I’m editing. I’m submitting. I’m all sorts of shiny happy for my beta rock goddess, Rina Fosati. I feel wonderful and really hope you do, too.) Cheers and good tidings!
Proper preparation prevents poor performance. Those are the 5 P’s I remember from Due South. What I can’t seem to get through my head is that just because I can wait until the last minute to edit a story for a contest (which turned into a nearly complete rewrite) and scribble a blog, it’s better to leave myself some time in case things come up – and boy do they ever. My spirits and/or feelings are as high up as I can recall my January well-being ever being – including when I was a kid.
Part of it stems from a workshop I took recently. After attempting – yet failing— Nancy Stohlman’s Flash-A-Day challenge in November, she still graciously offered a discount on her class. I signed up for it and while some of the things I heard before, this time they clicked, and the one thing social media has taught us, clicks are good.
One major change is the quarters. I never thought to waver from the standard Jan-March, April-June, etc. separations but once I heard I could start in February – a whole lot made sense. I now have a notebook divided by goals by those quarters, by five years, by ten. It’s strange to thing how it has effected me – I feel alive.
Maybe it’s all about the control I feel in seeing where and when my time and energy gets divided. I’m currently setting up all the vet and doctor appointments so they are part of the plan. I’ve signed up for a conference and a seminar. Tomorrow begins the real test, but I feel both prepared and inspired.
Writing is a lot of work with no guarantee of a spit’s worth of minor acclaim or appreciation. Politics, baking, there are no sure bets on anything, but I now have a plan – and potential alternatives, and possibilities to pursue if those don’t pan out either.
I know – that’s a lot of optimism showing. Sorry. I can’t help it. I’ve gotten a lot of work done lately and it’s exciting. It probably sounds silly, but adding color has been extremely helpful; I am incentivized by pretty things and ease. Look at my new board. I’ll be pinning reminders for magazine openings to their proper months as reminders instead of using a desk calendar, you see.
Aren’t the lined up folders exciting? I’m telling you I know it might not last – but that’s the beauty of the new approach – every three months I’ll be checking in with the goals and adjusting as needed. Already it’s easing my stress. I wanted to finish the movie list. I knew it wouldn’t be finished by the end of this quarter, so I not only moved it, I gave myself 6 months to finish it because while I want it done, I also have other goals that matter more.
Like you. You matter more than a list.
In the flurry of all this rush to complete a bunch of tasks, I also took a class with Cheryl Pappas. Oh, it was good. Intense. I have three new ugly babies now. I’ll see them in a week. See that’s another goal I’m working on – patience. I don’t have a lot of hope for achieving that one, but it’s on the list, so I’ll give it a go.
Husband designed a better version of my favorite cutting board. Isn’t the new one pretty?
Well, I thank you for stopping by and for the read. I hope your January was at least half as good as mine if not three times better. Until next time, cheers!
31 December 2023 ~ 7:00p.m. as I type. It’s strange to be sitting here with a ton of gratitude and good cheer while heavy with inertia. Maybe it was all the decorating/package sending/cookie making/letter writing/card addressing, stamping, and mailing after accomplishing 50,000 words written in NaNoWriMo and nearly managing a flash a day on top of that just the month before. I apologize there’s not as much effort as I’d like to put in here present, but as someone wrote, “If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing crappily.” I can’t remember where I heard that line – and I’m sure it was said with more elegance and grace – but it’s been an idea I’ve paired with St. Francis of Assisi’s “Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible,” only to find it led to doing impossibly stupid things, so that is tiring me out, too.
(Off topic: Every time I write a breathless paragraph, I think of Kathy Fish. Maybe that’s how angels get their wings now.)(And really, it wasn’t that off topic. It’s A Wonderful Life has been playing in a loop all month.)(Talk about loopy, my thoughts go in circles sometimes. Do yours?)(Where was I? Oh. Right.)
With overnight company over the holiday, I had the chance to pull furniture out of the library, clean, and rearrange it. I hit upon a new configuration. That lasted a day or two before the shortcomings of orientating the mat one way and the chair in another reemerged. I switched it all back the way I had it this afternoon and noticed I should touch up the paint on the walls.
Pedestrian and predictable, isn’t it? Ruts…yet I dare say I feel a hint of hope about the upcoming new year. Maybe it’s the scent of a business idea or a political run. I don’t know what will happen next and neither do you, so in the meantime let me once again say thank you to the amazing readers and editors at these places who were wonderful enough to enjoy my work enough to share it:
I’m grateful to a long list of IRL people who made the year amazing, and I hope you’ll forgive my not naming your name and linking your page but I want to finish a book (reading) before midnight if I can, and chances are, you know who you are, including the awesome ones behind this:
I know, I probably owe you a letter/critique response/present that didn’t get packed, but it’ll have to wait. The gorilla on the bookcase is ready for a rockin’ eve and I’m off to finish reading a paltry tenth book for 2023. See you in the new year if we’re all lucky that way. Thank you for your love, your support, your kind words and likes if you gave them. Thank you for existing. Thank you stopping by and for the read.
Tuesday night, I finished reading Ann Patchett’s “Tom Lake.” Because it was in the library’s waiting pool, I had to read it within a week which was unfortunate as the book is filled with natural breaks. There are places where you want to slow down, close the book, and think about your own past, the meaning of family, heredity, legacy and what’s at stake once you start telling your stories. The narrator insists on starting at the genesis of her role as Emily in the play “Our Town.” She listened without watching the auditioners and discerned what didn’t work. She tried not to sound like the competition, won the role, and betrayed a good friend. The harsh judgement the narrator places upon herself for choices she made as a teen go a long way in sympathizing with the mother as she tells about other life choices she’s made while picking cherries in the orchard with her three daughters. Her daughters poke and prod, plead, and finally forgive themselves for getting their mother – and their father’s life before they were born – all wrong. It’s a lovely story where you’ll laugh, you’ll cry and if you’re like me, wonder why you can’t write like that. (Not that all writers should sound like Patchett – I hope you know what I mean.)
So, later to bed meant later to rise. My to-do list for Wednesday was long enough when I went to bed. I opened my email to find it was the last day to apply for a NYFA grant. (I swear – and it’s true – the closing date used to be in February so it wasn’t on my radar.) The to-do list lost meaning as I rushed to write an artist’s statement, synopsis, and a character list and got it submitted in time.
This month I’ve been shoveling words in a novel for NaNoWriMo and attempted to write a flash a day with Hot Pants prompts. I’m within a few hundred words of closing out the 50,000 towards the latest book and if I scramble, my last 6 flashes might be written in time so yes, cool, for being within the sight of the finishing line BUT for NYFA, I pulled out a section of The Function of Foam to use and ended up immersed in that claustrophobic attic with the bats and Frank. Switching back to Ina and Milac caused a bit of whiplash, but I’m sure it will pass.
In a slightly less rare occurrence, I left the house for literary adventures. It was a genuine pleasure to meet Lissa Marie Redmond. She came to the Comfort Zone as a guest speaker to the newly revamped Hamburg Writers Group – presided over by the talented MaryJean Zajac. There was a write-in for NanNoWriMo at the McKinley Mall Barnes & Noble. It was lovely to see John Bowers, a decent man and a ML to emulate. Thank you for including write-ins in the Southtowns!
I hemmed and hawed about going to Buffalo to see Sarah Freligh in the Drop Hammer Series which Kim Chinquee does an outstanding job of coordinating, advertising, and hosting. Omg, I’m glad I did. It was the best time. Part of the “problem” I’ve been facing with the new novel I’m feeding is the point of view. During Sarah’s reading and talk, that came up an it was so enlightening to be in an environment to discuss the gears of writing with a group of people. After, I was privileged enough to go out for drinks with her and Kim before Kim’s next class.
Gratitude is something I incorporate into my everyday life, but there is a pull to fuss over a Thanksgiving dinner so I did. I made cranberry sauce.
Now, because I enjoy making my gifts, I’ve started the baking, then cooling, then cutting, and wrapping endless mouthfuls of joy to share. Here’s one of at least 2 pans of dream bars I’ll be making, nearly ready for the oven.
My new temporary life as a baker awaits me the second I’m done with the insane amount of writing I’ve been doing. Thank you to Eric Bosse for the insight into sometimes 3 sitdowns at the keyboard for half an hour produce more than a solid sit for an hour and a half. Thank you to Rina Fosati for coming to Bluesky and commenting on the artists and artwork that strike her fancy to research. I’ve missed it. Hugs!
How are they already done and out of the oven? I hate it when time snaps my attention like that.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Please enjoy your day for all its worth!
Upstairs in the white room, the view shifts by the hour now. Leaves swell with color, wither, fall off in a symphony. Tomorrow is November. What a short year…which has dragged on forever. I started out the month strong in Kim Chinquee’s Zoetrope room. I managed three flash pieces that had a “there” there to them enough to post. I’m humbled and grateful to report Kim Chinquee accepted one of them, “No Object” for publication in Elm Leaves Journal’s upcoming Eclipse Issue. Thank you, Kim!
After that, the focus turned mainly to the approaching winter and accepting the reality that the modest list of projects we had every intention of getting done this summer would henceforth – most likely for the rest of winter – be abandoned. Obviously, that goes out the window with the next weather forecast, but the weather is unpredictable and my worry over not having the roof work done is growing. Why is insurance maddening? The claim is valid, it needs to be replaced, just pay for it like the sums of money flowed to you, let them flow back “good neighbor.” I may have the wrong jingle in my head, but still…
These were the decorations the cats and dog allowed to stay in place this year. Today, I pulled on a black sweater, dusted off the black witch hat, and wore my skeleton earrings to the library to pick up books. I haven’t finished Alexander Chee’s How to Write an Autobiographical Novel yet because I don’t want it to end. Yellowface by R. F. Kuang needs to be read in 7 days and Hilarie Burton Morgan’s Grimoire Girl looks promising. Reading blocks out the clatter of words in my head.
Most of the past few months, I’ve watched or heard battles. Characters speaking. Sometimes they insist I write it down, others scream and swear and vow to never talk to me ever ever again if I print the…Ow!
You see what I mean? The characters from the latest unfinished novel have been around, one quite surprising me by being alive as she was dead six months in the earlier draft. The sister I hadn’t gotten to yet has been quite vocal, too. I’ve signed up to start both NaNoWriMo and Nancy Stohlman’s Flash-A-Day. I hope to exhaust them and their stories, get them out of my head. So off I go to draw up a calendar to plot out the timeline and refresh myself on names in preparation for the part of being a writer I truly dread – the wring part.
When do you pull the plug? How many no’s can you take? How many animals and their disasters does it take to break a fragile person? These, and other mysteries, were being pondered here as I wrote on a Friday. The aversion therapy/consequences of favorite blankie taken away were not a success. The dog didn’t learn the lesson and got in the creek again. I could not stand the smell and I gave her a bath. By myself. In the bathtub I had cleaned the day before.
While I had the bathroom door shut, the cats chased each other and knocked an entire 32 oz tumbler of chilled water on my chair – and the shawl I was wearing and took off to wash the dog. I crated one cat, toweled up some of the water, told the dog it’d be best if she went into her cage – and she did. With two of the three pets locked up, I left. I walked, I pulled weeds and cried and tried to suck it up but ended up saying, Jesus Christ Good Lord and if you’re a Savior, please, can that be enough for today at least? I’m already weary, I’m already tired. I’m grappling with things my mom said to me that wouldn’t have come up if I hadn’t spoken with my stepmother recently.
Eventually, I calmed down. I extended the walk to the road and picked some milkweed pods a little early, but their shrinking appearance means it’s seeded up inside. I set those on a shelf, walked the garden, picked some tomatoes, assured myself it was ok, things were all sorts of wonk this year with those earlier fumes from Canada.
Inside, I uncaged the brats. I used my hair dryer to help dry the chair. I went outside to retrieve the drenched cushion I threw at some point and by the time – seconds – that took, the dog had gotten a drink of water, came to the chair and wiped its mouth twice, so two more deep wet spots were added to the ocean of wet before I can sit there again.
All of this occurred before I could start the one thing I was going to do which was write a “fan girl” blog post. Now, it’s Saturday evening and I’m editing my rendition of a woman at the end of her rope thinking about her mother.
It’s just that I am trying so damn hard already to keep all these plates that are mine spinning and then there’s another nine plates and I can stop two safely only to find three more popped up – no make that four. Did I mention I was already tired? When I’m not writing, the weight of my thoughts grows until I’m pregnant with a book – sometimes unwanted, lately the too-sickly-to survive kind, but like a real child, crossing my legs won’t work to stop its birth.
I had started Friday by reading Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s post about social anxiety. I was going to write a companion paragraph response about how being alone with one’s self is essential – but that was pre dog bath. She writes of how she’d come to recognize her previous social self was a front. Me, too, I wanted to say, but the opposite. I learned early on how I was supposed to act which was quiet, pretty, unobtrusive – be not me. It maddened me how my mother made light of everything, joked with everyone outside our home, but inside she was often dark. Now my social mask resembles hers and it unnerves me.
I’m on Bluesky now, though urged to whats app, which sounds too risqué somehow. Bluesky feels supportive, my Bestie is there now, plus, I watched a literary zine about crabs get born there so what’s not to love about that kind of social site where writers gather?
I’d like to give a shout out to Laurie Marshall, Hillary Leftwich, Margaret Elysia Garcia and Roberto Carlos Garcia. The second installment of Essentially Poetic Reading Series, a FlowerSong Press program for community building through poetry was a great event. I saw Laurie’s post on FB and wanted to support her – also Hillary, she and I have been soc friends/mutual follower forever it seems. They were fantastic, then I fell in love with the sharpness of Margaret’s poetry and the beauty in Robert’s. He said something about how the writing community is a small world, that we’re all in it. Thank god for that. It’s the writing community that holds me to earth.
Cheryl Pappas had a post about a workshop in January. I was lucky enough to land a spot so now I have something to look forward to in the darkest winter. It’s text based, too, which is a bonus.
Many thanks to star Kim Chinquee for her commitment to write a flash-a-day starting in October. I’m joining her in the challenge. One thing about her room is how 5 words can appear in radically different ways in other writer’s pieces. Cigars are not always cigars, sometimes they are cigarillos.
Nicole Hebdon is the new literary director in town and Melissa Goode has a book coming out soon. The richness continues with the prolific MaryJean Zajac restarting the Hamburg Writer’s group and Matt Boyle invited me to a participate in a play workshop. I missed the Comfort Zone’s latest monthly read-in, but hope to get back to it. Oh, there was a workshop with Ben Brindise and Jared J.B. Stone. Thanks guys! I hope to submit to Variety Pack soon. And I think it was through them that (don’t ask the click sequence) that I found The Failing Writers Podcast which led to my writing a complete flash – the first in I don’t know how long.
Without things like these – bright spots along an unsure way – I don’t know where I’d be, so please support other artists when you can. Spread their word; add your own.
I guess that’s more than enough for now. Thank you for stopping by, for the read, and to the texter who tried to help earlier. Cheers!
Hello to your part of the globe. It’s been a month full of movement here. Objects, shelves, and goals changed in interesting ways.
A FB reminder revealed that the cubby hadn’t been cleaned, sorted, or gone through since it was installed. If you’ve been here and seen the situation, you know how it was nearly impossible to reach some areas. Now, it looks like this – and there are shelves just for paint. It is a marvel it happened in a weekend, but it did.
Another weekend took us to Buffalo to watch Sabrina – Donna Hoke’s daughter – direct “The Way It Is,” an intense two-hander well done by the actors. Incredible women passed away and we attended their memorials this month. It also contained the real hurt that Husband’s twin is no longer on earth. Of course the idea is always there, that we’ll die, too, but in these recent times, we’ve been discussing and refining our own last path. (Nothing definite, other than cremation and certain cookies)
Speaking of paths, someone took the wrong one and well, let’s say if a puppy is a lot of work, one with bandages is more so. She’ll be fine, the vet (Thank you Dr. Spinks!) checked the stitches yesterday and the healing is going well.
Otherwise, it’s clean, clean, clean while I wait to find out if jury duty is in my future. Thanks for checking in. Sorry it’s such a brief post, but did I mention the puppy? May September be full of beauty and peace for you. Cheers!
It took me a long time to relax my vision into being able to see the pictures hidden in those 3D prints that were once popular. I haven’t seen one of those in years, but up in the white room, I try it with the knotty tree limbs stretching in the breeze. Other times, fairies appear and pose for a camera.
My eyes fight to stay awake as I type, a long month has preceded this long day. It started with Jillian Michael’s No More Trouble Zones on DVD and became no less physical all day. My current self is acting quite kindly to my future self, though. Dusting, organizing, semi-easy dinner choices for the rest of the week, oh my.
A fantastic group of students led by Matt Boyle put on 9 ten-minute plays – my “Dust Up on the Skyway” among them. The whole experience was enormously fun. I met them during table reads then attended both shows. I can’t thank my husband, Betty B., Jim and Julie, as well as Cat and Mike enough for coming out and supporting this endeavor, but thank you! And thank you to these amazing people who are younger than me in age, but not spirit.
Centifictionist, a great venue which appreciates and promotes its contributors, accepted a 50-word story I thought for sure would have at least gotten an honorable mention in a recent On the Premises mini contest, but didn’t. I really like “The Ride” and when it appears in the next issue, I hope you do, too.
Recently, we were graced with visits from a niece, a nephew, his wife, and a baby in two goes. First, we met an I-Don’t-Know-How-She-Does-It woman and her baby at Steelbound for lunch. The visit was short, but lovely. Also wonderful was meeting the couple from Montreal. They had a beautiful new blue Mustang and luckily it was eventually allowed over the border so we could dine and chat at J. P. Fitzgerald’s. Afterwards, Husband led them on a tour of the building, showing the changes he and the construction company he works for made to the structure.
The summer slips and slides. I’ve brought easel and canvas into the white room. Craft and technique books have been studied or skimmed. At Michael’s I bought brushes. With the house fairly clean, with my one precious life, I might paint or write a new play. If only new doggy wasn’t so needy.
Ah well, it’s getting better (I think) but puppies are a lot of work…and speaking of which, there goes the bell, signaling the need for door opening, so I’m off to escort her out, look at the stars, enjoy the full moon, and think about what I want to capture and how.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read! Cheers!
Would you believe I have the bulk of a new essay written because I don’t. I should, as I haven’t been writing and when I don’t write, ugly or awkward slits of my past open up, entice me to remember the good that was mixed in the bad and otherwise. I hate these occasional bursts of cnf and should delete them, but I don’t.
How are you? Is your writing/teaching/roofing/that thing you do like no one else going swimmingly well? The smoked up killer air returned to the area just after the rain. My week was all planned out with easily achievable goals to prep for completing a few projects over the holiday weekend that is upon us, but those plans were abandoned. I went to a table read in East Aurora though. I’m thrilled to have my ten-minute play be in the line up chosen by the young adults who will be doing the acting and directing. The summer theater program in East Aurora is called ProjectSTAGE and is preforming next weekend in the Roycroft campus. I’ll be there. Many thanks to Matt Boyle who is the saint running the program.
I have a poem coming out in Artemis in August, and last weekend, I had a flash included in the FlashFlood. The Lost and Found of Other Places had been tented out long ago – perhaps as a response to a prompt – but it lacked…something. I’d go back to it on occasion – as I do to other attempts – until I could give to it the hook, shine, and ending it needed. I rather like this one – the empathy at the end especially.
The puppy is still a puppy, but larger.
Though she could be a unicorn if she’d try a little harder.
And we’re getting a “new” mailbox soon.
It needs feet. I will post when it is installed. Until then, I thank you by for stopping by and for the read. Cheers!
This past weekend was full of activity but none of it related to our anniversary. A lot of things got done, but it was mostly dents in larger issues. Usually, the garden is a priority, but not this year. Only last night did I plant some tomato seedlings and lady bell peppers. This morning, only three disturbances were noted. A creature pulled up one tomato, one pepper, and pawed through the row of bean seeds. Every year, it’s a fight with critters and those hideous, slimy slugs.
The fallen tree was dissected and disappeared; now we wait on estimates. One company arrived this morning and took notes. I’m not sure if we’re getting more soon. Life goes on while we wait, life changes on rainy days when we go to the SPCA…
She is not an anniversary present as she came home the weekend before, but now she’s here and learning how to preform bodily functions outside. Meet our Janus-faced puppy who is not the mellowed out older dog we went in looking for, but, hey, a puppy’s exuberance at seeing you walk into a room is undeniably pull-you-into-the-moment magical.
Also magical – this white room.
As you can imagine, it took some work and the upkeep may involve a Husband repellent force field, but it’s like sitting in a tree house. Once we get screens for the windows, it will feel like it, too.
I’d love to chat with you more about nuance and not writing, hands as measuring cups, the buzz of no-mow May, and the synchronicity of the lawnmower’s wheel breaking the day before it ends, but there’s an endless list of tasks to complete. I’m keeping an eye out for flowers in bloom and stopping to watch butterflies. May you find time to do the same. And tip your servers well if you venture out to eat at Steelbound Brewery in Springville. Cheers!
I’ve been in the garden early this year. Today, the 29th of April as I write, Husband was able to fix the push mower’s cable and start it up. He mowed the small triangle patch near the road. The milkweed grows on one end. We checked; it hasn’t come up as of yet. When it does, we’ll fence it off.
The corner neighbors are on at least their second mow; we’re trying the “tickle method” of gardening this year. I have found great satisfaction in using the new claw tool to pull out roots that measure two feet or more. If they were deeper, I might resort to a pickax and use it as a Moby Dick metaphor in an essay, but I start those, let them peter out, stop writing my truth by starting to consider an audience. So how are you? Have you pulled weeds recently? Gotten dirt under your fingernails?
Another reason my essays wait to be written is because things come up – or in this instance, down. I went shopping on Friday with goals: Barnes and Noble to buy Alice Hoffman’s “Practical Magic” and cancel my “new and improved” membership before it began. Wegman’s for food, to check certain garden centers for flowers and Roma tomato plants, stop in at the leather shop. I did those things and came home to this:
It’s 7 feet 8 inches around to the left, 5 ft. 10 near the eye.
The way it came down was miraculous. The damage was limited. Since it happened when we were not here, we wonder if Whitney – a woodworker even in another realm – guided it down. We thank all the friends, relatives, spirits and deities involved in this predicament which isn’t exactly the greatest news, but also not the worst.
Reality has jarringly changed though. There’s a dragon eye staring at me as I prepare food in the kitchen. It distracts every time I see it. I sometimes thought spider webs would be reminders to get back to work on the Lettie novel. Before I left that afternoon, I was thinking of giving up on the current thing I’ve been working on. A reptilian tree knot stares at me in repudiation or encouragement – I can’t decide which and it never blinks as a tell, so I flounder for an answer.
What difference does what – or if – I write matter? At the end of the world or one’s life, is it more important to have read and learned, or produced? Are a million flashes the equivalent of one novel or three? If a poem by a no-name goes viral, does it cheapen an MFA degree? At what point do you write to the New Yorker inquiring about a story you sent in at the end of November? Yes, the auto-response says declare it dead after 90 days, but according to Duotrope it has taken longer. What is the point of the dream of being a writer if you don’t kid yourself into thinking fairy tales can come true and sometimes its in the form of how cottonwoods fall down with the maple tree working in tandem with the other smaller trees and roots to soften the blow to the roof which is a real life happily ever after story and that happened, so why not my story appearing in The New Yorker?
I blinked, losing the staring contest, but not the argument. So say I.
I’m on the cusp of having a print publication being launched soon and I am thrilled to be a part of The Jarnal. (Go to this link to listen to me read “The Thinnest of Veneers” which appeared in Milk Candy Review. MANY thanks to Jim Tuttle for doing an amazing job with the audio!)) And surprise of all surprises – I have an acceptance for a poem – during poetry month, which is quite cool. Thank you to Donnie Secreast & Adam Gnuse at Artemis Journal for accepting “The Rushed Meditation”
~ It’s a drizzly Sunday here and the roof isn’t leaking. The tree services have arrived and given us quotes. We’re off to the world of dealing with an insurance company and contractors. I should write a story where the experience is quick and painless and people smile the whole time work is being done on a house. It’d be fiction, of course. I haven’t read many people being happy about renovations and it’ll be years before it will be funny, or maybe that’s just my way of avoiding another novel being written in vain, one where butterflies turn into whales and burn up while sailing into the sun.
Cheers and Salute. Thanks for stopping by and for the read
On the recent nights of tolerable temps, winter damage is assessed while admiring the early flowers. The winds have been fancy terrible, and we’re thanking the ghost of Whitney that the damage was minimal. A huge chunk fell near the kitchen door, a pine cracked while the vehicle it would have hit wasn’t there. Once the worst was over, the blue ladder on the stack under the windows flipped over which is a puzzlement since there was no reason for it to and the ones beneath are not askew. Since it was his ladder, we attribute those nice saves to him and offer a clamor of applause. Thank you Whitney
Many congrats and thanks to Andrew Stancek. He’s written a lovely book which I intend to post about on Goodreads when I finish it. (Reviews are hard to write because they bring up anxiety not only from school but from the psycho hippo ballerina episode of Gilmore Girls.)
I’m still on pace with my submission total goals. Sending packets of five poems to four places that take over a year for the average response according to Duotrope does a lot of the heavy lifting for keeping 25 things out at all times. And soon, I’m freaking going see my story in print! Many thanks to Jim Tuttle for recording my micro that will be included in the roll out to The Jarnal. Some of you may even get a copy though I am behind on birthday cards and the newborn I bought a book for will probably be walking soon.
What I have been working on is the first few pages of new thing in order to enter competitions calling for the first 5000 words. I entered the two that close on the 31st of March and the 1st of April respectively. I believe the next one closes on the 6th of April which gives me plenty of time to polish the called for first 40 to 50 pages. The pages are written, but they do not shine like the first 20. The last call I’m interested in answering asks for the first 1250 words and those are honed so well, I’m happy to call them mine. I even have a synopsis done proving once again that every book I write is written a different way.
I’m sad to report that the whole mind/body/work output seems to be tied together. This morning I let Jillian Michaels torture me, then I did some ab work. Even as I was in the shower reminding myself that I could take today off and pull away from the story for a while, I came up with clever scenes.
Still, I’ll persist in this quest for rest. I’ve intentionally structured things to ease my stress and today’s dinner is warm-ups that will take 5 minutes. The laundry is done, so are the dishes. The floors are tolerable – new cat sheds more than I’m used to – so I have had to adjust to seeing some fur, otherwise I’d go mad hunting down and vacuuming up every tuft. Perhaps I’ll read, or stare at the wall, but it will start soon, and include this:
This tiny window of ease won’t last of course, and that’s okay because neither do the spring flowers, so I might as well enjoy them before the winter slinks back to cover them.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. It is appreciated.
On the 15th of February, I took a walk up the hill. The following day, I toured the beach in this picture. No snow either day. Balmy.
Today, grey cat woke me early. The trash can was knocked over and the recycling was scattered. I stopped at the end of the driveway to pick up what I could before the truck – at the crest of the hill – arrived. The man on the back mentioned it had been windy, and we waved as he pulled away. I picked up the rest of the farther flung cans, then drove to the post office with wet feet because I wore shoes to “pop into the post office” not chase yogurt cups through the wet yard. This is weather that tries a person’s soul.
Everything has been trying recently.
On the walk of the 15th, I witnessed the drama of a dead pine tree close up and raw. Most February’s are too cold or snowy to consider such a walk and that’s the way it should be, I think, to have spring buds surrounding you when you encounter dead friends.
Or to temper your anger upon finding evidence of a two-story building on our neighbor’s lot that is highly unlikely to have been issued a permit to be built. Why would they bother when “no one” can see it. What do they care about drainage issues or killing an animal’s habitat?
Ah well, at least – at this second in time – there is fruit.
Thank you if you went and read my story in Fictive Dream this month. Thank you for stopping by and for reading this, too.
What do you do when your goals conflict? You’ve asked yourself that before, haven’t you? As an activist, artist, acrobat, airplane designer, or by whatever term you use to describe yourself. (Human being the all-encompassing reality, but a) how generic and b) I shan’t digress…)
My 1st world, white woman problem is that I told myself and others that my goal this year was to have 25 submissions out at all times. As of the most recent, gorgeous, informative Sunday morning, I was down to seventeen. Twenty if I count the In-Progress or Received entries on Submittable, one of which will soon turn 7 years old. It’s getting a cake this year. I’ve already brought unicorn ear and horn birthday candles and a tub of chocolate frosting for the big day.
So, I have failed with that goal before the month is out. Part of me knows I can get right on that; sending out roughly ten submissions is not exactly easy, but it is doable. I scratch my ear and reason that if I averaged submissions like banks averaged daily balances, I’m probably still at 25 a day, but my calculator doesn’t know how to do that kind of math.
Inspired by Rory of Gilmore Girls which I’m binge watching again, I made a list. A mental one. (I wanted to go with “I went mental …on a list” but it isn’t that funny, I mean, it’s so unfunny, I’m explaining the idea of the unfunny joke I didn’t even tell – it’s that bad. It reminds me of the little skit Paris Geller the guy she ended up marrying did when they switched editorships.) (I’m not that far in the series yet, but it’s close.)
It wasn’t a list either, more an assessment of desires and priorities. Thoughtful reflection, long walks in the woods, meaningful deliberation. Psyche! I watched some TV and realized it didn’t matter if I did or did not have (or keep) 25 things out. If all my ready pieces were accepted at once then I’d be in a pickle, wouldn’t I? Yes, I do know that is called rationalization and I mixed it with a little wishful thinking, but you know what? I have had two acceptances this year already and I hope you’re half as excited as I am!
The wonderful, gracious, amazing Laura Black accepted one of my pieces forFictive Dream’s Flash Fiction February! It will go live on Saturday 4 February 2023 so check it out – as well as the rest of the month’s posts – some of the most interesting things I read all year are in this series. Be sure to especially check out Nina Fosati’s piece which comes out on the 24th!
On top of that, the amazing, gracious, wonderful Tara Campbell and Michael B. Tager of Mason Jar Press have also accepted a piece of mine. The original story was written back in ancient times and was titled “Two Wrens for a Farthing,” then “What Isn’t Silk” – which I kept when I sent it out recently. I reworked that thing laboriously, had the fantastic Nina Fosati look it over for nits, retitled it and sent it the first day of the submission window for The Jarnal. I am seriously thrilled it was accepted – and the suggested edits were minimal. (Such relief and happiness!) Now, secretly, I jump up and down every so often when I remember I’m going to be in this print anthology! I still can’t believe it. Occasionally, I squeal. It scares one cat, concerns the other. The Jarnal III : Transitions, edited by Tara Campbell with managing editor Michael B. Tager will be out in May.
So, I’ve got that going for me, holding up that rationalization, which led to another where I downgraded the goal into an aspiration; I do want to get back to it, and will, but right now, well… I’m working on a novel.
Do you know how loathe I am to speak such a thing – even if it’s only in my head, or now, on a screen? Lucy. Charlie Brown. Football. Here I go again, and I’m not sure I want to, but – knock on wood – so far it seems okay and therefore I’m full of doubt. What ifs cling to every dust mote in my undusted house. Breakfast dishes leer. If I clean the house my anxiety will go away, but perhaps that’s where a lot of stories go, dumped out in mop water, flushed down a tidy bowl.
In 22 days, I’ve written 26,000 words. Three betas test drove the first 20 pages and said, “Keep going.” (I went to that file to count days and it took all my strength to not to open it anew.) So, like Rory to Yale, I’m going somewhere I was not headed, though I was headed there all along.
As I mentioned in a cover letter recently, my experiment in being kinder to myself since November (if I miss deadlines or don’t bake well enough, etc.) has resulted in a lot of things being accomplished and in less time than I would have expected. I made a ton of baked goods this year and the Christmas cards went out in time-ish. My kitchen drawers are sorted. I’ve been editing and reading. I’m revamping my submitting system. I don’t know if this level of productivity will be maintained, but so far, I’m pleased.
I hope the holidays were great for you. There were several pivots here. While the blizzard ravaged Cheektowaga and Buffalo, here by the creek, we were fine. Six to ten inches of snow. We had no plans to travel, had previously stocked up for the grazing holiday, and so were grateful to find we didn’t need to leave the house for 5 days. Yes, parts were tense. That many days together nonstop is a lot when you’re both used to different routines. A few times, we all wanted to disappear into the gift paper but only one of us managed to camouflage.
Another pivot was to the past, but very much the present, with a visit by Moe-sippy – excuse me if I did not spell that right – a tall guitar man from Husband’s childhood that stuck. He’d written two new songs – one reggae, one rap. Not only did I get to hear his work in progress, but he’d brought a notebook he wrote when he was 17. Coming-of-age questions remain the same throughout the decades; I was reminded of having similar ones when I, too, left home at 17 and found out the world can be an awful place. But there are friends there, too, and possibly multiverses where you know them. (If you haven’t seen Everything, Everywhere, All At Once yet, you must.)
I’d expected to have written and posted something earlier this week, but here we are on New Year’s Eve. Soon I’ll be lighting a bayberry candle and choosing something to watch before the midnight countdown coverage. Box sets of Star Trek: The Next Generation and The Waltons arrived from the North Pole this year. I’ve lined up some movies mentioned in the chat of the latest Kathy Fish flash workshop by other amazing writers. Moe-sippy reiterated The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as a choice, I nattered on about The Prestige to him. The Manchurian Candidate and the remake came up; same with Total Recall. The Big Chill, and Easy Rider, too. So many movies to study, so many calls for work closing, so many deep breathes to take while remembering we’re all in this together.
I am happy to find you’ve read this far so I can wish you the best in the new year. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
Ever get to the point of wondering how many more bouts to go? How many times have I freaked and feared a creek after a rainstorm? How many nights did I go to bed with heavier fears as a child? It’s a grey day and the goldenrod shawl with white daisies over my shoulders barely puts a cheerful dent in the grey shirt I’m wearing. It is a glum-dreary Wednesday and though I put in 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo to officially “win,” it is not a book, and the end of this dedicated writing marathon is hitting especially hard. Does anything ever get easier?
A magic eight-ball somewhere answers, “Check again later.”
Tomorrow officially begins the old holiday scrimmage to do a million things in 24 days and hope I don’t forget to offer holiday cheer to someone. Fun! What will help, what has been helping, is reading the tenets, thoughts, and truisms I’ve written out on a page I see every day. Two of the most helpful have been, “Do what is necessary, then what is possible, and soon you will be doing the impossible,” and “If being mean to yourself worked, you’d be thin and rich. Try loving yourself instead.” The first one is especially helpful in clumps and spirals of self-doubt when I’m faced with an overlong list, and in December, there are many. Triaging my needs over my wants ends up saving time, too.
For Thanksgiving, I realized I didn’t “need” to make pie crust when I had premade in the freezer. I didn’t “need” to set a table properly, but I wanted to and it all worked out to look like this.
And talk about gratitude this year! I want to cry from the beauty of it all. Nina Fosati, Gloria Berlinghoff, Susan Tepper, Natalie Condor-Smith, Joni Kalinowski – all of you have touched me deeply with your kindness this month. I’m inept in expressing the gratefulness I feel for those kind words and gestures recently. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
And thank you for stopping by and for the read! I’m off to write the holiday letter, address envelopes, and make those cookies. Maybe I’ll even submit some work, too. Take care of you!
The hills are alive with red around here – or at least the leaves that insist to my senses to pay attention to them are the red oaks, sumacs, parts of the sweet gum, those little perfectly manicured bushes I drive by that beam. I swear some of them are full of pride, which is weird to think about, a bush with vanity, but it is a living thing. Unfurling leaves and petals in the spring are a vigorous horror fest of ugly green. Hostas are particularly creepy, reaching up to the sky like fingers from that hand thrust from the grave in Stephen King’s “Carrie.” Their alien, emerging shape insisting on an audience, too, so maybe it isn’t vanity but me assigning moral attributes and failings to things rarely thought of as having such things because I’m bored.
And I’m not bored, but avoiding some work. Mostly cleaning. Some plotting, some renaming, some rereading, some more horror films watched and then I think I’ll be ready for November. I’m considering going back to the “happy writing day board.” It was a paper calendar on the refrigerator where I wrote my word count each day. Stamps were put on the days I made my count or went over 1667 words. One time it was stickers. Husband could also look at it and praise or ask jokingly if he needed to put a lock on the library door because I was short. I don’t remember where or when (yes I do, part of the exercise/calorie counting insanity I am still prone to participate in because it is another control issue I rarely own up to) I learned that about myself – that visuals help with a goal. Yes, say it with me now, I am going to win NaNoWriMo. I have an “it” which rhymes with bit and that’s just the start of the story.
Another thing I know is that I should never talk about “it,” just write it, but it isn’t November and I crave that structure because it’s worked before so I’m here, binging on movies. It’s nearly Halloween so the basis for selection is “Does it sound scary?” and to me, “Wicker Park” sounded scary. It is not. It’s odd and I’ll need to watch it again – and I will because it’s shot in Chicago and you can tell that it is real snow in some of those shots. The Elisabeth Moss “Invisible Man” is great and lovely but I couldn’t help remembering “Sleeping with the Enemy” as I watched it. “The Hollow Man” remains 6 degrees of stupid. “What Lies Beneath” – plenty of scares, but so little sense. Who brings up a box thrown in the lake back to the house, where the potential killer is, to open it when you had the key and could have done it on the dock? And omg the creep factor of Harrison Ford and Michelle Pfeiffer to begin with, and then he says the line about her daughter and…just…I…was struck wordlessly gross. “Ghost Story” was bad, “A Quiet Place,” eh, and the standards of “Hocus Pocus,” “The Addams Family,” and “Beetlejuice” hold up. I don’t know what I’ll watch tonight, but probably two movies I’ve not watched before.
I’ve started quite a lot of essays spinning off the first one currently called, “A Taste of the Good Stuff.” For some reason, I’ve sent it off to what I know are not faceless editors, but there is still a distance. Should it ever get published, I’m not sure I want to share it with friends unless I regain some weight. It felt exactly like the slide down the scale opened up a view of another time I was not expecting to visit. And it was a rotten thing and I wrote about it. I know part of it wasn’t my fault, but part of it was. A choice I made because I thought I had to and now I wonder why. I don’t like writing cnf since it exposes me harshly – at least in my own mind. It shows I’m such a moronic person, full of vanity and pride so afraid of what others would think of me, I want to turn into a tree. Or a bush that resembles a warm flame when its leaves turn. Better yet, a hosta planted on a dark hillside under tamaracks and walnut trees.
~~*~~
Until we meet again, I wish you good health and joy. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
Exhausted by our weekend chore list before it has even been written, I walked out to the overflow woodpile for the picture before sitting down to write this. Inspired, I know. There are pictures on the camera of a tree that was obliterated by lightening. Last Monday I’d heard the tremendous crack and waited, but nothing fell and the electric stayed on. After our neighbor returned from a trip, he found parts of an 80-foot pine on his hill. Some chunks were longer and thicker than humans, strewn all over up there. Something ripped through a piece of ¾ inch plywood. I did consider downloading the pictures I took up there when he showed us, but the dishes needed to be done.
Not much later, I noticed the fluorescent orange sky, finished up, and stepped outside. I leaned back against the church door and took in the pleasant crisp air, the beauty, and I wept with gratitude instead of running for my phone or the camera. It’s weird to be swept up by natural beauty in that it isn’t weird at all.
The furniture is arranged in an unusual pattern and a generalized straightening up is in progress. Somewhere I started an essay about how reading “How to Keep House While Drowning” by K C Davis awakened other self-help books I’ve read about tidying and organized and unleashed a monster of neat in me, but I’ve been too busy rearranging Husband’s workshop to finish it. I did finish Sheila Heiti’s, “How Should a Person Be?” but it took forever because I loved it and did not want it to end. I’m currently enjoying Omolola Ijeoma Ogunyemi’s, “Jollof Rice and Other Revolutions.”
The month has been filled with the normal abundance of things to do before winter as well as some much needed in person visits. Thank you all who I’ve seen and congrats to Kim Chinquee on her forthcoming book, Pipette. Online, I attended a reading and this Christmas gift from Nephew in Oregon (Thank you Michael!) has been deemed the bearer of workshop notes and exercises. The first entry is from Kathy Fish’s 3 in 90.
I was pleased to have a story of mine make the long list in Pigeon Review’s contest, but that’s as far as it went. Once the house is a bit more under control, I plan to tweak it with lines I’ve thought of since the last rewrite. And rewriting might be what I do forever because I can’t figure out a frame for another novel nor a reason to write one what with the way the world is falling apart at the seams. How else do you explain my face on local TV for no other reason than showing up at a meeting? And yes, I do have that segment DVRed and plan to transfer it to a jpeg to post online but, you know, time…
I was asked to look over a story for someone and they also sought writing advice to follow. I gave him the usual places to look:
‘Immediate Fiction” by Jerry Cleaver
“The Art of Fiction” by John Gardner
“Writing Down to the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg
“Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott
I have many others, but it’s these four that I gravitate to time and again. I also suggested picking up any of the “Best ______ of the Year.” Myself, I’ve delved into the angry-yelly, no nonsense, shut up and write book “Robert’s Rules of Writing,” by Robert Masello. Maybe it will spark something other than the urge to pick up a different book.
Well, it’s September’s end tonight. I have a fire to tend to, beasts to pick up after, and a chore list to construct. I hope you are well. I hope you are safe. Thank you for stopping by and for the read.
Are you a bit edgy, excited but apprehensive, feeling yourself wanting to stand tall and say, “Let’s do this.” If so, it may be your season change alert signal going off. Loud little sucker, isn’t it?
Every year I replenish my notebooks and consider adding new desk supplies to my already adequate supply. It takes a long time to realize it isn’t the cost of the equipment, but the dedication to use that should weigh on investments. I have enough beautiful, lush, gorgeous to touch notebooks I never write in – the 70 page college rule notebooks are my go to.
As I sit here in my extremely stripped down office space, I consider the tweaks I want to make for my comfort – and pet interference reduction capabilities. I don’t recall the impetus for the tear down of all the notes, pictures, postcards that had surrounded me, but the lack of clutter now is noticeable and appreciated. Is it affecting my writing? Perhaps. I recently took an old 1600 word story down to 890 words and sent it out. Before that, I expanded a less than 500 flash into a ten-minute play.
I’m looking around and finding it a bit hard to believe I’m as organized as I am now. I really wanted it to be this way, and I made it come true. It’s teeny tiny moments of forcing myself to stop and appreciate how my hard work has paid off that make me say “Yes, but.” It’s the same feeling when I’ve written, published, or won something. “Yes, but.” It’s hard to be alive when nothing is good enough.
No matter. We’re all on our own journeys and apparently this is mine. I meant to take more pictures, but I did the whole scrape, scrub, scour, and paint with the beautiful parlor stove…
… and Husband assembled it in time for our shindig.
Thank you amazing people for stopping by. It made my whole soul happy to share the evening with you…
Adding to the abundance of those good things – my critique group exchanged emails this morning. So, as I’m saying goodbye to August, I want you to know that you are pretty great as is. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! You are awesome and you know it. Ciao!
I’ve decided to find it hilarious that I must have thought out 5 different blog posts this month – with interesting titles – but don’t remember one as I start this post, mid-summer afternoon on the last day of July.
Wood has been an interesting adventure this year. Normally, the last of the wood is being put up in September, just when we need to rearrange the house and stack a partial wall of wood near the stove. Instead, the woodshed is as full of wood as we usually have for a season and no end in sight to the pile. I am grateful for the dilemma.
I’m also incredibly grateful for the amazing generosity of fantastic friends. C and Nina Fosati dropped of a stove and this is the part that goes on top.
Isn’t it fancy? I’m a sanding fool, dancing between restoration and good enough. We’ll be painting it in a manner pleasing to the eye and the environment of the patio upon which it will stand. I’m excited and it’s a boring chore with a vast reward, so I really do find it a cheery endeavor.
Part of my quest to live in a better world involves more color. I painted the awful blue chair – loot a thief left behind – to something less ugly.
This is my first Thistle design and in person, it does not look this boring. (I was working with flaws in the wood to tell a tale of how I see plants not coping in the conditions they once thrived in.)
Work on the back of the house stalled as paint had to be hunted down and then someone sold one of the four we ordered so hopefully it will be enough.
Omg! The lack of intelligence like that in customer service has recently been wild. I’m especially singling out the “new” girl at Citizens Bank in the Springville Tops. Ffs, I was paying a little extra on two credit cards. She asked how I wanted my change. I was like what? She only applied the amount due to the account, not the amount I wrote on the slip I was playing with. I asked why she’d changed the amount and she snapped back that she had not changed it. She started over, finally got it right. As I was leaving, I said, “You did change the amount. At least own what you did.” I mean seriously, it was a mistake, but to be so snitty about it? Maybe she needs to explore a less public vocation. Tax preparer, maybe? Perhaps a mortician?
The computer problems I’m having are deflating my gusto toward the written word – reading, writing, editing. As with the wood, I will remind myself that I don’t need to fix everything all at once, just take one breathe at a time. I snagged this guy to help remind me.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. I hope your home and world are stable. The weather I’ve heard about/seen clips of from where friends and family live overwhelms me. I am thinking about you and hoping to hear you’re safe. Sending love and comfort to those reading who need it. Take care of you!
On a Tuesday that feels like a Monday it is also two other things. One is having been married for 22 years. I suppose we could have exchanged a card (me) and a rose (him) but it was a hot holiday weekend and we didn’t put up the roof of the writing camp I use in summer. It’s just a 10 X 10 screened in “tent” where I have some chance of being outside in the fresh air without the bugs savaging my blood vessels, but it has become a thing. We fight when we put it up. Scream, bitch, mutter under our breaths. Throw things – not at each other – there are always branches you’d rather move than work around. It always seemed a test of if we’d survive another year. Not doing it has me feeling forlorn.
Everything has extra meaning or no meaning right now. It’s a fall, gravity tugging while the air is as heavy as molasses and you swear again, you’ve done this before, heard the same things and the anger from before is still there and now there is some in every damned place. Maybe not you, but me.
I’m mad that women and trans aren’t respected enough to be considered whole. They aren’t “adult enough” to make decisions about their own bodies – not ones they’ve bought on credit – but ones they’ve lived in since birth. But 18 year-old-boys can rape and pillage and shoot the unaborted children with hollow points when they are in class learning about presidents and founding fathers but ignoring the part that those white men owned slaves and that they beat them. If they don’t learn about it, they also don’t learn slavery is wrong.
When some white jihadist with a shady bankroll starts spouting off about “owning the libs,” by doing shitty things I know it’s untrue. They don’t want to own the libs. If they were honest, they’d tell you they want to own slaves again. They want to beat and manhandle and be awful to other living creatures with no repercussions. They want to go to all white churches and be soothed with twisted biblical verses to serve their purposes. They do not weep and think Jesus was born in the wrong Testament. It’s not a mental health issue, it’s a caveman attitude and we all know cavemen have no souls.
Everyone wants to rule the world, but there are too many people on the planet to even have 15 seconds of fame so these infantile minds fall into white “supremacy” and shoot to eliminate those they have convinced themselves are beneath them. And so far, America has let them.
I am so angry about so many things and I didn’t get to vent some of that out by putting up the tent roof. Sorry, but you chose to listen.
Thank you for stopping by. Stay safe while you go off to school/work/a graduation party/the grocery store/church. I hear no guns are allowed at NRA events…
I’m taking time to admire flowers wherever I find them and I hope you do, too.
The house is tidy, organized. It’s been a massive undertaking, this year’s “spring-cleaning.”
I no longer remember the specific impetus that led to the first bit of sorting. I know I was quite sick of the mess my office had become. We’d move things in here to get them out of the way when we had visitors, and not everything made its way back to where it had come from and so I was living in close proximity to a lot of clutter. I didn’t like it, but we were storing somethings and even when those things left, I didn’t immediately do a tear down/clean out.
I know an Apex discussion a few months ago made me consider the fact that I’ll probably never publish a book traditionally, and even if I did, well, what then? The “what then” was that I wanted to live in a cleaner and more organized house. I mean, if this is it – the best it will ever be and I never write or publish again – then I’m kind of okay with my life ending up here (except for the wasting of my whole life on literature.)
One of the silly little motivational quips I have taped to my office computer says, “What you are not changing, you are choosing,” so I’ve been choosing to improve my conditions.
Life doesn’t offer a lot of choice in some matters though. We had to say goodbye to Kobi and it sucked to lose my sidekick, but he had cancer in his lungs and even if I were able to afford chemo for him, I don’t think I could put him through that. I know – supposedly – there are new options for cancer treatments but…
I haven’t picked him up yet – his ashes. That seems too final yet.
Our remaining cat made it known that a pet sibling was important, so today – weirdly enough Cat Adoption Day – I went to the Ten Lives Club. (They are a no-kill shelter, so if you’re feeling generous, they have a wish list here.) “Freddy” is acclimating now – though we’re definitely changing that name. This is what he looks like:
It’s not the same as a dog, but I need time to mourn, too.
Creative writing hasn’t happened in a long while, though I have written letters. I’m sorry if I owe you one and you haven’t received it yet. You are very likely on the list.
Until next time (or your letter arrives) I want to thank you for stopping by and for reading.
How are you? I hope this post finds you well and your problems solvable. To be honest, I can’t recall if Mundania ever struck before, but there I was, sitting on a toadstool when I noticed my feet were getting wet. I swam to the waterfall and tried to reach the diverter but I lost my grasp and fell into a never-ending chasm called real life. Don’t you hate when that happens to you?
If you’re interested in the boring version: Earlier I was sitting on a wooden stool beside a file cabinet, tabbing the folders with large letters written in magic marker on crisp white paper when I realized the washing machine should have been done by then. I walked into the bathroom and noticed the water like a crime scene. I saw the pool of liquid and marveled at how hard I must have hit something to have made the copper leak. Eventually, my attention was pulled to the larger pool and the true source of the problem. I shut off the washer, but I couldn’t reach to unplug it. I shut the water off. I cleared everything I saw as a possible hindrance. I pulled out a measuring cup and began filling a bucket. As I was filling the bucket a second time, I thought about getting some towels to sop up the water I was standing in. As if there was some cosmic joke running around on the loose, I felt a tingle in my ankle. I don’t think I was shocked, just my sense of self trying to highlight the whole “you are standing in water in front of a machine that might be suffering an electric problem,” shouting to be noticed. I looked to the electric panel, but it’s a 50/50 toss up on which switch to pull. I cleared a path to that closet for Husband to figure out when he arrives home.
(As I jot this, I’m still waiting.)
Sorry for no interesting pictures. I didn’t think to photograph the bouquets recently. I bought three and washed windows. I forgot a lot about how to host, but also remembered arcane things. In pulling away from what it turns out were contrivances, I do feel quieter and very in tune to the futility of all the things that I think are major in life – but in pursuing those, I ended up where I wanted to be. I think. Maybe. Does that make any sense?
And attuned, I’ve been. I have a “master list” of things I want to “get done” and have put off some tasks. One was taking care of the sleeping bags. It turned out that I was glad I didn’t force the issue because they were used for a makeshift bed for someone. Likewise, there has been a hesitancy to clean/clear the shelves above the washing machine and now this has occurred.
That sounds like a rationalization for procrastination, doesn’t it? Perhaps they are magic words that cast a spell and when someone says they will do something tomorrow, there will be a tomorrow – otherwise the guy doesn’t ride out on his chariot or there’s a minor tremor and Sisyphus catches a break. Who knows how the world works when myth or quantum physics enter the conversation? And look, Mr. Quantum Physics is wearing that damn green felt hat with the long brown feather again even though several variations of this entity know exactly how much I hate that thing…
Oh! Two deadlines just walked in draped in grey lace. I have to return to my toadstool now. Take care of you and know that you matter to me somehow.
The sun is shining brightly on a 19 degree Fahrenheit afternoon. Thick snow covers the ground. This “warmer” weather compresses it while it grows dirty with debris. Woodpeckers make a terrible mess. They’ve been around, same with the cardinals. I’ve already seen buds on some trees.
It’s much warmer inside, of course, where I am writing. I recovered from the trip in most respects, but I did enjoy a lot of lovely food in Massachusetts. I only have myself to blame for those extra exercise workouts I’m doing, but I’m nearly back to where I’d been in December so yeah! A little less self-loathing going on always helps, doesn’t it?
As a matter of preference or perceived talent lying elsewhere, I don’t write many short stories. There was a call for contest. I had a few sentences about a bird that I had abandoned, possibly because it was refusing to be a flash and I didn’t think it had novel potential. I pulled up the story start after getting home and it felt weirdly like a trance. I was “in” the story but I kept getting in my own way. I wrote so much more than what was required. I refuse to look back at those extra thousands of words because I don’t want to find a novel. I’m not that in to the bird. But it’s done, Nina Fosati graciously reviewed it and gave me her top line comments – and this is unheard of – I let the story sit for 5 days before returning to correct the flagrant mistakes. Last night I made Kindle read it to me twice. It might be ready to fly soon.
This month has been incredible with art, artists, and friends among them. The talented Gina Detwiler was back in town and we were able to return to one of our writing haunts to catch up. It was good to sit upstairs in Spot Coffee again. There was an unexpected letter. I watched Apex’s Snap Judgement #3 and gained some insight on what those editors were looking for in their slush. The lovely Nina Fosati let me visit for friendship, love, and hope. I and SO many other people in the writing community took a Kathy Fish “Lessons from the Sandbox”class.
On Friday, I was able to take a “Finding Your Writing Groove” class with Jerry Gordon. I’m pondering a lot of things in my life right now, not necessarily from the class, but it pinpointed several things I needed to hear at the right time and in the right order to “hear” them…if that makes sense. The day after that, we went to see live theater. It was a series of 8 one-act plays. In back of us was a person I took a play writing class with and across the aisle were two Buffalo artists I know from Facebook but met at Donna Hoke’s Christmas Potluck. Funny how everyone is connected…
So, like I inferred, I’m looking forward, looking back, and looking at the carnage around me. (I didn’t mean the “two-faced, deceitful” definition of Janus.) It’s a contemplative mood so, I’m off to enjoy that. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
By God’s (or some equally helpful entity in the universe’s) grace, (or one of my best friends in the world sending protective energy,) I traveled over the holiday and I’m back in one piece. It was the first place anywhere I’ve gone to (and stayed overnight) in many years. Not that I’m a big traveler. I thought I could be once, but instead I travel through the world by reading books.
While at Niece and Nephew-in-law’s beautiful and spacious new home, I finished “The Secret Lives of Church Ladies” by Deesha Philyaw. Fantastic collection. I really loved it. I read “Killing Krause” by Lissa Marie Redmond and I wasn’t enthralled with it. I have no memory of where that book came from either. I picked up Gail Tsukiyama’s “The Language of Threads” and enjoyed its quiet beauty but put it down, not being something I could read and follow a conversation with at the same time. From my book bag, I plucked “The Weird Sisters” by Eleanor Brown and all I could think was, “Where have you been all my life?” I’m afraid to finish it. What if the end disappoints? What a pretty problem to have!
While away, I didn’t have time to worry or think about the normal things I fret over. I won’t say they left me, but I missed having them. If that makes any sense.
Before leaving I pulled up some old writing in a couple of old journals and in those pages I was able to laugh at the cyclical nature of some things, some people in my life and how we can age but not change. I’m TRYING to accept that about other’s too, but alas…It was quite difficult to think that way the last night in Massachusetts, but then again, aren’t all family gatherings fraught with some level of drama?
Some – what an adjective! Particular but unspecified. I may be writing about you. I may be writing about the anonymous family blow out at the service station along the way. About something Husband said. About this story idea that may have occurred to me while sitting around a familiar table with familiar people…
My reflections and your experience will vary and it is strange that anything is possible. I didn’t think things that happened this year would occur, but they did. Not all good, not all bad, but some were downright unexpected and lovely.
Goodness, it was some year, wasn’t it? I bid you adieu until the new one.
Is there is a line between what is a rule at your house and what is tradition? One tradition/rule we have is sitting down at Thanksgiving. Tablecloth, stemware, turkey, hassellbacked sweet potato with butter and brown sugar cooked in tinfoil, green bean casserole from a box, mashed potatoes, pecan pie, white wine. I hadn’t planned to stop at the liquor store the day before Thanksgiving. I hadn’t planned on going to any store at all that day, but ended up needing to get cash for the groomers. The bank – in the grocery store – IS the closest ATM.
I wanted a red for that night’s dinner; we’ve had a bottle of cheap champagne forever and thought we’d open that for Thanksgiving dinner, but walking down the local wine section, I saw this label:
Table white. On sale. Sold. Only later did I see this and thought, “Okay. Let’s giddy up and go.”
My November led into the brambles of fancy terribleness which made me hate having feelings for swaths of time because they were hurt so much. The ghastly lack of ethics in the local school district flabbergasts me. It doesn’t seem to matter to anyone either, that these politicians are so slimy. And their lies. You cannot convince me they are human. (I do have more on this subject, but the hour is closing in on so many opportunities for yeses, so I‘m curtailing a rant for now in order to shine up some stories to submit before the 30 November deadline.)
Speaking of stories…I am honored to have Like A Mango-Basil Smoothie up at Sledgehammer Lit thanks to J. Archer Avary and his incredible team. It’s sans audio, but as I alluded to, this month has been hell. I chatted briefly with Hilary this morning while she was doing a thorough house inspection. She had a similar dark spot in her month. I didn’t mention this to her, but I say the lunar eclipse during the Beaver Moon – a concurrent event not witnessed in some 512 years or so had to have had something to do with the state of the way things are. So say I, writer of this blog…the one who would like to think the chaos of this month with all the ups, downs, and slap-me-sillies happened for a reason. I mean seriously, one might just as well shame midnight and blame the moon.
This is the first “real” snow of the season. I guess we could blame climate change, too.
I’m so grateful that this little one shared some time with me.
Oh, that face! No, sorry, I still don’t know what happened. No, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Trashzina took a hit out on a kitten, that lizard woman has shown no evidence of owning a heart. The veterinarian hasn’t called with results from the lung biopsy. Yes, it’s been a while but if a lab is shorthanded, as a pet owner, I’d prefer they deal with tests that could extend the life of a still-alive pet such as this one.
(No, we did not get a new cat. This is a picture of our cat from two years ago)
Or this one posing for a before and after a visit with Dana at Paw Spa.
I’d started the month fully expecting to work out some scenes and get to know new characters and places during NaNoWriMo. I was also going to write a flash a day. Instead, I have a few thousand words and about 20 flashes – most in need of a severe edit. But, I wrote. I took a Tommy Dean workshop from Pioneer Valley two days after the kitten died which helped so much to pull me away from grief. There was more to come. A friend who moved south in her retirement passed away, as did my aunt. One son got deployed, one fell severely ill. And I was doing as well as I could with that, but there was one more bit of news that broke me. I don’t want to acknowledge any more than this, but after that, the Beaver Moon underwent a lunar eclipse and though I’m struggling, I’m still here. I’m glad you are, too.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Salut!
There’s a coffeehouse in Hamburg called Comfort Zone and for every dollar you spend there, you get a point. You can use your points for discounts or save them up. After eating there for several years, I reached 1000 points – enough for a special outing and what an incredible experience it was! Whisked off to the Roycroft for a tour and then absolutely delightful conversation over dinner in the library at the Roycroft Inn. I snagged a ride in the convertible back to Comfort Zone for even more magic. I had pink chips, I played roulette, and I was up at the end of the night. It was a perfect, perfect night. Many thanks to Cindy, Zenia, Zach, Liz – just everyone who made it special.
I looked at my calendar and wowed myself with how many other great people I interacted with this month. I had a long phone conversation with an old friend to catch up recently. I was able to spend time with the awesome writers Nina Fosati, Gina Detwiler, and Jeff Schoeber. I met Nicole Hebdon and her husband at an author’s night she orchestrated at the Joylan Theater. The drone of the Board of Education and the Superintendent Search jargon was nearly cancelled out by the first mani/pedi I’ve had since…quite a while ago. I had my hair cut by eight inches and Husband did not notice.
I drag him out to see the colors at dusk sometimes –
much easier to do now that the upper greenhouse chaos has “settled.”
We went to a wedding. Congrats to my beautiful cousin and Ted.
Another “just is” is November, which will soon arrive, and I’ll be drizzled down a hole called Day One of National Novel Writing Month. I’m also eyeing Nancy Stohlman’s Flash Nano and wondering, “Can I do both?”
Obviously, I’m insane, but at the moment, a touch of happy, too.
Thank you for you. Thank you for reading. I hope you find magic in this scary time, too.
It’s been the usual mad dash between seasons here. The weather has been lovely. I’ve done chores that need to be done before summer ends leaving Husband with time to work on the upper greenhouse.
I began pulling up the rocks around the frog pond. It needs redoing like crazy and now we’re expanding the area around it. Who knows if it will stay above ground level when we have a hard rain, but if it does, what a lovely place to sit and watch dragonflies. So knock on wood…and stone, I guess…pictures may follow though, as I often do, I forgot to take before doing anything photos. This morning, I wasn’t aware I’d be moving rocks at all.
We had the first fire of the season last night. I choose to blame the occasion for my tardiness with this amazing post. “Amaze” in the sense of trying to fill you—the reader—with wonder or astonishment. I don’t know if it will work though. Let’s try an inkblot speed test. What do you see in the next two pictures as you scroll down to the next bit of text? Don’t linger; let your mind go…
What did you see? (You’re only getting an approximation of what I saw. The woodchip was far away; the dead bug, I espied through thick, unwashed window glass.) My mind leapt to flying creatures. An angel and the albino hay field fairy queen to be exact.
Along with those “What is that?” seconds of wonder, I also have personable vegetables this month. I cut into this pepper and not only did a round white thing roll out of it, but I saw this angry face. My only thought when the round white growth rolled out was “What now?”
A day later, this carrot that was far too sexy not to have a photo shoot showed up.
Writing has been ongoing and interesting. I was astounded to receive an email stating I made the longlist in Forge’s contest for a nonfiction piece. I have two stories coming out in Sledgehammer soon and BeZine took a story that received kind words at several places before being picked up. Thank you universe!
So that’s the news from here. I hope you’re doing great and that your town’s version of Ivanka and Jared never get you down. Cheers!
Earlier today, I was complaining in my head about having to write this post. It’s not something to complain about, though. Only I keep up this monthly look at myself, my life, my career…recent pictures. I could quit at any time.
I don’t know if I could quit writing forever. Well yes, I could quit writing. Making up stories in my head? Probably not. Sometimes it’s like watching a movie of vague shapes and names. Inserting new relationships among characters. How do they all go together before writing a word. I was doing a bit of that today – seeing if any recent characters have meat.
I’ve hit upon the premise of a longer story – or book. Luckily, I’ve had ideas before and now know to kick them around before beginning on a premise alone and while I do, I’m looking at these new characters who’ve popped up in recent flash.
Contests spurred the output. I wonder if it’s a hold out from younger years. When summer is waning, get in as much fun stuff as you can, and dazzle on the first paper due when you go back to school – a combination of the two.
So, in August, this creature has taken up time:
Which made this one jealous:
And this one sad because there was NOT enough petting going on with two animals in this house so adding a third is – in his opinion – a bad move. He is waiting for us to rue.
Husband had a proper cake for his annual aging celebration – from the store – but look at the candle placement! I did that part! (There would be a picture of him, but they blurred and cropped in weird ways.)
There is a “change one thing – let’s do it all over” list of projects going on in this one picture. Oi!
Well, as always, there is editing to do, things to clean, flowers to smell, so I’m off to do all that.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Yes, I probably thought of you. Cheers!
This month, there were two additions to my orbit. I plead ignorance on how to show you Zachary. (I could do it but I’m not going to because if you don’t know the parents, well…the amount of exposure his precious little face is presented to the online world is something I’m leaving in his parent’s hands. Did I mention he’s adorable? He is. He has hair!) The other baby is this tyke.
He’s a cuddler. There were other kittens hanging out around the woodshed but I haven’t seen them lately. There are eagles and hawks in the area. Foxes, fishers, and cars, too. Plus the creek, which flooded the south lawn because the bridge is too small and an arch.
That issue has taken up a lot of my time. An onslaught of promotion envelopes from insurance companies has not helped in my trying to take care of things. I’m closing in on finishing the Camp NaNo challenge of 50,000 words in a month written on top of the regular cooking/cleaning/weeding/splitting/stacking/etc. The convergence of extra demands requiring devoted attention has driven me to take up tea as self-care. (I do have lovely problems, don’t I?)
One thing that isn’t a problem is a squeaky new publication of a flash. It’s my current personal favorite. LEON Literary Review, a venue I swooned over the first time I visited, made my dreams come true by accepting The Eye of Florence and it is live now HERE!
I want to thank all the people in my life that I’ve been connecting with recently. I’m grateful for the conversations and new knowledge. It helps to know other people are finding it hard to “human,” too. I think we all are to some extent. It’s hard for some people to admit they’re in pain when others are so much worse off, but then it grows and there’s only so much some people can take of it so they blow and then it’s a mess. There are a lot of messes around and I’m trying to take of them all, I swear, but boy, is it tough with two hands and one mop.
Speaking of messes, I have so much filing to do. And I have to hunt down a user guide to the new printer that I can’t get to work even though I had installed it and had printed from it and now it won’t do any printing and I need to figure out why in my spare time which I won’t have until I finish Camp NaNo and I’m close so adios and thank you so much for stopping by and for the read!
Last month I was keeping something a secret. It was that we were doing some bathroom alterations. Now that we’ve had company, here are some pictures.
He regrouted the tile floor. We got a replacement window – I mean mirror. The awful globe lights are gone, replaced with a cool looking arched LED. And things were rewired so the switches are different and we have another outlet. All the walls are orange, brown trim. Updated photos in the frames. Pretty fish dot the shower curtain and now, if I wanted to, I could take a bathroom selfie because the door no longer looks so unfinished.
The company consisted of Niece from Boston, Nephew from Portland, and for breakfast, their mom.
We met Nephew and Niece at a restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, home and a fire on the beach.
Old chair cushions topping 5 gallon buckets turned upside down for seats.
A nearly full moon. Talk. We didn’t get to the part about me feeling like I’m drowning, but the time was brief.
I know writing is hard, and rejections are like a badge, but strings of no’s hurt. I’m grateful for friends I can reach out to – I know you’re there. Probably. I’m in a cocoon. I can go out, but suffer from anxiety sometimes. A wave of, ”I need to wear my mask, rush in, rush out” or guilt from sitting at a table and wanting this to be okay again, but it’s changed and that’s weird. I’ve had coffee with Nina Fosati at two places now. Lovely times, both. I’m grateful for her help in everything. Without her, I don’t know if I would have made it through all this. ❤
Things were scattered during the bathroom update and now that the furniture is back to normal, there are things to file. And I’m miserable about the idea of writing – especially a new book. I’m glaring at you Camp NaNo, all starting tomorrow and since I still haven’t heard about “real” camp in August, I might spend time with you. Enter a deeper part of the cocoon. But there is so much I want to do outside, like take wood out of the wood shed so I have a way out when I take the wood in the back and transport it to the first row. Plus there is always mowing and trimming and weeding. Don’t mind me, I’m usually not quite so glum but there is a lot of tasks to complete and since I have written some good shit which hasn’t found a home and I’m still without an agent, why do I even bother?
Does every crisis of faith reduce down to “Why are we/Why am I here?”
Perhaps…
I do want to thank Janice Leandra and everyone at Janus Literary. I’m grateful they chose my micro, Panache for this issue and there is some other cool writing in here. And what a fitting place to end, with the idea of looking both ways.
For 21 years I’ve been married to a friend. What does that mean? Our marriage can legally buy liquor and cigarettes now? Can it vote, too? No? Why not? (I’d insert the picture of the Chipmunk of Doom looking askance here, but it didn’t export properly.)
Early this month, I was a maskless guest in someone else’s home and it was glorious to hug again! (Thank you Nina for inviting me!) Shortly after, we had the pleasure of visiting with Bob and Teresa. They were vaccinated, we were, too; it was a lovely time. Unnerving at first, though – being maskless in a house with humans. Who knew that would be an anxiety producer? I mostly remembered how to behave. I didn’t trust myself to throw a dinner party, so it was nibbles and drinks here – and interesting conversation.
A few years back I made my bones and joined a gang of philanthropists so now I get invited to cool things like tours of new buildings. This is the new clinic by the hospital on the hill. (I went inside and took pictures for a yet-to-be-written-story.)
B and I mostly finished a project this weekend. You know that feeling when you’re sure you have a can of paint and you don’t? I felt that and now I wonder if the partial gallon I’m so sure we have (though I can’t find it and have checked all the hidey-holes) will turn up the second I come home with a new gallon tinted that color. So, a bit of paint – less than a few tablespoon’s worth – applied to five small spots and it will be done. Of course sprucing up one thing makes the rest of the room look shabby…but I only have so much time because knock on wood, we’ll see family soon. They – of all people – would understand walking into a construction site/battle zone/fresh paint situation, but I’d prefer to greet them with some things under control even though I know surprises happen…like going out to get a sump pump on my birthday and B taking care of that fiasco which turned out to be my present. Anyways, since I’d like to do a big in-person reveal, I’m not posting pictures of it now. What I can show you is this round flower though I’ve forgotten its name:
And this sassy iris:
It has been a plant-centric month. Holding out as long as I could, I finally succumbed to the lure of a mown front yard. (I have to mow for the rest of the summer now, which displeases me.) Saturday, the new flowerbed was weeded and part of the raised bed was hoed. With the weather being unusually cold, the seedlings needed extra time and care. I also had to figure out which nursery I bought citronella plants from last year. I found it on my second try and learned how to propagate them. I mean, I don’t mind plants taking up my energy, but I am surprised they take so much.
There’s more work to be done in the garden and keeping the lawn up, but the basics feel scoped out so I can get back to concentrating on what I want to write and hone. The book I’d gone back to finish writing? Yeah, I hit the point where I was able to convince myself that I had the wrong MC and should stop before I went any further. I don’t know, essays are being plotted out in my notebooks. I’m reading. I’m watching movies. (Props to the Hamburg library – they’ve been doing me good recently. I’ve found amazing reads in their 7 day shelves) I’m soaking in the changing weather. If I could, I’d gift some of this stress-free time to Mary. The Zoetrope/Firefox has been resolved and I’m already diving back into Kim Chinquee’s “Hot Pants” room. The gracious Kathy Fish is hosting her Fast Flash Reunion room there next weekend. PitMad is on Thursday. There’s so much to look forward to in the coming month – and I don’t want to jinx it – but sometimes feeling obligated to write actually works to get it done…kind of like writing this blog once a month, you know?
Anyway, I hope you are feeling fine and know you are appreciated in so many different ways. You rock. You roll. You need to get out of here and frolic in freshly cut grass or some sand!
Thank you SO much for stopping by and for the read!
Ah, April, when I officially age whether I want to or not. This year, we went to Buffalo for a sump pump, which is just as celebratory as it sounds. Since then, I’ve had both vaccine doses, and on 11 May, I will be free to visit people I’ve missed. Fair warning: I believe I’ve forgotten how to human, so if I hug you and I normally don’t – or vice versa – let’s hope it’s a temporary hiccup in life and not a permanent change.
My head is deep into a story I like a lot. I’d sent chapters around to my group and they liked the characters, so knock on wood, Chris, Lettie, and Jason show up on your TBR pile someday. I will admit, being immersed in a different world helps pass the time while waiting to hear back from agents on my last book. Why did I choose to write again? Oh yeah, I didn’t. I wonder if anyone is doing research into the genetic blip that causes a person to become a writer. I’d race for a cure and fund that. Just kidding. I don’t like running. I don’t even like writing about running unless there’s a good reason – like a grizzly.
Speaking of wildlife, new cat blends well into the surroundings, doesn’t she?
I’ve been out to admire the small flowers.
And the bulbs.
The furniture has been moved as closely to “summer” position as possible. We have a fire today, which is why everything isn’t in place. The slate has to be moved under the stove and the table I want at the end of the sofa will not fit until then, but otherwise, the house feels airier. I’m writing instead of submitting or querying, so my phone doesn’t often ping with notifications and the quiet is kind of nice.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Hope to see you soon!*
Cheers!
*If you’ve had both your shots and waited two weeks for the full immunity to kick in.
This March has reminded me of the charter Ebenezer Scrooge. Miserly, unkempt, and petty but redeemable after a few dreams. Not that it’s easy to sleep in now, spring is everywhere and insistent that attention be paid.
Crocuses dot the lawn
Turkeys march
The sky is blue and the subtle colors of tree buds abound.
Writing has paused while a flurry of queries were released into agent’s inboxes. I’ve had a request for a partial and a full and I’m waiting to hear back from more. Since waiting is annoying, I signed up to participate in Camp NaNo – anything to keep my fingers from hitting refresh, it seems.
My first Pfizer shot is scheduled for 6 April, and Husband’s second dose is on the 9 April. I’m looking forward to seeing some friends in real life soon. Until then, there are trails to walk and the moon to chase.
For a short month, this February was packed. Two Star Review, a favorite piece of flash written during the summer of Tara and Pete was published in Emerge Literary Journal. The Rains went live in Fictive Dream as part of Flash Fiction February. If you haven’t yet, check out both of these places; they print some seriously decent stories and poems. I am grateful to have my work included in them.
Also, randomly out of Taipei, I received an invitation to talk about characterization. Todd Sullivan contacted me because he came across My Song for Majabin. During an interview, which you can catch here, I read part of the story and answer some questions.
Barrelhouse held a virtual conference and I was there for it. Great experience all around and I produced new drafts I’m letting sit for a bit. Editing is never done, but until some of it gets caught up on, I’m not working on new things…which can be problematic. Attempting to write this post yesterday, I ended up with a micro, two flashes, and the outline of an essay.
I absolutely adore the problems I have, including the creepy hand icicle…it may not be my favorite thing, but it didn’t grab me, so I’m good.
There was a lot of snow. Too much time was spent dealing with doctors, insurance companies and that ilk. Okay, I did have a few pleasant exchanges with one doctor, but that was a friendly with XO Man. Another bit of happiness was a long overdue chat with Mary Akers and Gina Detwiler. (Happy early birthday Gina!) Other awesomeness was the sanity and comradeship I so delighted in during weekly Zooms with the talented Nina Fosati. Thank you SO much for your friendship, loveliness, and being a bright light!
So, March is howling at the door with both a reading and a check in/write in scheduled. I’m off to hone pitches for Thursday’s PitMad and then edit some more. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! I appreciate it!
This is the last day of the month and I’m just now starting this post. It’s not been a particularly great month. There was bad news, and then some more. Silly me for hoping 2021 would be any better than 2020.
Rolling my shoulders, taking a deep breath, I’ll state that I am grateful for Husband. New cat kept breaching the baby gate that was there to keep her out of the library where I read, write, Zoom and exercise.
Yes, I could – and did – shut the door, but in doing so, the temperature drops. The solution? French screen doors. (Proper knobs were chosen and installed yesterday but no photos were taken of those.)
I’ve been doing a lot of rewriting of the latest novel’s opening pages in response to books I’ve been reading lately. I broke down and bought Save the Cat! Writes A Novel by Jessica Brody, but Creating Character Arcs by K. M. Weiland was more insightful and easier to grasp. In the mix are The Complete Writer’s Guide to Heroes & Heroines by Tami D. Crowden, Caro LaFever, and Sue Viders a book I’d suggest to any storyteller and Scene & Structure by Jack M. Bickham, which is quite male oriented. I’m applying for fellowships and grants so Bev Browning’s Grant Writing for Dummies was dusted off, and since I’ll be querying again soon, Noah Lukeman’s The First Five Pages and Michael Hauge’s Selling Your Story in 60 Seconds are within easy reach. Spoiler alert: a lot of them contain the same information, but I’ve found that when and how you hear it makes a difference. Huge thanks to the esteemed Nina Fosati for her immense help and insight. Thanks also to Michael Parzymieso for his fresh eyes on the revision.
Tomorrow is the start of a new month. I’m hoping for brighter days and new growth. We were gifted an Aero Garden and pods for Christmas, so if new writing doesn’t grow, basil and chives will. Knock on wood.
As ever, thank you for stopping by and for the read. You are awesome, warmhearted, and witty! Cheers!
Christmas was the day I felt some of the pressure leave my shoulders. There was nothing I could do about packages not making it on time, I’d locally delivered all the holiday treats, I even let Husband make the bed with the sheets wrong and let it go instead of redoing it. Cards were sent, food prepped, and vaccine shots were starting for emergency personnel. Letting go of this year is a physical relief.
Not having anyone over this year meant I could put off any deep cleaning that otherwise would have gotten done. Before Christmas, I pulled all of the books from the L in the library with the bigger fiction and the physical/societal/spiritual/financial books. Those shelves were cleaned and readjusted. Nothing is where I can find it and I found a different TBR pile to mirror the one I have in other stacks upstairs.
Christmas morning was scrumptious with sausages, pancakes, and mimosas. Thank you again to Gina’s husband for his syrup. We finally finished the syrup our neighbor gave us and opened yours!
I want to give a shout out to everyone who sent us cards; they do mean a lot to receive. This is the door we place them on to admire. Once we take them down, I’ll be putting a poster I got for Christmas on there. Thank you Michael!
Husband made me this:
See, when I do Zoom, I had a stack of books to set the tablet on for the correct height. Now, I have this platform with a place for the keyboard, making it such an upgrade in ease – and let, face it, beauty.
I’m not a “New Year’s resolution” type of person, never have been, but this year is hitting differently. Had she lived, my mom would have turned 71 today. It’s weird to consider this since she passed away in 1997 at 47. I’ve outlived her by a few years. So has my sister. I didn’t get as much written, edited, or published this year and I’m kind of pissed at myself about that. I don’t need assurances, this isn’t a plea for pity, it’s a public acknowledgement of my personal feelings. Next year, I may publish less. Or more. I don’t know, but I’m cobbling together a list of goals I would like accomplish but I can’t make myself call them resolutions…not yet.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. And on a deeply personal note, I doubt there are birthdays in the afterwards, but I hope my mom is having a happy day wherever she is. I miss her.
This month wasn’t filled with as much new writing as I’d hoped. Dread was pervasive; who knew sore winners would turn out to be lousy losers? I’m so sick of that noise. Perhaps that’s why I’ve returned to re-watching Gilmore Girls and hunkering down for another round of edits on a novel and some flashes.
The day before the election, a flock of bluebirds appeared in the south lawn. They didn’t get close enough to photograph well, but I enjoyed the rare sighting.
We also had a surprise visit from a troupe of kittens. One splatted. This one is still around, but shy. Another was injured, but I was able to catch it. Once in my arms, it turned into a love bug. I kept it alive overnight and due to “foster” being checked instead of “foster to adopt” on the SPCA form, the tech who treated it now owns that cat instead of me. Lesson learned, there…
Thanksgiving: The Meal was not photographed. This is the table, that was the wine:
I wasn’t expecting to be nominated for anything this year, and I was fine. Nina Fosati was nominated for a Pushcart and a Best of the Net and I was thrilled to be close to a nominee but then, the amazing Cathy Ulrich at Milk Candy Review put “The Thinnest of Veneers” up for Best Microfictions. I was speechless, and so darn grateful.
Husband has continued with the basement clean up.
You see this corner? I’ve never been in this corner. He hasn’t been in this corner in decades. And now, there are shelves…
Tomorrow, the last month of this long year begins. Kobie has a surgery scheduled.
I guess I forget to tell him. Well, now I have to talk him down. I never should have told him about my blog.
Right, well, thank you for stopping by and for the read! I appreciate you! Cheers!
I can’t imagine a worse job than being a neurologist stuck trying to study the brain of a writer. Even the prefrontal cortex of a reptile is complex. Writers create characters and those characters have needs, wants, and desires. Some become so real, they “come to life.”
August tends to be the month where I get a lot of writing done because I can sit alone in cabana without radio or internet and focus on a story. After one of those sessions, one of Mary Aker’s characters stopped by. Atlas was…unbalanced in the book. (No doubt you’re thinking I am as I tell you this.) He asked if I remembered a fight scene in her book. I did. He told me he had a problem with it. I nodded at him with the wary respect I lend to forest animals. He went away.
The next time I was out there and getting ready to leave, he showed up again and asked if I’d spoken to Mary. I told him I hadn’t had time and rushed away. Mary happened to text a breezy, hi-how-are-ya-I-miss-you. I told her I’d been thinking about her book.
Atlas reappeared and told me he thought a certain baby was his. I told him he was mistaken. The sperm was from – he cut me off. He claimed it was switched. Or mixed. There was a chance that it was his. I told Mary this. We had a zoom with Gina, and the subject was brought up. We all hashed out possible plot twists. What if a Gloria switched the sperm and told Atlas about it in a certain scene – trying to keep from rewriting down. It was a weird but good exchange. I was done with the matter. I went out, worked on my own story, and Atlas stayed away – satisfied, I suppose.
Gloria waited until I was cutting up fruit for dinner to make her appearance. She likes Atlas. She can’t have children, but sees nothing wrong with taking Sylvia’s baby away when it’s born. If there’s one successful pregnancy, there would be another. Sylvia could use the sperm of the specimen she really wanted. What was 9 months of delay?
I find it all rather Meta that these shifty characters Mary created had a way to pop into my head for a chat. Are all the abandoned characters out there waiting for us to notice them again? Would a neurologist be able to explain away the phenomena instead? These are the things that have been on my mind.
Otherwise, I’m rewriting a book which is frustrating because two characters that had little to do with each other in the original are about to fall into bed – or shoot each other. Either outcome challenges the rest of the plot. Sigh.
Husband had another happy 45th birthday.
The garden is producing many tomatoes.
The dog
Went to the groomer.
The rose bloomed.
Wild grapes were picked.
There was a nocturnal visitor at the hummingbird feeder.
Another section of the house is being painted.
And thus concludes this month’s blog post. You are wonderful and full of grace. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
This month, the fear of everything closing down again served as an impetus to get things done. We replaced our king-sized mattress with two extra-long twins and installed an air conditioner. Both were objectives we kept putting off and now that we’re both getting a good night’s sleep, we wonder why.
We put in another step on the walkway down to the south lawn. The Chipmunk of Doom was warned it was going to happen, but he doesn’t seem happy about it, does he?
Husband finished up the remaining drawer fronts in the kitchen.
Aren’t they gorgeous?
I believe this is a picture of the last bouquet I bought. Cheap flowers from grocery stores were one of the few things that kept me sane this spring. Now, it’s blooming season and these beauties greet me every time I walk out the door.
The lilies take turns showing off their soothing brilliance.
And the wildflowers in the far back are a delight. I brought this one in to identify and haven’t yet – but if you know what it is, please don’t hesitate to tell me at TLSherwood01@gmail.com
As ever, the garden is what it is and currently, it’s well weeded. The peas were wonderful and now the beans and squash are here.
Inside, I made new cases and transferred the feathers from my pillows into them. It’s so nice to have plump and cushioning ones again. I’d used Husband’s sewing machine. In a flurry of texts, that to me still feel unreal, I’m the proud new owner of a Singer sewing machine in a cabinet. Many, many thanks to the marvelous XO Man for the amazing offer and gift.
It’s setup in the bedroom and when not in use it serves as a new writing spot and I’ve even used it to set up the tablet for a Zoom session with Gina and Mary.
Speaking of Mary, she sent a ticket for virtual Crab Con and I went to check out the platform she used. I stayed for the Baby Crab Cam and some interesting discussions as well as a video. It was fantastic! She also let me do a bit of ghostwriting. Thank you!
I managed to submit seventeen pieces this month and am thrilled to say my piece “The Thinnest of Veneers” will be published in Cathy Ulrich’s amazing Milk Candy Review later this year. It started from a prompt in Kim Chiquee’s Hot Pants Office. I’ve knocked out at least five rough drafts for new flashes and an essay. A few things happened that have given me fodder I plan to explore soon. It’s been a while since I’ve felt competent in my writing. (And as soon as I wrote that, I received a rejection. Ugh!)
The library reopened and so far I’ve read Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere and The Future of Another Timeline by Annalee Newitz. I’m catching up on stories in the New Yorker, too. I grew brave on a perfect day and visited with the spectacular Nina Fosati – outside and six feet apart. Not giving and getting hugs saddened me, BUT hopefully soon Covid will be in the past and we can all get back to whatever we choose to be a brighter and more humane normal. In the meanwhile, this creature tempts me to pet and to play, otherwise I’m sure I would have done even more this month.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Remember, you are AMAZING and I probably miss you!
T. L. Sherwood 
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