crocus

Welcome to Chaos: Spring in Western New York

Hello and how are you doing? This morning we had warmth and the sun, then a downpour that was overwhelming our drainage system, and now that it’s night, I am praying the creek stays low and in its banks. I also made cookies and went out to photograph the crocuses.

A very intelligent woman named Eileen had a phrase that described my recent months – The Tyranny of the Couch. When we bring in wood for the winter, the place where we stack it limits what furniture can comfortably fit in the main room. I’d opted to have the pull-out sofa and coffee table. While great for lounging around watching movies when there was time, I had no space to comfortably write downstairs. And without that, I wasn’t writing unless I had to.

Where the energy came from, I’m uncertain, but late Sunday afternoon, I had cleared a pathway to switch out the big round table for the sofa. Most all of the fiddly bits found homes soon after. Even I am surprised at how well the new placement of furniture is already working out. Last night I worked on my next novel section to exchange for next Tuesday’s meeting and I typed the 629-word story I wrote by hand last Thursday night for Friday morning’s group into a file.

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to write most of the time, and that handwritten story? It’s called “The Wombat Job” and it surprises me how nicely it’s told. Tight as is, but in a few weeks – if I don’t forget about it – I have a few places I might submit it to once I polish. Very likely I’ll remember how disappointing the whole publishing endeavor is and it’ll remain curled up in a cute little rtf file forever instead. Sigh. People laughed at the laugh spots, too…ah well, RIP little flash, it was nice knowing you for a bit.

Seriously, I do hope I have a chance to share that story – and maybe write more, but that’s in the future. It’s quite difficult to plan for any future when dumb white men are running around getting military personnel killed because the dumb white men didn’t listen to any DEI hire that probably kept telling them attacking Iran was a stupid move. Idiots.

Speaking of not listening, Husband has been fitted for hearing aids. He did a two-week trial and it wasn’t great because of the fit, but he did hear better, so away we go into the world where he has less ability to say, “I didn’t hear that part,” about whatever I ask him to do. He did make this light for me though.

What I’m asking you to do is realize I am happy you stopped by and for the read. Thanks for hanging around, checking in. It’s been a rough twelve months and all I’m getting for it on Friday is older, ffs. Yes, I’ll be wishing the wish we’ve all been wishing for, but as Friday is Good Friday, I’m afraid that even if it did happen, he’d pop back up on Sunday in robot form to torment us for all eternity, so, I’m weighing my decision to wish for that. Maybe I’ll wish for the impossible instead – like an agent wanting to represent my work and maybe a free trip to Italy, too. Why not?

May all your dreams and wishes be beautiful and realized at the proper time. You rock! Cheers and all that until next time!

An Eagle and the Moon

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.

I’m drawn outside, but so much of life happens online these days. The fabulous Kim Chinquee put together a reading for members of Hot Pants – a private room on Zoetrope’s Virtual Studio. Besides me and Kim, Avital Gad-Cykman, Pia Ehrhardt, Liesl Jobson, Joan Wilking, Eric Bosse, Gail Siegel, and Lydia Copeland all read. The link is here, if you’re interested. And if you were there, like the incredible Nina Fosati was, I thank you!

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.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

May the 4th be with you, too.

Once again, I started this blog post only to discover I could write most of an essay without thinking about it. I don’t know if I’ll finish this one—I haven’t looked back at the last one yet. That’s out of laziness, not fear. This latest assemblage of words scares me a bit since I’d be unmasking a “truth.” Sigh. I don’t know. I suppose I should write it, try to find it a home, explain —like in most essays— that we, as humans, are less different than we suppose.

I had a bit of niceness writing wise. The editor at The Journal let me know that my story “Anum Cara” went far in the process but ultimately didn’t make the cut. The nicer part being that he genuinely seemed interested in me sending more work. What I have plans to do is pull up that story, look at it again and send it out. If it was close for a venue that sports a 1.09% acceptance rate on Duotrope, the odds are in its favor to be accepted somewhere. It worked for “Our Mother’s Memoir was Published Posthumously. On Purpose.” Mark Budman at Vestal Review gave it a “good” rejection and the next time I pulled the story up, I changed a few words and sent it off and BOOM. It will be up in Blueshift Journal #7 soon.

The days of Board of Education duties are soon to be over and then it’s back to audience member for me. Whatever will I do with my free time – other than read books that I choose instead of Alison Duwe’s choices? Well, there is the revision of “Near Eden, New York,” which “Anum Cara” is a chapter of, to complete. Luckily, it’s in fairly good shape so knock on mahogany that won’t be a horrible slogging mess. I could be wrong though. Nina Fosati sent two pieces last night with the lament, “Are they ready? I can’t tell anymore,” and those were for short stories. Mary Akers is going through the same thing with changing the point of view in “The Belongers.” Sure, writing is rewriting but where does one get the gumption? If you hear of a sale, please let me know.

Otherwise, it’s been rainy outside. I need to pull out the tulip and crocus bulbs and plant the lilies I just got. The neighbors would probably appreciate it if the lawn got mowed—at least the roadside yards—but eh, it’s too wet and I don’t care about property values at the moment. It isn’t like anyone drives by to consider moving here. The road is in piss-poor shape and there are no new businesses to attract people to the area. Well, these two were attracted to our property. Probably because of the lack of traffic on the road.

Thanks for stopping by!

*These are my Creekside Reflections. Your experience may vary.

I don’t “do” Saint Patrick’s Day, but I wish you well with your celebration.

I was ill. It wasn’t pretty and if I hadn’t been doing Pilates regularly, I wonder if I wouldn’t have ended up in the emergency department. Hell, last Friday, if I’d been able to get to the phone I would have called Nancy to take me. I think everything is fine now, but it took a lot more out of me than I would have expected.

The writhing in pain on the bathroom floor unable to find a comfortable position was actually the highlight of my week. My heart broke twice with agent rejections and I know, I know, I KNOW it’s a love match and I’m supposed to be grateful I didn’t end up with someone who doesn’t love my work, but right now, I don’t feel like anyone ever will…and as I say that, I need to remind myself that a story of mine made it to the final round of Best Small Fictions.

Trust me, that high didn’t come close balancing out those lows.

Another bright spot is that “Closer to Whole” is up at Pure Slush in the Suits Issue. I am thrilled to have my flash in the same issue at Susan Tepper, Gay Degani, Cezarija Abartis, and many more amazing writers. Many, many thanks to Matt Potter for including my piece.

Last night, Nancy and I went to see “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.” Tina Fey did a great job. There were a lot of interesting characters and I’ll be buying it when it comes out on DVD so Husband can see it.

It’s hard to believe the weather is as nice as it’s been, but here’s proof:

The “normal” crocuses didn’t come up this year – or they did and I missed them thinking it was too early. I haven’t seen any growth where I planted tulips in the fall, but the hyacinth is pushing through in a ring around the flowering pear tree. Husband and I went up the hill on Saturday; the paths were clear.

After posting this, I plan on starting some tomato and pepper seeds. Maybe this year the garden fence will go up…and maybe I’ll find an agent…though giving up is a possibility, too.

I told you being ill took a lot out of me.

Anyways, thanks for stopping by for a read and if you’re my devoted fan in Brazil, thank you for checking in so often. I only post twice a month, in case you were wondering.

*These are my creek side reflections. Your experiences will vary.

Big Projects, Little Pretty Flowers

I usually don’t talk about works in progress, especially the big ones. The genesis of the latest is what perplexes me and drives me forward. I’d been on the fence about joining Camp NaNo when I got a snotty letter from another writer who was pissed that I didn’t answer his questions about my “process” in the manner he was accustomed to being answered or something. I don’t know. In the midst of his bitch, he gave me an insight which I pondered. He said: To my eye, some of your best writing has been in your letters, talking about your past and your personal life. Discuss.

He went on to suggest that I write a book in the first person with the main character having adventures similar to the ones I’ve described to him. Thing is, I’m doing that and it’s taking me to some fearsome places.*Sigh* Christ. I’d rather kiss people with purple splotches and stop writing, but this story is intriguing the hell out of me. I know–I think–how it will end, but the ride is so fun so far I don‘t want it to end. I’m not used to that. When I’ve written novels before, I knew the end and wanted to get there already, but this time, not so much…

I missed taking photos of the first flowers, but I took these to prove I leave the house and think of things other than writing:

Warm, but cool, contemplative, intense but not over powering was what I wanted for the color of the living room wall. I’ve searched, swatched, sampled and waited. I think I found “the” color. Here are a few shots of the bookshelf being denuded of books, my minions, the hell of the hell I’m going to be going through while the books are packed up and windows are changed out and the painters arrive and, well, isn’t that what life is all about? Constant change. I’m nervous about this. What if it’s the wrong color? I’ll be stuck with it for years! So I may not like it. I’ll just keep going on, like I do with submitting. I lose contests and get rejected, but still, I go on. So far

I don’t have pictures of them, but I have a new “amuse me” shoes. With a carpenter for a husband, it’s not safe to walk around in this house without shoes. Therefore I now have these special sneakers that I can match my outfit to by trading out the side colors. I’ve never felt more nerdy/pathetic/coordinated/smart in my life. See you next month when I’m hoping the mayhem in the living room has settled down.

(*These are just my creekside reflections. Your experiences may vary.)