Anny's Points of View

Groundhog Day

2012-02-02T10:32:00.000-05:00

As usual, when I started researching the origins of Groundhog Day, I instantly zipped down the nearest rabbit hole like Alice. Apparently, the tradition of using an animal as a weather forecaster is quite ancient. A variety of animals have been employed...bears, snakes, badgers. Similar customs have been reported across the northern hemisphere--and even from some places in the southern hemisphere (for their spring). The groundhog day celebrations in Pennsylvania were introduced by German immigrants in the 1700s.

The holiday has also been associated with Candlemas, Imbolc, St. Brigid's Day, and a number of other very early pagan celebrations. This day was seen as the day when "light" was more prevalent than the "dark" of winter.

For that reason, perhaps sufferers of SADS should celebrate this turning of the season! In any case, Happy Groundhog Day!

anny

When the Soul Sings

2012-01-27T10:39:00.000-05:00

Lately I've noticed a lot of writers moaning and whining because they aren't happy with their writing. Some complain of writer's block. Others don't have any motivation. Apathy, drudgery, a lack of interest in their characters have all been mentioned. It's not fun or exciting any more. Their joy in writing is gone. It's a job.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear ya.

The truth is out there.

Here's what I think. I think most writers--regardless of genre--went from writing the books of their souls to writing market books. In the back of their minds is the overriding question, will it sell?

When I look back at my earliest work, I see a different writer. I see a writer involved in telling the story. Yes, my technical stuff was a bit shakier. I see the mistakes I made if I'm looking for them. But I have to look hard because the stories involve me. Me, the author. When I'm reading, I keep stopping and marveling that I wrote this book!

And then...I made the mistake of worrying about whether or not the book would sell. When the author is truly involved with the story and characters, each day is a new adventure. We're not worried about whether we have enough or too much sex because it isn't our story. We can't wait to get up in the morning to see where their story will take us. Our soul sings as we pound the keyboard. Every interruption is nearly unbearable because we can't bear to be parted from our hero/heroine. Sounds like love?

Yeah, it does. If our writing doesn't make our soul sing then we're writing the wrong stuff.

A dear friend sent me a short piece she'd written. It was very different from her usual writing. This piece was written from her soul. The difference in the emotion and depth of feeling was striking. Her fascination with the characters was obvious.

When we lose that never-ending fascination, we lose some part of the soul of the story. Oh, it may be technically sound. We may have the POV down and most of the adverbs weeded out. We might have even followed every damn rule in the White and Strunk's. But underneath, niggling away at us is the certainty that the story has no soul.

When it does, it enthralls even when the technical aspects are less than perfect. When the soul sings so does the story.

anny

Winter Grayscale

2012-01-26T17:08:00.000-05:00

Remember when grayscale was a choice on your printer you used because color was so expensive to print? It was supposed to be a little jazzier than plain black and white.

This is the time of year we live in grayscale. Emotionally, financially, spiritually we drag through January, surviving in a colorless world, faking it out and trying to convince ourselves it isn't so bad. The days are dreary and rainy or snowy. The nights are cold and bitter.

We draw inward, closing the curtains or blinds to block out the early darkness, and gather around the hearth with our loved ones. It used to be a true fire the family would huddle next to while someone read a book or told a story. Now for most people it's a television's bright flickering lights and noise that fills the room.

Some may choose to hunch next to their individual hearths, playing computer games or living the virtual visitation with virtual friends they've never met (and likely never will).

Winter is a natural time of rest. It's a downtime--a time to complete the small chores that pile up through the year, those things we never have time to do because we so busy going and doing. It used to be winter was the time for planning and preparation for spring.

Somewhere along the line, we've lost the rhythm of the seasons. I believe that's why we're so tired. We're supposed to be resting along with all of nature. That's why it's dark so early. Instead we're rushing around, trying to fit twice as much in our day.

Maybe we should take a breather. Watch the snow or rain. Curl up on the couch with a book. Drink hot chocolate. Contemplate the future. Be prepared.

anny

To Bra or Not to Bra...

2012-01-25T08:35:00.000-05:00

The house hunk and I went out gallivanting yesterday just to get out of the house. We had lunch, went shopping for the two things on our list, and generally enjoyed the sunshine.

I don't usually go bra shopping intentionally, but each time I'm in the store I check to see if they have any sports bras in my "size" and that's a relative term at best. Anyway, yesterday I found two and was quite pleased. In the car, going home, the hunk asked me what I would do if I had not found the new bras.

Now these were two that fastened in the front. I wanted them for after my swimming. Any woman who has tried to wrestle on a bra while she's still damp will understand my predicament. Usually, I put on a tee-shirt and jacket and go bra-less until I get home. I explained all of this to the hunk.

And he said, "I like it better when you don't wear one."

Um, did I mention I'm built on the generous side? Unless I'm at home in the privacy of my own surroundings, going bra-less is not an option. I explained that viewpoint to the hunk...in detail.

He wanted to know why not?

So that started me wondering. Why do women wear bras? Is it personal choice? Cultural mandate? Fashion? Do we wear them for ourselves or for the men in our lives?

And men...what say you? To bra or not? Or does it make a difference if the woman is...losing her pneumatic uplift. Would you rather see some sway and movement or upholstered support?

anny

Fear of Failure

2012-01-24T09:27:00.000-05:00

No one gets up in the morning and thinks, "Today looks like a good day to fail." No one plans to fail. If failure was part of a plan, then it would be a success in the end because it was part of the agenda. So in the end, failure is an unplanned consequence of some action.

From the very beginning of our lives, we learn by failing. Crawling, standing, walking...all of those skills are learned by failing repeatedly until we've mastered them. Parents expect their little ones to fail. No one rushes forward to rescue the kid. It's a normal part of life.

When they're older, they learn other skills with the same fail/succeed ratio. Riding a bike. Dribbling a ball. Making a grilled cheese sandwich. Spelling separate (it has "a rat" in it). Learning to write cursive. Adding and subtracting. But I've noticed that parental willingness to allow children to learn by consequences sharply diminishes as the kid reaches their teens.

I don't advocate allowing them free rein. Our culture and society is based on rules. We're expected to obey basic laws. Don't steal. Don't kill. It's the parents' job to rear their kids with respect for the law.

Some of life issues are a bit more abstract. Working for what you want. Delayed gratification. Getting back up when we fail and trying again. If you give a kid everything they ask for, why would they work for it? If they never have to wait for something, how will they learn to wait?

I propose failure and dealing with the consequences is the way we learn how the world works. The rush to protect children from failure prevents their development of coping mechanisms. Look at it this way--suppose we play checkers with our child and we always let him win. Why would he learn the strategy he needs to know to win on his own?

Instead of being ashamed of failure, we should celebrate every time we get back up and try again. That is the essence of success.

anny

Written into the Corner

2012-01-23T11:22:00.000-05:00

One of the problems writers face is that terrible moment when they write their story into an impossible predicament. The story stops right on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go. This happened to me over the weekend. I needed a conflict, a confrontation, and had no way to engineer it because I'd snowed my characters in. No way to escape, either. Hmmmm.

Disgusted and irritated, I backtracked to see where I was going to have to make changes, only to discover the solution was already there. A small, insignificant detail I'd tossed into the story several chapters earlier saved the day. In fact, it provided the vehicle for the confrontation and the possibility of escape.

I'm a pantster--a writer who sits down and writes without elaborate plotting ahead of time. I have a vague notion of the general outlines of the story, but no written notes. I keep a notepad next to the computer so I can jot down the odd detail for my story bible. You know--things like eye color, hair color, secondary character names, made-up words for animals/plants/stuff in my imaginary worlds.

In my Mystic Valley books, the men wear their long hair in many small braids tipped by special beads called chinkas. That was a detail set up in Dancer's Delight, book one. Where did the name come from? I have no idea. It was just there.

It wasn't until late in book two, Traveller's Refuge, that I found out why the beads were called chinkas. The scene flowed effortlessly as I wrote it:

The light breeze spread the scent of rain and quoltania bushes through the open window. Dancer enjoyed the light cinnamony scent and breathed in appreciatively before shifting to cuddle closer with Eppie. He spread his hand across her belly and rubbed their baby gently, careful not to wake Eppie. He froze when a tiny out-of-place sound wafted through the open window. A few seconds later, he caught the slight brush of fabric and silently he slipped from the bed, moving across the room to the window.

Peeking from behind the soft curtains, he saw a man stalking down the path to the back gate. Grabbing his sharda, he shinnied over the windowsill and soundlessly followed him as far as the river. Within a few feet, he knew he was trailing Merlyn but he was intensely curious about what could possibly bring his bond-father out in the rain in the middle of the night.

When Merlyn crossed the bridge and headed out into the open field past the training halls, Dancer waited until the buildings were between them and followed. He sank down in the deepest shadow in a dark corner and waited for a few moments, in case Merlyn returned. Just as he was satisfied that Merlyn wasn’t coming back his way, he heard a soft footstep on the bridge and barely made out the figure of Llyon coming his way.

Breathing shallowly, he squatted motionless in the dark while Llyon softly passed him in the rain. Slipping around the end of the building so that it was between him and the bridge, he crept to the corner until he could see the field clearly. The fine hairs along his spine tightened as he watched the small group of men in astonishment. There on the field he saw why the hair ornaments were called chinkas.

While all of the men stood in a semicircle watching intently, Llyon spun rapidly toward a practice dummy, his braids whipping out around him from the centrifugal force. When he came within reach of the dummy, the chinkas struck it with deadly force, making a very distinctive sound. Chinka, chinka, chinka. Dancer shuddered as he watched Llyon’s lethal dance shred the dummy.

That is an example of my subconscious working independently. If happens often when I'm writing. I could fill a book with examples of small details that take on a life of their own elsewhere in the story. The thing is, I can't plan this. I have tried. It would be so much more convenient, you know?

Instead, when I've painted myself into that clichéd corner, I know it's time to ponder the details, time to pinpoint that small bit that's going to fix my problem. How about you? Do you have a writing quirk that no one else seems to have?

anny

Wrong Side of Life

2012-01-21T12:11:00.001-05:00

Some people get up on the wrong side of bed. Others seem to get up on the wrong side of life. Did you ever know someone who can't seem to catch a single positive break? Ever? I have. You want to hug them and tell them everything is going to be all right, but all right never happens for them.

They're the ones with the car that breaks down on the way to the job interview. They're the ones who don't just have Lyme disease, but mono with it. They're the ones who aren't just coping with broken pipes, but also the electricity has gone out.

What do you do? How do you help them? Sometimes...you might not be able to.

That sounds mighty harsh. I've been one of those never-catch-a-break people. Lived that down-to-the-bone life. We know more people now living that barely subsistence life than ever before.

On the one hand, I know how fast life can go from an abundance to freefalling famine. The closer you are to the edge, the less it takes to push you over. A lot of folks who thought they were safe behind their wall of income and savings have discovered that's just not so.

On the other hand...that subsistence living is isolating. Instead of moving out, we tend to huddle inwards, ashamed because we aren't doing well. We don't want anyone to know we need a helping hand. We don't want anyone to know we need food or the electric bill paid or gas in the car. Because if our neighbors and friends know that, they might think we're a failure. And goodness knows, we're not allowed to fail.

It's the same reasoning people use for hiding illness. Or non-existent royalties. Or dozens of other things the world uses to gauge success or failure. No one wants to admit things might not be quite as rosy as they've been portraying. No one.

That very attitude sometimes bars us from assistance. And I'm not talking about welfare or public assistance or a handout from a church. I'm talking about the folks around us who might want to pitch in a helping hand here or there. That neighbor who would gladly fix the pipes. That friend who would take us to that job interview. The ladies group at church who would be pleased to buy some groceries.

There's a rarely perceived opposite side of the coin in the get vs. giving dynamic. People need to participate on both sides during their lives. Giving isn't better than receiving. That old cliché is wrong. But giving does allow for a balance as long as people can do both. That's what that paying it forward business is about.

At sometime during our lives we will need. Perhaps we will need more than we can possibly imagine. Consider those who lost homes, families, every possession they owned in tornadoes or tsunamis. Can you envision the total loss? Yet, even in those circumstances there were people who hesitated to ask for help. We have to get past this shame factor and reach out. Why?

Because at sometime during our lives we will be exactly where we need to be to help someone. That old saw about what goes around, comes around is true. The problem is we think we always have to compare apples to apples or oranges to oranges, when we really should just toss all the fruit and veggies in one pot. Just because someone fixed our pipes doesn't mean we have to fix someone else's pipes to "pay them back". Nope. What the next fellow might really be desperate for is a job reference or a new pair of shoes.

Do you know someone really wallowing in the slough of depression and despair? Have you asked what you can do? Remember, no one gets up on the wrong side of life on purpose. No one.

anny

Because I Can

2012-01-20T09:04:00.000-05:00

Why do I get up in the morning? Because I can. Not everyone has that privilege, but I do. So when I'm feeling grumpy and stiff and angsty, I remind myself of days when I couldn't make it out of bed...and I shut up.

Why do I climb the stairs? Because I can. I admit there are some days it takes longer. Some days I have to stop midway up and take a little breather. But there you are. Life is what it is.

Why do I read so much? Because I can. There are places in this world where reading is impossible. I have the right to read and a library full of books. Someday the government may come in and confiscate them, but they can't erase the things I've learned, the ideas I've thought, no they can't erase those.

Why do I protest bad decisions by my representatives? BECAUSE I CAN. Of course, pretty soon that might not be so. At least, I might have to pay a price for that privilege because not enough people understood what we had to lose.

Why do I lift my voice against injustice? Because I can. Many across the world pay the ultimate price. Many have died already. Who will cry out, if not me?

Why do I vote? Because I can.

For now.

anny

Know Your Target!

2012-01-19T09:50:00.002-05:00

I received an e-mail from one of my publishers this morning informing me the first book in my series would be "selling" in early February for free. This is a marketing tactic that's proved successful in the past, apparently, especially for older series. There is a constant turnover in the reader arena and many just might not be aware of a particular series so offering the first book as a freebie encourages the reader to try something new-to-them.

It will be interesting to see if it works. With so many books available, it's harder and harder to stand out, let alone sell. It's not enough to declare in ringing tones that your books receive FIVE stars from reviewers. There's a perception that ALL books receive five stars...probably because nobody brags about receiving two stars. After a while the five star declaration loses some of it's power and punch.

This particular series is about blue people in a closed valley. At one time, that idea was highly unusual and mysterious. Then AVATAR burst on the movie screen and now when I talk about my Mystic Valley series, I receive sly knowing looks and comments like, "Ah...it's like Avatar."

Well, no. It's the other way around. Avatar is like the Mystic Valley books. A friend called me up when Avatar came out. "Did you know they stole your blue people?" she yelled. "They look exactly how you described them in your books!"

No idea is unique. No character description. No plot. Just...no. And while I admit the blue people in Avatar bear a striking likeness to my blue people, that's where the resemblance ends. I believe my own stories have value and merit and a certain uniqueness of character.

When the free Mystic Valley book is offered, check it out. Blue people are cool. Mine are definitely cool. And they don't die...

anny

Trash or Treasure?

2012-01-18T16:53:00.001-05:00

Since I'm at a stand-still on my current works in progress, I decided to do an "audit" of my other wips in the hopes I would find a previously unperceived treasure. After the first five or six, it was obvious I would need a list. The list consists of title, current length, and possible target publisher. I ended up with twenty two works ranging from a mere jumpstart of 1K to a twelve chapter story of 40K. That last one is book two of the series I'm currently working on and I estimate it will top out at 65K.

I have three others that are over 20k. And the rest are a middling bunch of story starts between 5K and 10K. As part of the audit, I read every wip (except for the 40K jobby). My intent was to scrap some of them. Unfortunately, that's not what happened.

Instead, I grabbed a notepad and started scribbling ideas and notes for each story. Seems I'm not quite ready to give them up after all. By the time the house hunk interupted me for the eighty-seventh time, I had several sheets of possibilities. Clearly, I can't work on them all at the same time. So the real problem is picking an alternate wip to work on when I'm stalled on Sinister Spear.

Which one will it be? Something short I can market as a quick little read? Or something longer? I don't know. Likely I'll sleep on it tonight and choose in the morning when one of them bubbles to the top of the pot.

What about you? Do you have more than one work in progress in your trunk? How do you decide which one you'll work on next?

anny

Win or Fail?

2012-01-16T09:35:00.001-05:00

Win. Fail. It all depends on how you look at it. How often has something gone wrong that actually turned out for the better? Isn't it all a matter of perspective?

Humans tend to remain in their same stodgy path of least resistance until some incident demands change. We take the same route to work. Eat the same foods. Carry out our boring routines until pushed in a new direction. A bridge that is out forces us to take a new route. The doctor tells us we can no longer have caffeine or sugar. Our job schedule changes and we discover the joys of a dawn or sunset.

Every year millions of people contemplate changes in their lives as the new year rolls around. Some actually carry out those changes, but most fail to fight the entropy of human life for one simple reason. We don't have a compelling reason.

Oh, in our minds, the reason is valid or reasonable. For instance, I know I need to lose several pounds. Everyone agrees this would be a good thing. My doctor, my friends, my family all agree. But until I have a compelling reason, it won't happen. That's the true reason most people aren't successful in their weight loss programs. They're not on board with the changes required. The commitment isn't there.

It's easier to maintain the status quo.

I read a line once in a romance..."he's like an aircraft carrier--hard to turn around". Yeah. That's us. Changing direction is difficult. Unless we take a lesson from that ship and change direction bit by bit. So today (and maybe for several days until it's part of my new routine) I'll spend more time on my feet. That's all I will require of my new routine.

It seems simple enough, but I expect it won't work out that way. Probably I'll have to set a timer to remind me. Get up! Walk around. Bend over and stretch. How long do you suppose I should commit to my new routine? Ten minutes per hour? Yeah, ten minutes. So. This is my new commitment for the rest of January. Let's see if I can manage this small change for the next two weeks. Who knows? I may find I like it.

It might just turn out to be a win!

anny

Potty Manners

2012-01-15T09:28:00.000-05:00

What is it with people? Were they all raised in barns? Today's pet peeves...

Women who "sprinkle" on the toilet seat--and don't clean up after themselves. Ladies, (and I use that term very loosely) if you can't wipe the seat, wait until you go home where you're free to pee on your own seat! But I bet you don't do that.

Men who leave the toilet seat up. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it that you're half the world's population and you get to stand up to pee. Nice for you. The rest of us don't have that advantage. And there is NOTHING as cruddy as stumbling into the bathroom in the middle of the night and dunking your ass in a cold water bath because the last jerk didn't put the seat down. Drop it!

Men--or women--who use the last bit of toilet paper and don't replace the roll! How tough can that be? I especially get annoyed at people who don't take the time to notify management when a public restroom needs attention. It takes a few seconds to stop someone and say, "Your restroom needs attention." That's it. Five seconds.

Whiskers in the sink. Come on, guys. A quick whisk and rinse is all that's required. Same for everyone who leaves gobs of toothpaste in the sink. People! You're not the only ones who have to use the porcelain bowl. Clean up, I say!

That will be all. Y'all have a nice day!

anny

Friday Snippet

2012-01-13T11:36:00.003-05:00

His hand dived in the pocket, curling around in dangerously tight spacebefore reappearing with the key ring dangling from his meaty fist. Momentslater we were standing in the cabin’s tiny kitchen/living room. “Nice place,”he observed before pushing me down on the lumpy couch.

“How did you find me?” I really needed to know what mistake I’d made thatallowed him to track me down.

“Just a hunch.”

“A hunch?” I stared at him in appalled disbelief. “How could you findsomeone with a hunch?”

He opened the old-fashioned icebox and helped himself to one of my sodas.Twisting the cap off, he took a hefty swallow before turning to face me. “Istudied your file. You seem to alternate the types of locations you choose.Your last one was urban so the next would be rural. Then I drew a circle thatcovered the territory you could travel in two days. After that, I eliminatedplaces that were too similar to other locations you’ve chosen in the past.” Hetook another long drink. “You were too well prepared to run so I reasoned youprobably had somewhere to run to.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. Everyone in the world has a pattern to their lives. Even the oneswho deliberately try to eliminate patterns. It was just a matter of figuringout what your pattern was.” He squatted in front of me, caught my chin in hishand and stared deep in my eyes. “I found you once. I can find you again. Soyou might as well tell me what the hell this is all about. No one spends theirlife scrambling from one place to another without good reason.”

Impatience and irritation rose up within me. “I told you. There arepeople after me. They want me dead.”

“Yeah. According to you they want your blood first, though. What arethey? Vampires?” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.

“They’re one of those neo-supremist groups,” I snarled. “And they nodoubt followed you here. Now I’ll have to leave my gardening stuff behind andall my plants will die. Thanks a lot!”

“That’s what you’re worried about? A few plants?”

“When you don’t have much, every little bit counts.”

Something—a shift in light, a change in the insect hummingoutside—something tipped me off and I dove off the couch taking him to thefloor as the window exploded. The whine of shots whistled overhead. “Staydown,” I yelled as I rolled across the floor toward the tiny bedroom, steadilycursing under my breath at the hand cuffs. In the doorway I paused long enoughto wriggle and hunch until I wrenched my arms over my feet so they were atleast in front of me. Then I was up and running bent over for my bugout bag.

The cop was right behind me as more shots and the sound of tinkling glassfilled the air.

“You don’t follow directions very well.” I jerked my shotgun from thebag, as the front door slammed against the wall. “Down!”

He dropped to the floor as I pulled the trigger.

©Anny Cook 2012

Good Old Days

2012-01-12T11:18:00.000-05:00

In the last few days, there have been a rash of "the good old days" posts on various Facebook walls. You know the ones about playing outside until the street lights came on and so forth. Like all things we view through the nostalgic prism of time, we choose to remember the good and forget the bad.

I don't think that's selective memory. It's just a yearning for a time when things were simpler. At least that's our perception. But if you take a man or woman out of their familiar surroundings and place them back...oh about fifty years, most wouldn't have a clue how to accomplish some of the most basic tasks.

Then food preparation took place in the kitchen--on a stove. The proliferation of kitchen appliances was barely beginning. A few kitchens had mixers, big heavy machines you used to make cake and cookie batters. The overall machine was durable enough for my two year old daughter to use it when she need a stepping stone from the kitchen counter to the top of the refrigerator. You don't want to know the rest of that story...

Other than the mixer, there were no other appliances. No microwave. No George Foreman grill. Nothing. We (the hunk and I) acquired our first microwave when our oldest child was ten. He's forty-one now. You do the math. It was a tiny little box we didn't really use much for another five years. And dishes? Dishes were washed by hand.

Laundry...laundry was an all day process--usually performed on Monday. We had a wringer washer. The process went something like this: Fill the washer with the hottest water you could get. Add bluing. Wash the "white" clothes. Run them through the wringer. Soak in a big washtub/sink to rinse. Run them through the wringer again one piece at a time. Hang on the line outside to dry. Wash the sheets. Repeat the wringer/rinse process. Wash the "colored" clothes. Repeat. Wash the towels. Wash the "dark" clothes. Wash the "dirty/muddy" clothes. Empty washer and sink. Clean any residue from washer. Repeat next week.

Notice. You used the same water for the entire washing process. By the time you reached the last load, the water was cool and...dirty.

Tuesday. Ironing day. Some of you probably don't know what an iron is, but when I was growing up, everything was ironed. Everything, including the sheets and pillowcases. You got a free pass on the underwear and bras, but not slips. (That's probably another item most women don't remember.) All the clothes were sprinkled with starch water, rolled up in little logs to keep them damp, and if you didn't plan to iron them immediately, they were kept in the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator.

Ironing was an art. A woman (or man) who ironed well could actually make a living at it. It was also hot (no air conditioners back then), rough on your back and legs, and if you were careless, you could end up with singed fingers.

In the summer, you prayed for a cool rainy day when you had to iron. There were no air conditioners. If you were fortunate your family owned a couple "box" fans. They were set in the window (blowing out) on the sunny side of the house/apartment to draw in the supposedly cool breezes from the shady side of the house. Sometimes it even worked.

Cars didn't have seat belts or door locks. I know. I opened the back door the Easter I was about five and rolled my oldest brother (who was around two) out the back door. While we were moving. He ended up in an irrigation ditch by the side of the road.

When I brought my first baby home from the hospital, I held him in my arms--in the front seat. We didn't have car seats until my third child was born. Try traveling anywhere with a bunch of little kids riding unrestrained in the back seat.

Of course we weren't distracted by telephones or texting. When I was small, we had a "wind-up" box on the wall. First you cranked the box. Then you asked the operator to connect you to the person you wanted. It was a party-line (which just means more that one family shared the line). Any one could listen in to the conversation at anytime--and did so frequently. The operator knew everybody's business in the entire town.

By the time I was around ten, you could pay extra to have a private line. It was easy for others to determine your financial state simply by knowing whether or not you had a party-line.

The phone was generally on the wall in the kitchen. When I was engaged I was permitted to speak to the hunk for twenty minutes twice a week. While my parents listened to the conversation.

Yep. Those were the good old days.

anny

Indecisions, Indecisions...

2012-01-11T09:25:00.000-05:00

One of the questions I'm asked frequently is, "Where do you get your ideas?" The better query might be, "How do you decide which idea to work on?"

It's hard settling on a story idea. I have a proliferation of plot bunnies. But most of them--the vast majority--don't go anywhere. They just huddle in the corners, twitching their noses and wiggling their ears. Unfortunately, I might have to write as much as three or four chapters before I concede that particular rabbit is just not gonna run.

Then it's back to the corner to pick out a new bunny.

Once in a while, I'm seized with a terrific idea that leads to more than one story. Once in a while. Usually, there's an intriguing world attached and that is what makes the ideas come alive.

I've noticed that fewer and fewer books I read really have well developed worlds. They're wallpaper worlds so all the action takes place in a room or two (mostly the bedroom!) so the author really doesn't have to answer simple questions like "What kind of clothes do they wear?" or "What do they eat?"

I digress.

At this moment, I have ten or twelve stories started. One of the difficulties is sex. The market is changing. Publishing is changing. And what publishers wanted six months ago--or a year ago--is not what they apparently want now. Some of the stories were originally aimed at the erotic romance market. Now I need to "scale them back" before I can finish them for a more restrained romance market. And that's just fine. I'm tired of gratuitous sex.

I want a romance. I want commitment. And then I want sex. Love? Yeah, that would be nice, too. But I've also noticed that in many stories the h/h fall in love and suddenly everything is wonderful. All problems are solved. They walk hand in hand into the sunset. Except love doesn't necessarily solve all problems. It might make it more pleasurable to be together. But give me an iron clad commitment that will last through thick or thin and will be a firm foundation to build on. Then we'll talk about love.

Anyway. I'm currently working on book two of the Tuatha Treasures series. Yesterday I edited the first eleven chapters and intended to start chapter twelve today. But in the night, some changes came to me so I suspect I'll delve back into those first eleven chapters. And maybe...maybe I'll end up with enough extra words to make a couple more chapters.

Maybe.

anny

Faith and Hope

2012-01-10T10:01:00.000-05:00

Hope is the only thing that keeps us going when chaos swirls all around us. But what about when hope is gone? In the past year or so, there has been a disheartening rash of family murder-suicides. At some point in each case one member of each family has reached that point of no hope.

Now I certainly don't advocate killing your family! I don't advocate suicide. My point here is the increasing number of people who feel there is no other solution. What is the final tipping point?

I wonder why so many people choose this solution? Do they really believe their family is better off dead? Really? It seems to me we are not as resilient as we once were. There is less cushion against our inevitable stumbles. We have less hope in the future.

I think...we have less faith. People pray less. Whatever concept people have of God or a Higher Power, they've shoved him/her/it to the side.

Most humans need something to worship. In the absence of organized religion they worship celebrities or sports figures or political figures. Because the new gods are human they inevitably fail. Each new failure of the worship object leads to a new cycle of depression. And less hope.

So. Perhaps its time to go back to worshiping a deity. I'm not talking about religion. On the whole, organized religion is less than satisfactory. Religion is simply another place for people to go when they don't want to think for themselves.

This is about faith. Faith in a higher power, a creator, a plan for the universe.

In our insistence on an either/or explanation for the universe, we've discarded the creator in favor of a random development of life. Why must it be either/or? Why do we limit our vision of God? And why do we rush to blame our higher power when things go wrong?

If we have the self-autonomy to choose our actions, why do we then blame God when we--or our fellow man makes bad choices? We can't have it both ways.

Prayer--communication with the creator--was never meant to be a group activity. From the beginning it was a one-on-one conversation. For me, it is continual speech with someone I respect and believe in. I have a feeling most people don't really have anyone they respect or believe in at a bone deep level. Most people expect everyone around them to fail.

Ultimately, it is that expectation that breeds despair.

anny

He has my vote...

2012-01-09T09:57:00.000-05:00

It's scary when you find voting for a dog a viable option. What has our country come to?

In the last few months our congress has passed laws that have effectively stripped the constitution of all our rights. The President signed the latest into law last week. The voting for the latest law took place in the middle of the night--during the month of December. And no one noticed.

No media reported it. No journalist stood up in protest. And few citizen's voices were heard over the clamor of football, Christmas/New Years, the Kardashians, and whatever else was on TV to distract the sleeping public.

Did you know the House of Representatives are considering a bill that would allow the government to strip your citizenship? Does that concern you?

Have you listened closely to any of the candidates and the nonsense they are proposing? Has anyone really considered what our country would be like if any of them become President?

There are no viable choices. Perhaps by design?

Think about this. Why aren't more people asking questions?

anny

Rearrangements

2012-01-05T00:06:00.000-05:00

Moving furniture around, rearranging my living space used to be one of the ways I gave myself a new environment to live in. Add in painting and the occasional bit of wallpaper and I was a happy camper for a while. That was back then. Back when I was younger and had more energy.

Now? Leave me alone.

Last week, early one morning, I woke to an incessant beeping. Beep, beep, beep. After a while, I rolled out of bed and set out to hunt down the source. It was my UPS (uninterrupted power supply) for my computer. A little red light flickered. With a sigh I turned it off. And then back on. The light was green and there was no beeping. With a sigh of relief, I concluded some electrical surge had tripped the switch and went about my business.

About an hour later, again the beeping started...first it was spaced out, but soon picked up speed. At that point I summoned the house hunk and inquired what he thought the problem might be.

He noted another red light on the other end of the device that indicated a ground fault in the building wiring. Fabulous. Our apartment building is well over forty years old. And it's for sure the owners are not going to start tearing out walls to redo the wiring.

After some discussion and investigation of the other electrical outlets in the room, we located one that was "good". Unfortunately, using it for my computer would necessitate moving all the furniture in the room. And thus began my week of rearranging. Actually, I'm still putting stuff away.

Prior to moving in the current office, my desk was out in the living room and my granddaughters slept in the room. In an effort to provide a quiet place where I could write while the family watched television in the living room, we swapped places. At the time, it was going to be a temporary solution.

Over time my office also became the place to stash Nanna's stuff that didn't have a home--temporarily. In other words, it became a room-sized closet. That was three years ago.

Now rectifying the situation was on my schedule as a spring project--not a beginning-of-the-year project. But since I had to move everything anyway...

As I said, I'm still organizing and putting stuff away. And in the midst of that, I'm also organizing and putting stuff away in the spare room because my son is coming for a week-long visit at the end of this week.

I freely admit I have a lot of stuff. Yarn, fabric, paint (acrylics, craft and watercolors) brushes, canvases, huge sheets of vellum and other calligraphy supplies, ink, pens, light boxes, clay, beads, frames, and so on. That's not even considering the musical instruments, craft and calligraphy reference books and the drafting table. I'm selfish enough to want to keep my stuff. That's an unlovely admission, but there you are. After rearing four children, I like having stuff. My stuff.

All I have to do is figure out where to put my stuff for the next week or so. Once my son goes home, I'll have time to rearrange the spare room back to it's original craft/art room purpose. And my office can finally return to being an office.

So that's what I've been up to for the first week of 2012. What about you?

anny

Story of Love

2012-01-04T09:52:00.000-05:00

Last night I had my monthly chat. We discussed what readers might have on their wishlist for 2012. Are they tired of the paranormal? Do they want less kinky? Do they want fewer participants and longer stories?

It's impossible to gauge reader desires. For one thing, the most vocal are not necessarily the ones plunking down their hard-earned money for books (whatever form they take!) One group will clamor for less sex, more romance, and a standard male/female relationship. But when royalty time rolls around the books that meet that criteria have abysmal sales.

So what do readers want?

Personally, I think the time has finally arrived for a hybrid. No, not a new genre. Erotic romance has always been a wicked step-sister to all the other romances. And it was an either/or situation. Either it was an erotic romance. Or it wasn't. Erotic romances moved closer and closer to erotica. Standard romances inched closer to the erotic. I propose a romance that edges back from the most explicit of the erotic romances with fewer sex scenes, more plot and stronger characters. Genre would not be the defining point for the book. Instead, romance and emotional bonds would set the standard.

Would anyone buy it? I have no idea. Readers say they want just such a book. In my experience, though, they aren't eager to put their money behind their request.

So what do you think? What do you want in your romances in 2012? Less sex? More romance? Or do you want something we haven't even thought of?

anny

Day by Day

2012-01-02T18:25:00.000-05:00

I suspect my kids really don't believe the hunk and I were ever young. The picture was taken when I was seventeen and he was just twenty-one. When I look at it, I can't imagine how I thought I was old enough to get married. I had already graduated from high school and was working full-time as an accounts payable clerk. That doesn't seem possible.

Within two years we had a baby. A year later, we had another. And six years after this picture was taken we lived two thousand miles from our families, alone and on our own with three small children.

Time has passed oh so quickly. As I read through the postings on my Facebook account so many people were writing about how anxious they were to move on to the new year--and how bad the last year was. I wanted to tell them don't wish away your life. One day you'll turn around and discover you're not only not young anymore. You'll discover you're not even middle aged!

Oh, no! You're heading into senior citizen territory! Your children are all approaching middle age. Crawling out of bed in the morning is a feat of courage and bravery. The act of tying your shoes is accompanied by groans and whimpers.

Nope. Live each day to the fullest. That might mean you vacuumed the living room. Or possibly you've run a marathon. But whatever you're capable of doing on that day, make it count. When the picture above was taken, I was in my mid-forties, had just graduated from college and was climbing a mountain every weekend. I'm glad I did those things while I was able to.

Now, in my retirement, I write stories that other people pay to read! Who would have thought my life would take such a detour?

Live, I say. Whatever comes in 2012, make each day count.

anny

Be One With The Tapestry

2011-12-28T18:56:00.001-05:00

Have you ever fallen in love with a work of art or music or location? When you tried to share how you felt, did the other person's eyes start to glaze over? Yeah, I can relate.

There's more going on than terminal boredom on the other fellow's part. The answer finally dawned on me the other night as I sat listening to a favorite piece of music. If you compare music, art, landscape, or writing to a tapestry, the answer is simple. Some people--maybe most people--don't perceive all the strands in the tapestry.

That's all right. I figure all of life is one gigantic tapestry. No one could possibly see the tapestry in it's entirety. Some people see (or hear) certain bits more closely than others. Each person has his or her own bit.

Where the bits overlap, we share the experience. I suspect some fortunate individuals have been given the gift of extra perception. They see colors the rest of us don't. They hear music we don't hear. They fathom the universe in ways we can't imagine. Words dance and flow in a ballet of the senses conveying ideas we can barely grasp.

I know a woman who can knit garments using only the vision she carries in her mind. When finished, they fit perfectly. I am a reasonably proficient knitter. Yet I can barely finish a scarf even with a pattern to follow.

I know a young man who looks at a paper full of numbers (most of them I swear are random) and can tell you in a few seconds where the error is located. Some of these gifts or talents the human race seems to prize and others we have little respect for but all are part of the tapestry.

The next time you try to explain why something particularly touches or excites you, remember... Your friend or family member may not share the same bit of tapestry. Their particular bit may be over a few feet to the right or left. That's probably why you can't understand why they're raving about the hum in the engine or the way that trout leaps into the air. Maybe they have a dancing soul. They might have a healing touch. Whatever they possess, stop for a moment and give thanks for each unique bit of the tapestry--whether or not you understand their part or not.

Be one with the tapestry.

anny

Reflections

2011-12-28T08:36:00.000-05:00

Traditionally, as we reach the end of the year, we pause to reflect. Was it a good year? Bad? What can we do to improve things next year? What goals should we set for the upcoming year? Decisions, decisions.

I suppose the end of a year is a natural time to think about these things though some people do so on their birthdays. Since my birthday is at the end of the year in the midst of the holiday hoopla, consideration of the year gets postponed until after the Christmas rush.

I don't think it's accidental. There is a natural depression after Christmas. We run around, cooking, shopping, decorating...and then with jarring abruptness it's over. Family and friends go home. We're left with the debris and leftovers from Christmas littering our homes and the Mt. Everest of decorations to put away.

In the wind-down from the frenetic pre-holiday rush, we finally have time to think. We look forward--and back--and reflect on our life. Most people heave a sigh of relief for the year's passing while they eagerly look forward to the possibilities of the new year. It seems we're ever positive when looking forward and ever negative when looking back. I wonder why that is?

Perhaps it has something to do with uncompleted goals and unexpected roadblocks in life. Goals are easily adjusted. Sometimes I think we sabotage ourselves by piling too many expectations on the goal pile. Why not set just one? My goal for 2012 is to take better care of myself...whatever form that might be.

As for unexpected roadblocks--why are they unexpected? All of life is a series of unexpected detours leading us down back roads. I've never met anyone who mostly traveled the freeways of life. All of us are on the back roads. Unfortunately, most of us are not taking the time to enjoy the scenic byways we're traveling. We're too busy moaning and groaning about how slow the trip is.

This year, I plan to take the time to enjoy the scenic byways. Who knows what life will bring? None of us live in a vacuum, though. Perhaps we should pause to absorb whatever each new day brings to us. It might be grief or sadness, but those things are part of life just as joy and happiness are. We should embrace each new bit of life--the peaks and the valleys.

Without the valleys, I suspect we would fail to appreciate the peaks. Blessings for the forthcoming year.

anny

Help Wanted: Bicycle Mechanic

2011-12-22T09:22:00.003-05:00

Christmas 1979. That was the year we stretched the budget to get the kids’ bicycles. At our house, Santa always brings a stuffed animal. It was my feeling that Santa bringing tons of presents sets up kids for unrealistic expectations. No matter how the year goes, a stuffed animal is always doable. And after that, whatever Mom and Dad can come up with is great.

My kids had a realistic idea of our money situation from the time we sat them down and let them pay the bills with real money. My house hunk had his check cashed at the bank in $1 bills. Then we sat down with the kids and let them count out the money for each bill. We did that for six weeks. If there was any money left over after the bills we let them do the grocery shopping with a calculator and count out the money for the food.

After that when we said there was no money, they understood that reality. To this day, they’re all very good managers. This particular Christmas was important to us as a family as the previous Christmas had been very, very bad. We didn’t have a lot of money, but there was a bit more than usual so we decided that we could afford to buy bicycles.

Of course when your kids are pre-teen age, hiding bicycles is a pretty tricky proposition. Finally, we simply made the garage off-limits. Late Christmas Eve the house hunk and I were out there trying to assemble three bicycles. The store would have assembled them, but that cost money that we couldn’t afford. One needed training wheels. Things did not go well.

Around 2 AM, the door opened and my second son trotted out there with his hands in his pockets. First of all, I was startled that he was still dressed. And then of course I demanded to know why he was awake.

“Well,” he said, “I thought I would see how long it took you to put them together. But it’s late. I’m tired. And I would like to ride my bike tomorrow. So I gave up. Do you want me to put them together?”

His father handed him the wrenches. “If you think you can do better than we are, go for it.” Thirty minutes later all three bikes were assembled and parked by the tree.

My son was nine years old that Christmas. Until he left for the Navy, it was always his responsibility to assemble all the gifts marked “Some Assembly Required.”

That year Santa brought the kids stuffed Safari animals—lions, tigers, and such. Up until a few years ago, they still had them. And then they decided to donate them to a kid’s program. As I recall, that was the sum total of Christmas gifts that year, except for the perennial favorite… new underwear. To this day, that’s a family in-joke. Every Christmas the kids receive new underwear. Now of course, it’s pretty fancy stuff.

The Christmas Mouse

2011-12-20T00:23:00.001-05:00

It was two days before Christmas and Herald, the Christmas Mouse was too tired to move. When humans started the Christmas Shopping Season, they didn't think about how hazardous all those busy shoppers were for the mice. Why, a mouse could barely scurry across the wide hallways in the mall without someone stepping on his tail--or worse! It was up to Herald to take care of all the tiny mouselets while their harried parents shopped.

Some of the mouse children didn't want to stay in the nursery. Some pulled on Herald's tail because they wanted to shop with their Mamas. There were fifteen children from the Snow family and they all wanted something to eat! Little Angela Tree sucked her paws and bawled for her Mama.

Herald ran from child to child, wiping whiskers, offering cheese crumbs and toys, and refereeing arguments between the two oldest boys in the Star family, Twinkle and Shiny. Herald desperately wanted a few minutes of quiet.

Then he heard a beautiful sound drift through the nursery door. It was the sound of someone singing. One by one the mouse children grew silent. As the singing grew louder, the mouselets all gathered on the rug in the center of the room and they sat down in small groups, listening carefully to the music. Soon Herald realized that some of them were humming the melody.

In the still, quiet nursery, Herald crept to the door and peeked out into the corridor. A young human woman sat on a bench in the center of the mall, singing all alone. People were smiling and stopping to listen. Cranky children who had been crying, grew quiet and leaned against their weary parents as the young woman continued to sing. Slowly, peace fell over the mall to the strains of a Christmas song. Then Herald recognized the music. She was singing the Christmas Lullaby--Silent Night.

Herald turned to look at the mouse children and saw that they were all asleep. Twinkle Star was even snoring!

Softly, Herald crept out to the young woman and stood near her foot with his whiskers twitching and his beady little eyes shining, listening to the beautiful song. And then, wonder of wonders, she bent and offered him a perch on her fingers. It seemed to him that she even perhaps invited him to sing with her.

Suddenly, Herald wasn't so tired. He opened his tiny mouth and began to sing. And as he sang with all his heart, the Christmas Spirit swelled within him so that when the song was finished, he roared out, "Merry Christmas Everybody! And a Happy New Year!"

©2007 Anny Cook

Love

2011-12-16T08:17:00.001-05:00

Many men are totally inarticulate when it comes to talking about their emotions--especially love. If the woman says "I love you" they give her a hasty pat on the butt and say "me, too" and that's it! I'm married to one of those men. A friend once asked me how I could live with that. I said you get used to it. And she countered that she wanted it all.

Articulation is fine, but words aren't enough, are they? Women know there is a certain class of men who are as suave and debonair as they can be, incredibly articulate with their fine lines, but absolutely no follow up with their actions. I'll take the guy that demonstrates love everyday over the one who just is talk, but no action.

What is love?

Love is getting up and going to work everyday through rain, snow, fatigue, bad bosses, and all those other irritations in the workforce. Love is taking responsibilities seriously for over thirty-seven years through thick and thin.

Love is coming home from work, passing me in the hall as I rushed off to work, and taking care of three small tired children--bath, supper, and reading a story before bed--even though he's ready to drop and would rather sit in front of the TV with a beer.

Love is packing me off to my parents when I'd reached the end of my endurance--and spending Thanksgiving alone with four kids. I don't know what he told my parents, but when I arrived they ushered me into a bedroom and told me to let them know when I was hungry. Otherwise, they wouldn't bother me. I spent a week sleeping.

Love is supporting me in every possible endeavor I could think up to try. Genealogy? We traveled literally thousands of mile to research in remote libraries. Calligraphy? He learned how to mat and frame my work so I could afford to display it. Writing? He provided time, space, and computer. College? Oh, yes, he pitched in at home after commuting four hours a day so I could spend my evenings in classes.

Love is pulling together. It's crawling under the house through cold mud and spiderwebs so we could repair a water pipe. It's lying side by side underneath a car during an ice storm in February to fix the muffler so one of us could go to work. It's standing side-by-side as each of our children graduated from high school. It's holding hands while we watch fireworks on the fourth of July.

Love is having sex almost everyday, even though we're both wrinkled and saggy. Love is accepting all the little irritations in our mate, shrugging off the toilet tissue turned the wrong way, accepting the absolute refusal to load the dishwasher because he makes the bed.

Words? Anyone can say words. Give me a man of action. Fourty-four years ago we stood in church and vowed to stick together through thick and thin. And did. That is love.

anny

Long Road Home--1989

2011-12-12T19:39:00.000-05:00

Christmas 1989. “Please come if you can. Uncle Charles has terminal cancer and probably won’t be with us next Christmas.”

For many years in my family, holidays (Christmas and Thanksgiving) have been alternated with the in-laws. This year was not a our family Christmas, but the family was trying to get together anyway. It wasn’t a great year for us. My husband was on disability because of an accident at work. I was on unemployment because my company, Waldenbooks, had moved their warehouse operation from New York to Tennessee. The boys, recently graduated from high school, were out of work, since they had also been employed there. Jobs were scarce with 700 unemployed warehouse workers suddenly in the job market. I was attending school as a dislocated worker, hoping to obtain the skills for a new job.

“Please come.” Our car was shot. There was barely enough for a gift for each of the kids. Friends had provided Christmas dinner components for us. The trip from New York to Indiana was out of the question. Reluctantly, I called my parents with the news.

The kids asked us if we could talk for a few minutes. “Suppose we give up our present money…would we have enough gas money to get there?” one of them asked.
My younger son offered to change the oil and do a quick check up on the car. The older one pointed out that we could take turns driving. The car had very little heat…but my older daughter suggested that we could take extra blankets.

Slowly, one objection at a time, they showed us that we could make the trip. I called my parents in LaPorte, Indiana and suggested that they make some extra beds.

We traveled to LaPorte, stopping only for restrooms and coffee. Our car was a tight squeeze for five small people. We had six large people. The kids said that was a good thing as we all stayed warmer that way. Meals were sandwiches eaten in the car. In Ohio, we ran into snow. The car heater didn’t work well enough to defrost the windows so they began to freeze over. There were frequent stops to clear them, but we made it. After eighteen hours on the road we arrived in LaPorte. There was close to a foot of snow on the ground.

It was a great Christmas, rendered more poignant because of Uncle Charles’ illness. There were more family members there than at anytime before or since. Two came from Guam. Others came from all over the United States. Close to 70 people sat down for Christmas dinner. Afterwards there were games, carols, and visiting.

A couple of days later the trip home was longer as there was more snow to contend with. In Pennsylvania, the snow was so heavy that it melted on the headlights, creating a sheet of ice that coated them. We stopped frequently to clear them just so we had light. Cars were sliding off the road. It was night. Plows couldn’t keep up with the storm. The rest areas were closed. We had no money to stay anywhere so we kept moving. Twenty-six hours later, we arrived safely home.

Anyone who has traveled with teenagers knows that it’s impossible to travel far without petty squabbles and picking. However, our entire trip, bad weather, extremely uncomfortable conditions, with limited money, there wasn’t a cross word from anyone.

A miracle. Several, in fact.

anny
© 2007 Anny Cook

Christmas Surprise--1964

2011-12-09T11:09:00.000-05:00

The end of that year was an incredibly turbulent time. In November on my fourteenth birthday, President Kennedy was assassinated. It was in the beginning years of the Vietnam War. The Cuban Missile crisis was not long before that. Uncertainty was everywhere. So herewith, the story of Christmas 1964.

Christmas 1964. That was the year that Christmas wasn’t going to bring even one gift…we thought. It was a poor financial year. I didn’t exactly know that we were poor. We had plenty to eat. We had clean, warm clothes. We had a warm, sheltering apartment in Chicago that my stepmother, Maxine, worked hard to make a haven for us.

Now that I am a parent and grandparent I realize how difficult it must have been for her to sit us down a few weeks before Christmas and explain that there wasn’t any money for gifts. If all the money she had managed to save was pooled, we could have a special Christmas dinner. Back then there were no such things as food banks or church assistance.

Soberly, we considered the dilemma, and then one by one, we agreed that a special dinner was the best use for the money we had. Once that was settled, we put it behind us and life went on.

Then, a couple weeks before Christmas, Mum told all of us to hurry home immediately after school, as there would be a surprise. Friends of the family planned to bring each of us a gift and wished to be present when we opened them. So on this day, I slung my books into my locker at school and rushed home. Pounding up the stairs to our second floor apartment, I eagerly flung open the door—and froze in my tracks.

Every level surface in both the dining and living rooms was covered with gifts. Piles of beautifully, lovingly decorated boxes with bows and trinkets. A tree twinkled merrily in the corner. The melodies of familiar Christmas carols filled the air. Unexpectedly, Christmas had come to our home.

As I stood in the open doorway, I could not imagine what had happened. Certainly, we didn't get rich overnight. I shut the door before walking around the rooms gently touching the lovely boxes. Mum, more excited than I had ever seen her, urged me to look in the kitchen where two boxes of groceries, a ten-pound ham, fifty pounds of potatoes, and a five pound box of chocolates sat on the table. A special Christmas dinner indeed!

In a little while, when my brothers came home from school and my dad arrived from work, we opened the gifts. Of all the Christmases in my life, this is the one I can remember every single thing I received--not because I was a greedy kid, but because they were all gifts of sacrifice from strangers.

Our family friends were a minister and his wife with a church in Indiana. One of their church families approached them, seeking a family that wasn’t going to have any gifts for Christmas. The parents and children of this church family voted to give up their Christmas gifts so that a family, unknown to them, would have a special Christmas.

The minister and his wife undertook the responsibility of obtaining clothing sizes and special needs, plus transportation and delivery of the gifts. And they delivered our heartfelt thank you letter to the anonymous family.

As Christmas grows closer, whether we are rich or poor, I look back on that Christmas and know that we are blessed because we are together. Every year I remember the blessing of being loved unconditionally by strangers.

A miracle.

anny

Let There Be Peace on Earth

2011-12-06T09:29:00.000-05:00

The first time I heard this song was at my oldest daughter's Christmas pageant the year she was in fourth grade. The elementary school had no place big enough to hold the pageant so it was held in the high school auditorium. The program was creative and joyous and enjoyed by all the parents and families.

Near the end of the evening, teachers dressed as reindeer took the stage with a rolicking skit and song. As I was enjoying it, awareness of a shuffle and hiss crept in and I realized that the children were silently lining the walls around the auditorium.

The lights went out. A deep silence filled the huge room.

And then one young voice soared in the darkness. "Let there be peace on earth..." A tiny light flicked on lighting her face.

A few more voices joined in...just a few from points all around us. "And let it begin with me."

More lights. More voices until we were ringed in light and earnest small voices singing about peace on earth. I think about that song often. I think about how we still don't understand the underlying truth of the words..."let it begin with me" for peace does not begin with warriors. Peace is protected by warriors when all else has failed. Peace begins with each of us.

Most people believe that peace is an absence of war. That isn't true. Peace is an absence of conflict. And true peace will not arrive until we as humans refuse to countenance abuse, intolerance, genocide, greed, and famine. As long as we turn away from the less fortunate ignoring the needs of the many in favor of the wants of the few, there will be no peace on earth.

"Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me..."

anny
©2006 Anny Cook

Aging Christmas

2011-12-03T19:09:00.000-05:00

It's a Holly, Jolly Christmas...or is it? As I sat knitting a gift this afternoon, I considered all the aspects of celebrating the holidays as a senior citizen. I'm somewhat computer literate so I spend a bit of time on the Internet.

Conversations about Christmas shopping and baking and decorating leave me wondering about the relevance of those holiday traditions--especially for the elders. Think about it.

If an elder is alone (like the house hunk and I) and on a restricted diet (like the house hunk and I) then what point is there to baking six dozen cookies? Or cakes? Or...whatever? Most of that stuff is on the forbidden list so, baking as a holiday tradition has ceased.

Shopping was an early casualty to living five hours to three days travel away from the rest of the family. Everyone receives gift cards in their annual Christmas card.There really is no point in buying something, packing it, mailing it, paying postage(!), when I can save the postage and send it directly to the gift recipient. See how that works?

Truthfully, our gift giving is also limited by dwindling income and living on retirement/Social Security. It's a good thing presents aren't a major part of my family's Christmas expectations.

As for decorations--well, let's just admit we don't bend as well as we used to. The tree branches close to the floor are a little barer each year. The wreathes and hangings that are at eye level are getting a more strenuous workout, while the tinsel and ornaments that normally hang from the ceiling remain in the box. Ladders aren't recommended for folks with bad hips and knees...or those who use walkers.

Do I sound like I'm having a pity party? Well, not exactly. But I do want to make a point. In the rush and hustle and bustle don't forget those elders around you who might be alone. They may not be physically able to decorate their living spaces. Maybe they'd like a helping hand to hang a wreathe on the door--and take it back down after the holiday. It might be they'd really enjoy a small tin of cookies or fudge. You know, one of those really small tins? One they could put in the refrigerator and sneak out for a nibble or two?

And if you're going to the church Christmas pageant, you might want to consider asking if they would like to go too. As you get older, it's more difficult to get around, especially in the evening.

How about inviting them for Christmas dinner? I live way too far from my folks to fix them dinner. I call down blessings every holiday on the friends and neighbors who live nearby and make sure they invite them to share their meal.

The holidays are a lonely time. Many of our elders suffer depression more this time of year than any other. If your family becomes involved with including an elder in your celebration, your family will likely receive an unexpected blessing in return. Our elders have wonderful experience and knowledge to share with us, if only we let them know we're interested.

Take an elder to Christmas!

anny

What is Christmas?

2011-12-02T09:04:00.001-05:00

Every year I post the Christmas memories and thoughts I've written over the years. This is a post I like to begin the season with...

© Anny Cook 2007

As I sat at the computer waiting for inspiration to appear, I thought about what Christmas means. Is it shopping? Is it the story of the Christ Child? Is it the presents under the tree on Christmas morning? Christmas Carols?

For each person different things are the true essence of Christmas. For some, if they are not with their families, then it isn't Christmas. For others, certain decorations are the true meaning of Christmas.

As for me, I'm not sure what it is exactly that makes it Christmas. I have spent Christmases surrounded by a vast family and friends. I have spent Christmas alone. There was more than a Christmas or two that was tinged with grief and sadness and others that were filled with joy. Both sides of the coin had their place because our lives are not static. We are constantly moving on, constantly dealing with changes in our lives.

Traditions help us stay grounded as life rushes past but we must not be so buried in tradition that we are lost when the traditions fade away. We must be open to establishing new traditions to take their place. Sometimes a new tradition begins with a whimper. Sometimes with a bang. Some are born of desperation.

One Christmas we were so broke I wasn't sure where we would find the money for the yearly stuffed animal from Santa. My friend called to let me know that a local pharmacy had all their teddy bears on clearance. We drove down to the store, found four different ones and for the princely sum of six dollars, Santa would be making a house call at our place Christmas Eve. They were plain. Stone cold plain, but my friend rummaged through her sewing supplies and located enough fancy ribbon to outfit each bear with a jaunty bow.

And then I had the notion to issue a "gift certificate" to each of the kids. I designed them and printed them out on an old dot matrix printer and colored them with colored pencils. Each one was for a specific sum to be payable when we received our income tax refund. Looking back now, I wonder what my kids really thought about receiving a colored promissory note. But I give them a lot of credit. They acted quite excited about it.

Income tax time finally arrived and we spent hours at the stores spending their gift certificates. The next Christmas rolled around much too soon. Things weren't a whole lot better. With a faint heart I asked them what they wanted for Christmas. Unanimously, they all declared that they wanted the gift certificates again. And so a tradition was born. For many years after that, we had the Cook family gift certificates.

Heh. I was just ahead of the curve as usual. Now we do gift cards. And they're still excited.

In the last five years, we've had more of a turnover in traditions than at any other time in the past. One Christmas we witnessed the birth of a grandchild. Another Christmas Eve I brought my husband home from the hospital after surgery. Most years we've done minimal decorating due to various circumstances.

Three years ago I completed seventeen calligraphy pieces, matted and framed, and mailed them out. They were all 11 X 14 and miracle of miracles they all arrived safely. Two years ago I made memory books for my kids. They were a hodge-podge of pictures, short stories, recipes, and memories. The kids call them The Christmas Book and they hold a place of honor in their homes.

New traditions. Old traditions. They stretch back through the years providing the tapestry of Christmas past and present. Perhaps that is the meaning of Christmas... the wonderful tapestry of memories and traditions that hold us together through the good times and bad.

Anny

A Birthday and A Book

2011-12-01T08:08:00.001-05:00

Forty one years ago I was in labor with my second child. It was worth every minute! Today's he far away, working to deliver mail and packages. And I miss him. Happy Birthday, Tony!

Today is also the release of my holiday story, Yule Be Ours! I hope you'll click on the book cover to check it out! I love this book cover--it's so cheery and happy! So is the story.

And finally, tomorrow I'll start posting my annual Christmas memories series. Many of you are familiar with them, some aren't. I was considering not posting them this year, but after an informal survey, decided to post after all. So check in often from tomorrow through Christmas!

anny

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2011-11-30T08:22:00.000-05:00

Christmas! The scent of pine and cinnamon apples. The twinkle of colored lights. The strains of the familiar carols. Snow glistening on the meadow...

Halt! Rewind. Over the last few days as I tip-toed around the web, mostly what I've read about is how stressful the holidays are...and how tired people are feeling. There's dread and irritation instead of joy and anticipation. What happened?

You say there's no money this year? I'll share something with you. In the last sixty-two years, I don't recall a single year--not one--where money was plentiful. Unlike some people, we didn't have credit cards. Still don't. If we don't have the money in the bank...then we don't have it. That never stopped Christmas from arriving at our house. Some years there were more gifts than others. Some years our dinner was courtesy of the local food pantry (and thank God they were there!) But that isn't what Christmas is about, anyway.

When I was a girl, Christmas centered around the church and the religious celebration. I think because the focus was on giving rather than getting, the celebrations were very different.

Christmas was going Christmas caroling with friends and family. We carried lanterns (and then as I grew older, flashlights) and stopped every few houses as we walked, sang two or three carols and moved on. Most of the time, people came outside to listen. Sometimes they joined in the singing. Once in a while they offered us hot chocolate or cookies.

Christmas was baking cookies with the entire family. The kids carefully cut them out with the special Christmas cutters and decorated them with colored sugar. When they were cool, they were boxed up and wrapped so the kids could deliver them to friends and neighbors along with that year's Christmas card.

Christmas was decorating the tree. When the kids were born, we started a tradition of adding a new ornament for each of them every year. They were dated with a marker. And then, the year they left home, their ornaments went along with them so they'd have something familiar for their personal celebration. With four kids, there were a lot of ornaments by the time they left home. We always found a place for them on the tree. And every ornament had a story.

When the grandchildren came along, we continued the tradition. Some years our grandchildren were actually living with us when Christmas rolled around. And decorating the tree was still part of the tradition.

Arranging the Nativity in a place of honor was always a tradition. So much so, that the year my daughter's family lived with us, the grandkids gave up one of "their" tables so we'd have a place to put it. And then once it was all arranged, it was time to read the Christmas story directly from the source...Luke 2:1-20. For several years, I recited that from memory as my part in the Christmas play at church.

Christmas is about memories. And celebration. And giving. I think we've forgotten that in the gimme, gimme world created by the media and retail world. There's nothing wrong with receiving gifts. But frankly, how much stuff do we need? I don't remember the last time I received more than two or three gifts. Total. Most of them were from the Dollar Store. Because that's what the givers could afford. I still have them because it really is the thought that counts.

Our entire Christmas Gift budget for sixteen people is two hundred and fifty dollars. Most of that will be used to purchase gift cards because my children and parents live in other states. The hunk and I don't exchange gifts at all. Once a year--usually in the spring or fall--we'll choose to purchase something we especially desire and we'll call it our Christmas and anniversary gift to each other.

Instead of worrying about what we're getting, why not teach our children the true spirit of Christmas. Propose that they give the equivalent of one of their gifts to someone who isn't going to have a Christmas. Nope, I'm not advocating that parents toss more money on the debt pile by buying additional toys. Let your children make a conscious decision to forfeit one of their gifts so someone else will have something to open Christmas morning. Many kids have far more stuff than they can possibly play with already. There are innumerable places from churches to Toys for Tots that would gladly take your child's donation.

I suspect the true reason so many people are out of sorts and not feeling the Christmas spirit is because they've forgotten that shopping really isn't the reason for the season.

anny

New Story!

2011-11-29T14:12:00.000-05:00

Yep. On December 1st, I'll have a new story out. I love this cover. She's so pretty--and happy. What's this story about?

Here's the blurb: When Dashylla’s masters abandon her in Silver Rock, to be awarded new masters, she makes a fervent Yule-Cris wish for two men who will love her passionately as she yearns to be loved. Nicodemus and Myles arrive in time to make all her wishes come true.

So, what's this about masters and Yule-Cris? On the planet Hypectil, there aren't very many women. The government, in the interest of peace and prosperity, has passed legislation where women are awarded to stable groups of men. Right before Yule-Cris, Dashylla's men prove they aren't quite as stable as they appeared. They abandon her in the tiny village of Silver Rock.

But on Yule-Cris Eve, Nicodemus and Myles show up, just in the nick of time, to rescue her. And Myles and Nic plan to make her life a Happily Ever After.

Would you like to know more?

I'll post the link first thing on December 1st!

anny

Exploding Turkey

2011-11-23T12:49:00.000-05:00

One year, I think it was 1984, we moved into a new house the day before Thanksgiving. This was after spending four weeks in a hotel with four kids, three of them teenagers. It was a move from Houston, Texas to upstate New York. The kids were out of school for that four weeks because we didn't have an "official" address.

So finally, we moved in on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. That year it was also my birthday. The next morning when we woke up we had no water because the pipes were frozen. Nothing was unpacked, but we had the presence of mind to pick up several aluminum roasting pans. For the turkey, we doubled two pans and plopped the turkey in the oven while we rousted out the necessities from the jumble of boxes that were piled high in the living room and dining room.

It wasn't the first time I had moved. Actually, it was move number forty. So the next morning chaos was not something new. There were the usual shouts of "Mom, where is...?" and the usual jockeying for space and attention. My husband was trying to figure out why we had hot water in the toilet. Just the little things in life.

When is was time to take the turkey out, the pan collapsed, burning my husband's hands. He tossed it on the top of the stove and it exploded. In a instant we had turkey, dressing, and broth everywhere...on the ceiling, on the walls and counters, down in the innards of the brand new stove...on the floor. Everywhere.

The househunk took the stove apart and carried it outside to wash the worst of it off with the hose in the yard. The boys got in an argument and my younger son "ran away". I remember kneeling on the floor trying to mop up that greasy mess and crying, "I want to go home!"

And my husband leaned down and calmly pointed out, "We are home."

Heh. Well, the runaway came home. My daughters helped set the table and my sons helped wash walls and counters. Amazingly, we sat down to dinner, thankful to be in a home instead of that hotel. And every year, we retell the story of the exploding turkey dinner.

After all, it was way better than the fire in the furnace on Christmas Day. Trust me on this.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving Day!

anny

Sixty-Two

2011-11-22T08:46:00.000-05:00

Sixty-two years ago, I was born in Arizona. Wow, that went fast. I feel I should have something profound to say--and perhaps that's it. Life goes by fast.

Don't spend time wishing it away. We spend our time in so many ways and then look up and years have disappeared. What happened?

I was born at the tail-end of the forties, married in the late sixties at the height of the Vietnam War, graduated from college finally in the late eighties (at forty!) and suddenly find myself an official old lady in the twenty-first century.

In high school, I read 1984 for extra credit--back when 1984 seemed a very long time off. If I had ever put my mind to imagining the world we live in, I would never have envisioned the way computers and technology have changed our lives.

What have I learned?

Life whizzes by. Wear the good underwear instead of saving it for a special day. Use the fancy dishes in the middle of the week. Climb that mountain while you can. Dance on the beach under the moonlight. Stay up to watch the dawn. Sing with your kids while you watch the sunset. Go out in the country at night where you can see the glory of the Milky Way. Hold hands with your spouse. Pray daily.

anny

Coffee Hound

2011-11-20T09:56:00.000-05:00

I am not a coffee connoisseur. I know what I like, but I'm not a snob about coffee. I'm not a latte person, either. Coffee, cream and sweetener, and I'm good to go.

There are some places I refuse to buy coffee because I can't fix it exactly like I want it. Drive-thru coffee is far too hot. I don't want to buy coffee that I can't drink for thirty minutes until it cools down enough so I don't burn my mouth.

Flavors? Meh. Those are dessert coffees for the evening. For breakfast, give me plain, unadorned coffee. That first shot of caffeine for the day doesn't need to be gussied up.

Whipped? Cold? Blech. I'm sure my age is showing, but for me, coffee will always be a beverage meant to consumed hot. That heat rushing down the throat to warm the chest. That's part of the experience of drinking coffee. Cold coffee just doesn't convey the same sensation.

I'm a terrible coffee maker. Yes, yes, I know. Measure it in the pot and turn it on. How difficult can it be? Well. When I was a young woman, the hunk and I were friends with another couple, Dorian and Orlando. Orlando was born in Columbia (yes, South America) and he declared my coffee couldn't possibly be that bad.

The next time they came over for the evening, I made coffee...while he watched and coached me. I did everything exactly how he told me. We stood at the kitchen counter while the coffeemaker did its thing.

Finally, it was done. He poured a cup. And took a hearty gulp.

And began to cough and wheeze. "It's like rocket fuel," he gasped.

And that was the last time I was asked to make the coffee.

anny

Black Thursday

2011-11-18T01:00:00.000-05:00

The talk on Twitter and Facebook

Is usually about writing or Lolcats or nook.

But this week the friends are ready to fight--

Seems some stores are opening before midnight!

In fact (though it's really not right)

They're open for business, they say

Not Friday, but Thursday--Thanksgiving Day!

The chorus of protest is a swelling song

We must really do something--

This is just wrong!

My solution is simple. Why wait in line?

Why not wander in at seven or eight or nine?

Black Friday is a sad symptom of greed.

How many presents do we really need?

In the past we sang carols and put up the tree.

There were sparkling bright lights
and a Nativity.

The kids helped make presents for
Mommy and Dad.

Oh, they were so careful to never be bad.

Each day pretty Christmas cards arrived
in the mail

with greetings and pictures and that year's tale.

There were whispers and guessing

what was under the tree.

Sometimes there was shaking--"Oh, can I see?"

Heh. Do you remember how it was back then?

We always got one toy and candy in a tin

And new underwear and warm socks

in a gaily wrapped box.

The thing about Christmas and
Thanksgiving Day

It's a time for family to find a way to say

"I'm here to spend time together because I love you.

Nope, it's not money. It's not presents--
it's you."

Details, details...

2011-11-16T09:53:00.001-05:00

Details. There are only so many story tropes. It's the details that make it your story--or mine. Every writer has a working style. Some do elaborate outlines as they work out the story details in their mind. Some just sit down and write and work out the details as they go along. And then there are the hybrids--the writers like me who start writing what I call a jumpstart, and keep going until the details start popping up.

When they (the details) start intruding on the writing experience, it's time to stop and work on the synopsis/outline and research how the details will influence the story.

The series I'm currently working on has been called "Fractured Faerytales at King Arthur's Court". The heroine in this book, Gardenia, has acquired a cloak (she was cold) and a staff (a handy weapon) and a pair of boots (we won't discuss what happened to her old ones.) One of the heroes has acquired a scarlet cap and two bronze wristlets.

Suddenly, I realized my characters had all this great stuff. Shouldn't it do something? Let's see. What could the boots do. Well, my character has already decided they are Merlin's magic boots. How do they work? What faerytale/familiar story would magic boots represent?

Ahhhh. Research time. So far, I've accounted for the boots, cloak, staff and hat. I haven't run across a story for the wristlets. I'll persevere.

In the meantime, each item will serve to move the story along. Did I plan it? No. But this is not the first time my brain has apparently been percolating along on its own, just waiting for me to have that ah-hah moment. With the synopsis/outline thingy more or less complete, I'll dive back into the writing.

I seldom stick to the plan--at least not closely. But it provides a springboard for other ideas. And with the Flowers of Camelot, that's pretty much the best I can ask for.

anny

Taking a Poop

2011-11-15T11:18:00.001-05:00

Facebook. Something about it...makes some people lose all common sense. Seriously. I have peeves with Facebook.

1) Copy and Paste Status. NO. Don't do that. I don't want to read a status that LIKELY has been stolen from some other individual. If it's not YOUR thoughts and words AND you've posted no attribution for someone else's thoughts and words, then...why would you post it? Copy and paste is the lazy way out. If you have something to say--say it. If you like the status of someone else, then comment on THEIR status.

2) Do not click on any link from anyone you don't know. What is it about links? Why are people compelled to click on them? Why? Chances are high (very high) that the link will lead to a virus. Why in the world would anyone engage in such risky behavior? If you really want to know about the topic in the so-called link...GOOGLE it!

3) If something offensive shows up on your newfeed, message the individual it supposedly came from to inform them. Or notify the PTB at Facebook. Or just delete it. DO NOT CLICK ON IT--and then complain when you find out you've been hacked. How do you think such viruses proliferate?

4) Please don't post every single private step you take. I don't want to know how drunk you are. And I really don't want to know how many men/women you are busy bedding. There are certain things that should be private. When I was younger there was an expression "You had to be there...to understand why it was funny/profound/interesting/beautiful/etc." For most of the stuff on Facebook, that's still true.

5) I'm very concerned about people who post pics of their kids on Facebook. Pedophilia is a component of the top five or six current stories in the news. Why would anyone risk their child by putting their pictures on the internet? It worries me. If you want to show off your child to friends and family why not create a private photo site and post them there? Am I the only one bothered by this?

6) Big peeve...what is the purpose of "inviting" people to the release of your book? (See #7!) Am I going to buy it? No. I live in Baltimore (which is located on the east coast of the United States). I'm not likely to attend your booksigning at a bookstore in Idaho. Not likely. Nor am I likely to buy your book after I've had to take time to delete your event invitation. It seems to me...and perhaps I'm just wrong-headed about this...but if you can't take time to direct your announcement to the individuals on your friends list that live nearby instead of spamming friends who live too far to attend...then that demonstrates a certain disregard for your market.

7) Finally, I'm very sick and tired of people posting "buy my book/beads/herbal remedies/shoes/yarn/personal care products" on the general news feed over and over and over. Create a page for your products--yes, your books, too. I don't mind an announcement (My book Passion in the Pits was released today from Love Shack Publishing. Short blurb. See my page/website for details.) Trust me. If my interest wasn't caught the first time around, posting it seventeen more times is just gonna annoy me. Truthfully? I unsubscribe from that person if they irritate me enough.

Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, etc., etc., etc., are called social media. There is precious little socializing going on. Mostly, as far as I can tell, they're a hodge-podge of hawking products, political opinion pieces, and LOL comments. Sometimes an individual will exert that extra effort and ROFL. Wow...what happened to real words in real sentences?

anny

Fifteen Minute Challenge

2011-11-14T09:21:00.001-05:00

For those of us who lead sedentary lives, there is a tendency to sit. Sit. Sit and only move when dire necessity strikes...such as an urgent need to visit the bathroom.

Or possibly if the house is on fire.

Inevitably, this leads to all sorts of problems--real physical ailments, aside from tired eyes and fuzzy brains. Spinal issues, joint deterioration, and circulation issues are only a few of the things the sedentary lifestyle makes worse. A recent study concluded the number one way people can lengthen their lives is simply by standing.

Somehow, in this multi-tasking world, I suspect I am not the only one who lives in front of a computer, absently consuming my meals while typing madly, allowing hours to slip by with nary a muscled movement other than my fingers.

After some thought about ways I can improve my day-to-day life, I decided I will spend more time on my feet. I will also spend less time in front of the computer while still accomplishing what I need to do. I will eat with conscious deliberation, savoring the flavors in my food, rather than poking the food in while reading e-mail. And I will take up some of my former hobbies--partly because I miss them and partly because I plan to make some of my Christmas gifts this year.

But how to ensure I carry out my plan?

A) I'm designating "work time." The difficulty with working at home is there doesn't seem to be a starting-stopping time. Or lunch breaks. Or any type of breaks...

B) Out of every hour between 8 AM and 5 PM, fifteen minutes will be spent on my feet. Standing up. By the clock. Dishes count. Showering counts. Rearranging the books in the bookcases count. It's been surprisingly difficult to occupy myself for fifteen minutes every hour. With only the hunk and I around, my apartment can pretty much be straightened up in the first fifteen minutes.

C) I will stop and walk away from the computer at lunch. (Or any other meal.) Scientists have proven we eat more with less satisfaction when we eat in front of a computer or television. Since my food is measured, that means I'm really not enjoying the full experience of the food I'm allowed to eat.

D) Evenings will be reserved for those things I've enjoyed in the past. Calligraphy. Reading. Crocheting. And if those things are sedentary, then the fifteen minute rule kicks in.

It's going to be revolutionary for me. I'll let you know how it works out. If you want to take the fifteen minute challenge, let me know. I could use a buddy or two or five... :-)

anny

Land of the Brave

2011-11-11T09:53:00.000-05:00

My earliest European ancestor came to Maryland in 1660, settling on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. My most recent immigrant ancestor came to Pennsylvania in 1734. There might have been a Native American in there somewhere but it was so far back, we have no verifiable information.

My people were movers. Every generation the youngsters in the family moved on, settling in strange new territory. They were the pioneers—the ones who established new settlements, faced the dangers of wild animals, hostile tribes, and starvation and illness. They built small log homes, cleared land, and planted crops. They were the men who sat on juries, took their turns as the sheriff, and the women who reared children with little more than a washtub and an iron pot.

From the beginning, the men went off to war when they were called. Generation after generation they fought for the principles they believed in from before the Revolutionary War to the post 9/11 conflicts. According to the RW and CW pension records, they walked long distances, took part in battles, sometimes were wounded and received little recompense for their trouble.

In the early times in our country, there were no supply lines for the soldiers. Uniforms and weapons and food were provided by their family. Battles were fought on home soil in towns and across farmland where people lived. In the pension record for one ancestor, his actions are described. As a very young man (sixteen), he led British soldiers on a wild chase across the country-side so they wouldn't find the American soldiers sheltering in his barn overnight. They'd arrived the evening before to fetch fresh meat for their camp. If the British soldiers found them, they would also know his family was supporting the rebellion.

There is much talk today about soldiers and sailors, about our veterans who have kept our country safe. I just want to point out that courage doesn't always wear a uniform. Sometimes it wears a skirt or overalls. Without the families at home, keeping things going, there wouldn't be many veterans.

On this Veteran's Day, let us also remember the support team.

anny

Memory Chest

2011-11-09T12:09:00.000-05:00

My friend and fellow writer, Tom Williams and I were talking about a gorgeous wood chest he made for his tools. I mentioned the hope chest my grandfather made for me and he suggested "Post a picture." As I thought about it, it seemed that wouldn't quite do the chest true justice. So I decided to write a short post about the real meaning of this chest.

When I was ten, our family decided to move from Arizona to Indiana. My mother had been collecting things for my hope chest. Since there was limited space in the truck (we were "moving" ourselves), she left my hope chest items with my grandparents.

It took almost all day to pack the truck, trailer, and car so it was evening when we finally started out. In New Mexico, near Lordsburg, out on a narrow two lane highway through the desert, she died in a car accident. I never knew about the things she'd collected for my hope chest.

We went on to Indiana and then Chicago, Illinois. I grew up and three weeks after I turned eighteen, I married the hunk. The night before our wedding, we were putting away the last of the things in our apartment when our landlady knocked on the door. A package was there for us.

Very excited, we tore open the box. Inside, wrapped in a wedding ring quilt my grandmother had made, was the chest in the picture. And inside the chest, were the cactus glasses in the top picture (among other things)! I still have the ten glasses my mom collected. Every year we use them for special dinners.

I'm ashamed to say I didn't know how to take care of the quilt and after some years, it disintegrated. And the chest, as you can see, has fallen on tough times. Twenty moves have not been kind to the chest my grandfather so lovingly put together for me.

I do find it interesting that every one of my children (even the single fellows) have put in their bid for the chest and glasses after the hunk and I are gone.

This month I'll turn sixty-two. And next month the hunk and I will celebrate forty-four years. It seems like only yesterday that we were eagerly exploring the secrets of the small chest called Hope.

anny

Down, out, finished

2011-11-08T08:53:00.000-05:00

We live in a world where convenience is at every hand. We call, we Twitter and Facebook and e-mail. Lights come on at the touch of a switch. Water is available at the twist of a faucet.

Until it's not.

Yesterday, I had no internet for about twenty-four hours. I wasn't the only one. There are conflicting reports as usual, but at least my area code was down. From other people I heard the outage was more wide-spread than that. The powers that be aren't really discussing the extent of the outage. Naturally.

Today, my apartment complex is shutting off the water. Today and tomorrow. It seems there's a water main break within the community that has to be fixed. In theory the plan is to shut it down from 9 AM to 6 PM. Why? Because people will be gone to work. Except for those who don't go to work. Or have little kids. Or work a different shift.

The hunk is filling the bathtub so we can flush. We've taken care of our morning routine. Breakfast is almost finished. And then we'll settle in for the day.

There's an odd phenomena that kicks in when something isn't working. Even though you might not need the particular utility immediately, your brain knows something isn't right so your whole being takes on a waiting attitude. Restlessness sets in. You can't quite settle down because whatever is wrong subliminally disturbs you.

And then when it all finally goes back to normal it takes a little bit to settle back into life. I think an outage of whatever (water, electricity, internet) is a faint warning that the conveniences of modern life are fragile and not to be depended on. It takes very little for them to be gone.

How will we cope then?

anny

Milky Way Walk

2011-11-04T23:33:00.000-04:00

http://www.eso.org/public/images/milkyway/

About thirty years ago, my son and I stood on a lonely road in a silent campground. It was near two a.m. He woke me up, needing an escort to the bathrooms that were located about a quarter mile away. One hard and fast rule in our family was that none of the kids went to the bathrooms alone after dusk.

I couldn't find the flashlight so we set off in the dark. There was so little ambient light that I could bare discern his presence even though he was wearing a very light colored shirt. We hiked from our individual camp site out to the "main" campground road and then turned toward the restrooms. The little drive down to our camp site was hemmed in by trees, but the main road was clear and open to the sky.

I made some inane comment about the lack of moonlight and he looked up. And stopped dead in his tracks so I nearly ran him down.

"What is that, Mom?"

"That's the Milky Way."

We stood there so long we started shivering though the night was warm. As we stood on that deserted little gravel road, I pointed out the constellations I was familiar with. We talked about how I used to walk out into the desert with my father and look at the stars.

After a while, we continued our journey to the restrooms and eventually made our way back to the tent. He grew up as our children do and left home. Over the years whenever we've had the chance to get together, inevitably we will look at each other and say, "Do you remember?"

Yes, we remember that time out of time as we stood under the glory of the Milky Way, billions of fiery stars flung across the sky.

anny

Nobody will ever know...

2011-11-01T21:00:00.001-04:00

Interesting philosophy. If nobody knows, then "it's" all right--whatever "it" is. Unfortunately, that seems to be the prevailing attitude in our culture. As long as no one knows what we're doing, then it is all right.

If you take this to the obvious conclusion--then as long as a serial murderer isn't caught, what he's doing is all right.

No?

Then where do we draw the line? With the easy anonymity of the Internet, people can be anybody they want to be, do anything, say anything with no perceived consequences. When the time arrives for the reckoning, they are always surprised and shocked. After all--nobody is supposed to know!

That is foolishness of the strongest sort. Better to assume that everybody will know. For sure--sooner or later--they will know your secret. Whatever it is, it will be revealed in the most embarrassing fashion possible.

Every so often, I'll be asked in an interview what my number one piece of advice for new authors would be. It's always the same.

Remember you are on stage 100% of the time. Whatever you say, do, write will come back to haunt you when you least expect it. There are no secrets on the Internet. Be polite and professional all the time. You never know when the person you are talking to will be a potential reader.

anny

Do you see me now?

2011-10-29T15:12:00.000-04:00

Yesterday my beta reader returned Shadows on Stone. I've been re-reading it with her notes in hand. There were no major issues though she pointed out a couple continuity problems-- minor plot lines I started but never wrapped up.

After pondering the possibilities, I started at the beginning. Page one. With a red pen. Several hours later, I'm up to page sixty-six...out of one hundred and eighty two pages. I suspect it will be a while before I finish.

Every author I know will tell you they find cringe-worthy issues if they read their work after a considerable time period has gone by. Then, every error, stupid mistake, awkwardly constructed sentence will leap out at the author, seizing them by the throat and screeching, "Do you see me now?"

You might ask, why doesn't the author set the work aside, then? Why not allow it to simmer on the back burner? I suspect it has something to do with income. Lost income. If the book is sitting on the side, it's not earning money for the author. It's as simple as that. Could it possibly be a better book if it simmered a while? Yeah, probably.

But in the current publishing climate, a book that is sitting only generates a loss of income and a loss of face time. You know what that is--it's the presence of your book cover prominently displayed so your readers remember who you are! In the electronic book market, with zillions of books to choose from, a lull of several months between books can mean the difference between some sales and a lot of sales.

There is a reason some authors seem to be banging out book after book. Every new book places their name out there to remind readers of their books--not just the newest one, but their entire backlist--because in the electronic world, books never go out of print. They're always available.

Unless a writer has an enormous following (J.K Rowling and Nora Roberts, I'm looking at you), he or she will spend an inordinate amount of time battling for that precious face time. It might be on the social media such as Twitter and Facebook. It might be on Amazon, Sony, Fictionwise and other electronic bookstores. But wherever it is, it's more valuable than gold.

No one knows what the magic formula is. Some authors take part in blog tours. Some spam their "friends" on the social media. Some post excerpts from their books--or have special pages for their characters. Whatever they choose to do, none of it matters if the finished book is a hodge-podge of errors, typos, and even in one case, part of a chapter missing.

I could submit Shadows on Stone as is. But now that I am reading it, the occasional typos and errors and odd word choices are screaming. What are they saying?

"Do you see me now?"

anny

Atonement

2011-10-27T15:23:00.000-04:00

During the course of our lives, we have numerous opportunities to hurt our fellow man (or woman's) feelings--or just piss them off in general. For the most part, it's not intentional--at least from my perspective. I wander through life, spinning plates overhead while trying to balance a bottle on my nose and bounce a ball with one foot.

Occasionally, something falls.

A while back, a fellow writer (we'll call her Betty Lou) asked me to give her my opinion about something she'd written. Now let me say two things right off the bat: A) I always try to be unflinchingly honest when you ask me for my opinion. After all, why would you ask, otherwise? B) I do my very best to never give my opinion in a hurtful or belittling manner.

So. The story was a cute story. There was nothing wrong with it. It was simply less than the type of story Betty Lou usually wrote. Fluffy and light. I wrote to her with this observation. Immediately she wrote back siting stressful issues in her home life and commented she needed something light to balance those stresses out. I agreed. After all, I've utilized my own writing in the same way.To my way of thinking, I had fulfilled my part.

Fast forward to the next few months. Betty Lou gradually drew away, moved on to other friends, grew cooler when e-mailing, etc. While I couldn't figure out why, I also know we all go through ebbs and flows in our friendships. With a mental shrug I, too, moved on.

Then a little while ago another friend (we'll call her Irma!) mentioned in a casual conversation that I had really hurt Betty Lou's feelings when I stated my opinion about her story. I was a little dumbfounded. And taken-aback.

I've been thinking about this since my conversation with Irma. My friendship with Betty Lou has moved on. The past is the past. But it occurs to me that there are no doubt other people who may feel slighted or ignored--especially in the past year or so. I want to say to you, it was not intentional on my part. I should be a better friend. Really. Sometimes I just can't keep everything juggling at one time. And for that, I am sorry.

anny

Lost Wednesday

2011-10-26T23:50:00.000-04:00

It seems to me that rainy days disappear more easily. I don't know if it's because of our tendency to doze lightly or whether we just hope the time will fly by or what. Anyway, 1400 words for the day. Another five rows on the jacket. One hour at the pool and a surprise dinner out. A little reading. A little shuffling things in the closet.

And voila! The day is over. Just like magic.

anny

Tuesday!

2011-10-25T23:23:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure where Tuesday went...it was here when I woke this morning and the next thing I knew it was over. 789 words written today. Two hours at the pool, moving around instead of sitting at the computer like a sloth. And six more rows crocheted on my jacket. What can I say?

I'll do better tomorrow!

anny

This 'n' That on Monday

2011-10-24T21:46:00.001-04:00

Well. It's the end of the day, almost. Don't have a lot, but there are a few things. Went shopping on Friday. Thought I might have a look for a jacket. And discovered no one seems to make a jacket without a hood.

Now hoodies are fine on a young person. Really. But at sixty-two, I find wearing a hoodie is a bit infantile and unprofessional...unless I'm camping in the woods. So I'd like to know who makes a jacket without a hood! After roaming for quite a while, I gave up and decided to crochet a jacket for myself. A jacket without a hood.

Pretty cover, right? On December 1, Yule Be Ours, a futuristic holiday menage will be released by Scarlet Harlot Press. It will also be released as part of the Scarlet Kisses anthology with Amarinda Jones and Berengaria Brown. Keep your eye peeled for more information posted right here!

OR you can find the info on my newly revamped webpage at www.annycook.com Check it out. Try out all the pages. Send me a message. Tell me what you think!

That's it. It's been a long day. And a Monday. Tomorrow is another day. I believe it will be Tuesday...

anny

Wake Up!

2011-10-19T22:07:00.000-04:00

Call me cynical. There is no truth in politics, media coverage, or the corporate world. The only truth is this--whoever is in power can and will manipulate the system so their version of the truth is disseminated. Most people don't believe this. And for those who have an inkling it might be true, most don't have a clue at the pervasive abuse of power in the communications network.

Surely not in America.

Surely not in the good old U S of A!

Well, yeah. In a world where any picture can be photoshopped, any video can be manipulated, and every candidate changes his/her stance on the issues more often than he/she changes their underwear, there is no one left to believe.

Everyone has an agenda. And if you don't agree with their agenda, you're the enemy. Worse than that, you're unenlightened, obviously in favor of hate crimes or war or greed. Nay, you are evil incarnate.

When did our ideals stop serving the many and start serving the few? No, I'm not talking about that 99% and 1% nonsense. I'm talking about concern for our neighbors and those less fortunate than ourselves. Now it's every man for himself.

Yeah, I know about the job shortage. I have four children all praying their jobs won't disappear down the sinkhole of politics and economics. But here's the truth no one wants to talk about. If we the people hadn't spent so much time and effort grabbing for more than our share of brass rings, if we had stopped and considered the consequences when we shopped at one-stop stores instead of supporting local business, if we had taken a second to think about the consequences of that easy line of credit, and if we hadn't settled for foreign merchandise that was made overseas in sweatshops because we saved a dollar or two...then things might be different now.

There is no easy fix. Anyone who promises you an easy fix is lying. Just as a person sinking in debt must have a plan, our country needs a plan. If the debtor truly desires to crawl from his pit, then he must give up something. Maybe many somethings. He must be persistent and in for the long haul.

All I hear is "fix it now"! Well, I don't suspect that will happen. I suspect the politicians will keep promising miracles until the country collapses under the weight. And at that point, there will be no services. None. People will die. Lawlessness will reign. And money will be an obsolete concept.

No, I'm not some strange whacko. I'm just a simple woman who looks beneath the shiny surface at grim reality.

anny

Monday approaching!

2011-10-17T10:13:00.000-04:00

Actually...when you're retired, every day is a Monday. When you're spouse is retired, every day is a Saturday.

When I was younger, life centered around the hunk going off to work and the kids going to school. Now those things are irrelevant. Each day has a sameness unbroken by schedules. I've come to the conclusion that it is that sameness that makes retirement more difficult.

Two weeks pass...three weeks...and suddenly entire years have gone by unremarked. The passage of time is more swift--and alarming--because you don't realize it's gone until you look at a calendar. It's mid-October already. Wait! Where did the year go?

anny

Negotiation with Reality

2011-10-14T00:03:00.000-04:00

Ah, life. What's true? What's not?

A dear friend and I once discussed different genres and she admitted she didn't read any book that wasn't real. So fairy tales and paranormal stories and the entire collection of science fiction wasn't in her to-be-read pile. Never will be.

I, on the other hand, cannot seem to write anything real. No matter what I do, my characters insist on hailing from way out areas...as in other planets. Or they have odd talents. Or they're weird colors. But mostly, they're not real. They're other.

Another friend once counseled me to write what I know. Evidently, this is it. I think I must be living somewhere else on a planet far, far away in my dreams. Maybe I communicate with my relatives during the dark hours right before dawn. Perhaps...I really do carry a secret zucchini peeler that I wield with fierce fury against the bad guys.

I wonder if there's a twelve step group for people like me. And what would the twelve steps consist of? To whom would we make amends? Our families for dragging them into the insanity? Hmmmm. I must consider the consequences here.

On the other hand if I had a firm grip on reality I probably wouldn't feel comfortable wearing my favorite t-shirt anymore. You know that one that says "I'm in my own little world--it's okay, they know me here." Who would I give it to if I couldn't wear it? Maybe...nah, I think I'll just hang out where I am...

anny

Revisiting the Vault

2011-10-10T10:32:00.000-04:00

I'm working on a new Flowers of Camelot book--Gardenia. In the interest of smooth continuity in the series, I'm rereading the other Flower books (Chrysanthemum, Honeysuckle, Daffodil, Magnolia and Larkspur.) Like so many other authors, I rarely read my own work once it's published. It's hard enough keeping up with my to-be-read pile of other authors' books.

I'm rethinking that, though.

For months I've been in a funk, sinking in a morass of family emergencies, poor financial future prospects, and just plain discouragement about my writing. My fellow writers have been quick to support and encourage me, but that just didn't seem to provide the kickstart I needed.

Then I went to RomantiCon. For three days I wandered around, talking to fellow writers and editors. I won an award for one of my other series. I commiserated with other writers who are also sinking in their personal swamps of despair. I was both disheartened and encouraged when I realized I wasn't the only one struggling.

On the way home--an eight hour drive--I had plenty of time to mull things over. It was during that drive that the ideas came to me for two new Flower books (Gardenia and Azalea.) On Wednesday last week I started Gardenia. And immediately came to the conclusion I needed to reread the series as a refresher.

It's been an illuminating experience. There were many details I'd forgotten, of course. I have a note sheet full of scrawled bits and pieces I'll need to add to my new story.
But more importantly, I discovered something about myself.

I can write.

Oh, there are things I would change if I was writing the stories now. Technical issues. I used the word that a lot. And in noticing the word, it occurred to me I've learned and changed in the five years since I wrote Chrysanthemum. But notwithstanding my growth, even back then I was a writer.

Due to some scheduling issues, Chrysanthemum was my first book published, though it was the fourth book I actually wrote. By the time Chrys came along, I was desperately in need of a mental break. And I was unwittingly wise enough to seize it when it came along.

Chrysanthemum and the other Flowers are pure insane fluff. That's what I needed at that time in my writing life. A while back I was critiquing a book for a fellow author. One of the things I noted was that the book seemed a little "light and fluffy" compared to her previous books. I believe I hurt her feelings though that was not my intent at all.

She wrote back that life was rough for her at that point (and it definitely was) and conceded she needed to write something light and fluffy. She needed that to help her get through the hard times she was dealing with.

I owe her an apology. I didn't realize until now just how much I need something light and fluffy. And I totally understand now that light and fluffy doesn't mean poorly written or shoddy workmanship. Actually, it's harder to write something light than write something deep and thoughtful--at least for me.

So I'm ready to plunge in to the adventures of Gardenia and her twin sister, Azalea. For those familiar with the Flowers series, they are Honeysuckle's daughters...with all that implies. And a certain zest has seized my writing spirit in anticipation.

anny

Change, change, change...

2011-10-07T18:04:00.000-04:00

Change is inevitable. Over the last few weeks, there've been many, many changes. Some were not unexpected. Part of being an adult is wearing a cloak of awareness of events going on around us. When we choose to turn a blind eye something vicious may strike us from the dark.

My words of wisdom--which will no doubt be ignored--Wake up! Stay alert! Or you too, may be taken unaware.

anny

What's next?

2011-10-05T20:11:00.002-04:00

It's always difficult to settle back into the rhythms of your regular life when you go away from home and then return. Whatever you were doing before you left was set aside. Packing and unpacking upset the flow of life.

And then, abruptly, you're back home. But it still takes a few days to resettle. I drove both ways to RomantiCon so I had plenty of thinking time. When I arrived home, I had a couple new ideas for stories, but I found my brain's still fuzzy so I suppose it will take a couple days to settle down.

In the meantime...life will move on.

anny

Reflections

2011-10-04T16:23:00.001-04:00

It's always hard to capture all the memories from a conference. Time rushes by in a streaming blur of encounters and events. Then with jarring abruptness, it's time to pack and leave.

There were some standout moments, of course. That first rush when you meet up with the friends you've been looking forward to seeing. The first time someone says, "I love your books." Pawing through the "goody" bags we always receive from our publisher every year...

But special moments were too numerous to capture.

Standing outside in the cold, windy dark as the Cavemen lit up the night with a fabulous fire dance.

Sitting around a table, sharing lunch with my first editor, Aussie Helen, and fellow authors (past and present) from the frog pond. Tasting Vegemite. And consuming Tim-Tams. Catching up with writers from all over the country--and some from much farther away.

Lining up with my fellow cave women on Friday night while we waited for dinner. There were a LOT of them in cheetah prints. *grin*

Checking out the futuristic costumes at the awards dinner on Saturday evening. Believe me, it was surreal. Eye-popping. Unbelievable. And then...

Receiving a Superstar Award for my Mystic Valley series was the cherry that topped off my weekend. I wasn't looking for that at all!

Finally, meeting lots of wonderful readers at the book signing on Sunday. That was great!

If I listed all the people I was thrilled to visit with this weekend, we would still be here next weekend. But my memories will carry me through for quite a while. And Boy Toy? Just know--I've got your back...any time.

anny

RomantiCon

2011-09-27T12:22:00.000-04:00

So, in a couple days the hunk and I are off to RomantiCon in Akron, OH. Click on the banner for all sorts of information...

Ellora's Cave was my first publisher. Seems like a long time ago when I received that initial contract offer for Dancer's Delight, but it wasn't really--only five years.

Now, eighteen books and two additional publishers later, I still remember the first time I met my fellow EC authors at an RT convention in Pittsburgh. Most of us were so new we were emerald green and soaking behind the ears. We rushed around hugging as we studied the faces behind our daily e-mails.

The hunk went to that convention with me and found himself eating lunch with twenty women. When the waitress asked him how he ended up with that many women, he told her they were his new harem...

I wasn't sure whether to smile or cover my face with my hands as my fellow diners included a publisher, two reporters, a reviewer or three plus an editor or two and lots of authors. But they all took it in good part.

That was also the first time I met most of the models. Since my sons are older than most of the models, they were comfortable hanging out with the hunk and I when some of the ladies at the convention tried to get too friendly. Yep, people get a bit strange when they leave home AND drink too much.

So I'm looking forward to meeting a few fans at the book signing and talking shop with my fellow authors. This year I'll meet my newest editor, also so that will be cool. And my first editor is coming from Australia. Altogether, it will be a great time!

Every year I meet some delightful reviewers and readers. Yep, many of them come for the weekend to hang out with their favorite authors. I'll post all about it when I get back!

anny

No She Did Not!

2011-09-25T09:50:00.000-04:00

I don't do cell phones. I own one. I use it in an emergency or when I leave town, but otherwise I'm strictly a land-line phone user. In my office. One of the reasons...drama.

Not my drama--someone else's.

There's nothing as off-putting as sitting in a public toilet stall while the woman in the next stall has a dramatic nervous breakdown over someone else's actions. Since I have a front row seat, so to speak, I get the goods on what's going on with Susie's best friend, Alicia, who's cheating behind her boyfriend's back with Barbie's boyfriend while Barbie is cheating with Bubba who is married to Susie's sister...

Confused?

Yeah. By the time I leave, I usually am, too.

I've tried really hard to come up with a scenario that necessitates having private conversations in public places. And I can't.

Or maybe that's the point. There are no more private conversations. And all public places are really just an extension of private spaces. The line between public behavior and private behavior is growing so blurred it's nearly impossible to tell where it is.

The electronic revolution isn't just a part of business, it personal and public and political. Now you can call or text your five hundred best friends to invite them to the protest demonstration on Wall Street--or on your own street. There's no such thing as spontaneous.

It used to be drama on the phone was intensely personal--usually between two teenage girls. But the girls have grown older without out-growing the drama and now they insist on sharing it with all the people around them, like it or not.

Personally, I find that rude. Rude, rude, rude. If you can't hold a short businesslike conversation, then find someplace private to talk. One of the rudest things I've seen (and it's been increasing in frequency) is the customer who talks on their phone while checking out their groceries. Hello! That checker on the other side of the counter is not chopped liver and really doesn't need to hear your conversation. Neither do all the other people waiting in line so they can pay for their groceries.

So, tell me. Other than a true emergency, is there really any reason to talk on the cell phone while on the bus, train, grocery line, doctor's office, laundromat, restaurant, public restrooms or behind the wheel of a car in motion? Really?

anny

One-Liners

2011-09-23T18:21:00.000-04:00

There are days when I wish I was a clever writer. Or witty. Or even just amusing. Then there are other moments of temporary brilliance when a funny line pops out--usually by accident more than design.

For the most part, I'm not a funny person. For the most part, I'm not even mildly amusing. So when a funny appears in my writing, I have to take a few moments and query the origin. Where did that come from?

More than likely it was hiding in the darkest part of my brain waiting for the epic opportunity to make its escape. Then when my attention is directed at such things as plot or character or goodness knows even story arc, there's the chance! The one-liner zips out of hiding.

The only time I ever intentionally allowed the critturs in that dark part of my brain to escape, they went wild. I ended up with a series called the Flowers of Camelot. Strange things happened. Odd characters grabbed the plot and ran as though escaping the great zucchini peeler.

Why does that happen, I wonder? Am I tired? Am I bored? Where has my funny gone? Or are all the one-liners cowering in the dark, terrified of what will happen if I allow them the freedom to leave?

anny

Glass Ball and Snake

2011-09-21T16:25:00.000-04:00

Paranormal fiction isn't for everyone. Some readers just can't delve into a story that isn't real. Recently I was discussing my story Phantom's Rest with two lovely ladies I met at the pool. I could tell they were not quite...sure it would be a book for them.

Ghosts? they asked. Are they creepy? We don't like creepy...

No, no, I hastily assured them. I don't write creepy.

Shapeshifters? Were-people? Vampires? What's up with that? They wanted assurance.

I can relate. Really, I can. We all have our lines we draw in the sand. And when we cross that line, we leave our comfort zone. It's difficult to tell from the blurbs for books whether or not that line will be crossed. There's a lot of blurry edges these days.

I try to be scrupulously honest about my books. For instance, many in my family would find the sex in my books tooooo much. I'm up front about it. Don't read my books, I tell them. If you do read them, you have been warned.

Heh. In the same way, I explained my books to my new friends at the swimming pool. Here's what the books are about. Some you may not like.

Fortunately, for every single book, there's a reader somewhere just waiting to read it. Nay, even devour it! So, readers wanted. I write steamy, paranormal, fantasy romance. If that's your bag, have I got a story or two for you!

anny

Chatty Anny

2011-09-20T09:00:00.000-04:00

There are some days I just lose my mind. Woke up this morning and realized I'd forgotten I have a chat today! If you look in the upper right corner, the info is posted, plus a link for the chat location.

What is a chat? It's a specified time and location where you can "talk" to your favorite author and read excerpts from her (or his) work. In my case, I invite any published author to post an excerpt from their book.

And we all talk.

If you have questions you burn to have answered, drop by and ask. If you want to state an opinion about my work, here's you chance to tell me what you think. I hope to see you all there.

anny

Devouring Words

2011-09-19T09:42:00.000-04:00

Have you ever noticed how with some books you zip through the pages and others you read much more slowly? Some stories drag you along at a breakneck pace. Others allow savoring of the words.

I'm not advocating that either type is better. It's just an observation. I have the notion that the fast kind is sort of like eating candy. In a short time, you find yourself dissatisfied and hungry again.

Whereas the slower one is a three course meal, something that sticks to the ribs and fills you up. Over the last three or four weeks I've read both kind. And I've even read a couple that were so slow they put me to sleep.

I suppose the trick is to find the in between ones. Something to savor, but not somnolent.The fast ones don't seem to allow time to think. Then later, when you're considering the story, you wonder why different points weren't solved or explained.

Book size doesn't seem to have anything to do with what type of story it is. I've read really long books that were one adventure after another. Those are the ones almost tailor made to be a movie. I've read others that were very short but offered a lot of food for thought.

What's your favorite type of book? Short? Long? Fast? Or slow?

anny

Abandon all Hope

2011-09-16T21:15:00.000-04:00

Sigh. Some days...I wonder. Why are some people survivors and others aren't? Why do the losers in life choose to kick others when they're at their lowest ebb?

Folks out in Texas survived the fires, but have no power because it's not safe. Someone came along and stole their generator. That's just disgusting.

Folks in the northeast floods had stuff sitting in the yard to dry out and someone came along and stole their stuff. People! C'me on now.

It's not your stuff!

Why are there always looters after a disaster? Why do we call them looters instead of thieves?

anny

Tuesday Thoughts

2011-09-13T10:10:00.000-04:00

The last few days I've vegged out. Can't seem to get the lead out and get to work. It finally dawned on me it was probably my usual late summer/early fall funk brought on by too much rain, too many gray days, a bit of SADS, and not enough moving around.

Part of that is certainly my fault. I chose to sit around. I chose to play endless computer games instead of writing. And I chose to let the world go by. Yep, part of that was avoidance. I confess I'm really not a person who mourns well in a group so in the orgy of remembrance of 9/11, I found other things to do.

But now it's time to get back to work. I've set new goals for myself. Made new plans. We'll see how they go this time.

I'm on Chapter Eleven of Spear from Crazy Woman Cave. That's the middle of the book. Things are coming together. How do you get excited at this point? The middle is where you slog along as a writer. It's probably the toughest and most important part of the book. The middle is where readers will leave if they get bored. It's where all the pieces start fitting together--all the threads become a tapestry.

Yesterday I met two delightful ladies at the swimming pool. I tried to describe the book I'm currently working on and found it's a tough job. That was a bit of a jolt. How am I going to write a synopsis? Or a blurb? Interesting question...

In the meantime, I will persevere. The sun is shining. The weather is cooler. And there are things to do. Have a blessed day.

anny

Love

2011-09-11T06:55:00.000-04:00

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogantor rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends.

But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part;but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.~~St. Paul to the Corinthians

Bedlam Days

2011-09-08T18:11:00.000-04:00

There are days when I wonder if we're all in a super-sized lunatic asylum. Insanity appears to be running rampant. Instead of stepping away from the bedlam of life to take a deep breath before deciding how to get through the next bit, most people seem to be participating in a group orgy of epic proportions on the nearest social media site.

I enjoy communication with my fellow man or woman as much as anyone else, but there are things I don't share with all and sundry. There are words I prefer not to read in a friendly post--not because I don't know what they mean--but because I do. I long for a taste of civility and manners.

I sometimes wonder if people really don't realize the words they are posting, the information they are sharing is out there, available to anyone who cares to read what they've typed. And it will still be there months and years from now when some individual decides to run an internet search on them. The young don't usually understand how much they will change as they mature and grow up.

But what exactly is the excuse for the so-called grown-ups?

Floating Your Boat...

2011-09-07T12:07:00.000-04:00

By rights, this post should be about floods...but actually, it's not. It's about the variable tastes of our readers vs. the books authors are producing. I can't tell you how many notes I've received from my readers asking for a new Mystic Valley book. Or a new Flowers book. Or the sequel to Alpheli Solution. Or...but you probably get where I'm going with this.

As a reader with my own favorite series, I completely understand. As an author, I also understand the view from the author's chair. It's kind of like eating tuna every day. I like tuna. Really, I do. But sometimes I have a taste for something different.

The reader reaction is not always favorable. There's nothing so disheartening or sad as a fan letter that lets you know the reader wasn't impressed with your new endeavor because it was different. In other words--it didn't float their boat.

I say, try it. You just might like it! After all, the new story/series/etc., came from the same pen and writing skills as the stories you like so much. Give it an honest un-biased try. Yes, I know it requires more effort to get to know a new set of characters, but they really are a great bunch of people. I like them. You might grow to like them, too.

You just might find the new stories really do float your boat!

anny

Fall...

2011-09-06T10:07:00.001-04:00

It's that time. Colorful leaves. Cool temps. Kids go back to school. Life settles down.

Except this year. This year we have floods. Or wildfires. Tropical storms. Drought. Searing temperatures. Earthquakes. Hurricanes.

Maybe we should skip fall and go directly to winter...

anny

Weekend!

2011-09-04T12:00:00.003-04:00

Have a great weekend!

anny

Top 10 Research Facts

2011-09-01T16:11:00.002-04:00

Research is an on-going by-product of writing. Sometimes you learn something unexpected when you trot off for a bit of impromptu research. My philosophy is all knowledge makes your life more interesting. I like knowing things for the sake of knowing them, which can make things difficult when I get side-tracked from writing by the research.

Take that little jaunt having to do with processing acorns. I started out just looking up information about how to process acorns so they would be edible. Then one thing led to another. If you'd like to know more about the great acorn hunt, check out the tab on my blog that has that story.

Anyway, I thought I would tell you about the top ten things I've learned through research (other than the Great Acorn Hunt).

1) Before there were archeologists, there were antiquarians. Back in 1812 the American Antiquarian Society was established in Massachusetts. It's still ticking along as a fabulous place for research. Check it out by clicking on the AAS above. Since my current book takes place in the 1830's, I needed to know what an archeologist was called back then. And I discovered the AAS by happy accident.

2) In the book before my current one (Shadows on Stone) I needed a medium sized cargo plane. After extensive research, I settled on a Skyvan for it's size and maneuverability. And then I stumbled on THIS IMAGE which gave me a wonderful idea for the Skyvan in my book. But aside from the way I painted my own plane, I also learned all sorts of interesting things about this very versatile airplane.

3) Before packaged yeast, how did people make bread and other yeasty products? Did you ever wonder? Well, I discovered a wonderful book titled Wild Fermentation by Sandor Ellix Katz. Until I started delving into the subject, it didn't occur to me that yogurt was fermented. You learn the most amazing things sometimes.

4) In a particular survival scenario, I wondered if regular Superglue could be substituted for medical glue. I happen to belong to a SURVIVAL FORUM. I tossed the question out there for general discussion and received a picture via e-mail from one of the members showing a very long slash on his leg which he'd repaired with regular Superglue when he was injured while hunting. Several other members directed me to appropriate sites for other discussions on the same subject.

5) For another book I wondered what kind of house could you build with minimal tools AND minimal wood? For much of the world, the answer is mud. But where to go to find out about making such a dwelling? One of the finest books I found on the subject was The Hand-Sculpted House by Ianto Evans, Michael G. Smith, and Linda Smiley. It's a great book about how to build a cob cottage. And just for your info...there are cob dwellings from the 1500's that are still in use in Great Britain.

6) While researching RV's and other small homes, I stumbled on a site for the TumbleweedTinyHouse. And I instantly fell in love. This was a house I had to use in a book. I even knew exactly which book I would use it in--Phantom's Rest. I don't own a tiny house myself, but someday down the road, I would like to live in one. In the meantime, I enjoyed working out how to use it in my story.

7) In our extremely water-wasteful, germaphobic culture we've moved away from the realities of dealing with human waste. We use that nice shiny toilet and flush, using zillions of gallons of potable water to deal with the end result. But for most of the world, that isn't the way life works. In the process of writing several different books, I've acquired quite a library of books dealing with how to dispose of or use human waste. I have everything from books on waterless toilets to composting human manure. One such book is The Humanure Handbook by Joseph Jenkins. For those of you holding your nose with your lips curled back in a "Ewwwww," I would remind you that one of the first things to breakdown in a disaster is the plumbing.

8) Do ya wanna know about guns? Shooter's Bible will tell you everything you ever wanted to know. Of course, there are things you'll never know (how heavy that weapon is in your hands or what kind of kick it has when you pull the trigger) unless you shoot it yourself. There isn't any other way to know that. And I have to tell you, it's nothing like on TV or the movies.

9) Speaking of guns--there is a rifle peculiar to the American frontier--sometimes called the Kentucky or Pennsylvania long rifle. I needed some very specific information regarding this rifle. The American Longrifles site was one of many I utilized for my questions. I must say every single man I spoke to about this subject--whether from this site or another--was a patient gentleman. They answered the dumbest questions without lifting an eyebrow.

10) Finally, early clothing and weapons utilized leather. That involved tanning--so called because of the use of tannin. For a nice comprehensive article on TANNING I turned to Wikipedia. Surprised? Oh, I didn't stop after that, but I found it to be an excellent starting point.

So what have you learned inadvertently while researching? What's your most interesting research adventure?

anny

Just Because...

2011-08-31T09:11:00.000-04:00

Some days there's no reason for our actions except, "Because I can..."

Dancing in the rain. Eating ice cream in a snow storm. Chucking work to read all day. Wallowing in bed until noon.
I've decided most people need a bit more spontaneity in life.

When's the last time you had a picnic on the living room floor? Ate cereal for dinner? Went to a movie in the middle of the week? Balanced a can of soup on your head?

What will you do today--just because you can?

anny

Postmortem...

2011-08-30T10:28:00.000-04:00

From the earliest stories of natural disasters, there have been naysayers. There are always people who criticize the tough calls made by those in charge. And after the storm/earthquake/fire/flood is over, there are always people who declare the tough calls were unnecessary/too sweeping/just plain wrong.

Personally, I believe we coddle people too much. Instead of begging people to leave, I think the powers-that-be should state the facts, make transportation available, and when the cut-off time is reached, close down and find someplace safe until after the storm is over.

As one official said, "If you're going to stay in your home, make sure you have some identification so we know who to notify when we locate your body."

In most natural disasters, under the best of circumstances people die. Trees fall on them. A flash flood washes away the building they're sheltering in. A tornado destroys their home. It is sad enough that people die when they're making an effort.

What angers me are the naysayers...the people who refuse to use common sense and then expect someone to show up to rescue them. Rescuers die. They risk their lives--and possibly the future lives of their families--to save people who wouldn't be in danger if they followed the advice of their governing officials.

Every time you read about a forecast disaster, you also read about stubborn goats who refuse to leave their homes. Hello! Things are replaceable. Once a human is dead--they don't pop back up as though on a video game. They're gone.

In the most recent event--Hurricane Irene--there are already people commenting about how they believe the officials over-reacted. Tell that to the families who lost their homes. Tell that to the families who lost loved ones. Tell that to the families sitting in homes without power, water, or cut off from the areas around them. Tell it to the flood victims in New York, Vermont, and New Jersey.

There will always be ignorant people who won't believe until they're in danger. There will always be idiots who place themselves at risk because of their own behavior. I say let 'em reap the consequences of their own actions. We have enough risks just saving those who are willing to cooperate.

anny

Storm Games

2011-08-27T10:00:00.000-04:00

Every parent knows the agony of keeping the kids busy on a stormy or snowy day. Of course, when a hurricane comes to town, it's worse. Even adults get antsy as they wait for the storm to actually arrive, pass, and move on.

So here are some ideas to pass that time...

1) Clean out the refrigerator/freezer. While there's still time to toss stuff in the trash and clean all those empty containers. Then consolidate everything so stuff stays cold longer if you lose power.

2) Carry all that trash out to the dumpster. Really. Who wants to smell stinky garbage during a storm?

3) Watch the repeating loop on the weather channel. It's sort of hypnotizing. If all else fails you can just zone out.

4) Rearrange all the bookshelves. After all, you have plenty of time. And who knows--you might find something to read?

5) Read. Read those books you've been putting off because you're too busy. Well. You're not busy now.

6) Bake a cake. You'll need something to snack on when the wind is howling around the corners of the building.

7) Sort through your old pictures. Put the piles in big Ziploc bags so you can scan them into the computer after the storm. Our box of pictures is huge. It should keep us busy for a couple days.

8) Play Go Fish. Any number of players and any age can be accommodated by this old appropriate game.

9) When everyone is sick of each other play Solitaire. One deck of cards. It's harder to play with real cards as opposed to the computer game.

10) Cook. Make a big pot of chili. Or some chocolate chip cookies. Or a pot of pea soup.

11) Clean your dresser drawers. Pack up clothes to take to Goodwill or the Salvation Army.

12) If you have younger children, play dress-up. Kids love to dress up in old clothes.

13) Pray. I know it's considered old-fashioned, but I find comfort in prayer.

14) Take a nap. Sleep is good...

anny

Pack 'n' Go

2011-08-25T15:15:00.000-04:00

Earlier today the hunk and I made our usual "get ready for bad stuff" run to the store. There are things we normally do to prepare for possible disasters--and we don't wait until chaos is staring us down the throat.

1) Fill the gas tank. Don't count on gas availability is you decide you want to leave the area where you live. ATMs might not be working. Gas stations might not have power.

2) Make sure you have potable water to drink. Fill the bathtub so you have water to flush the toilet. Grab a couple packets of baby wipes so you can at least keep your face and hands clean.

3) Keep all your important papers in a notebook/folder/etc. so you can grab them quickly if you must leave. My daughter keeps hers in a three ring binder filled with plastic sheets. Everything goes in that binder. The plastic sheets make it easy to organize AND helps keep the paperwork dry.

4) We keep a bug-out bag with two days clothing, important toiletries, and an extra toothbrush packed and ready. Tossing in the meds at the last minute is a matter of seconds. We also keep at least three copies of a list of our meds...one copy in the bug-out bag, one copy with our important papers, and one copy in our wallets.

5) Make sure the electronics are all charged up on a daily basis. You just never know when you'll need them...and that includes rechargeable flashlights.

6) Discuss (and formulate) a plan for where you will go if you must leave. Make sure your out of town relatives know what your plan is so they don't worry. It's easy enough to make sure everyone is on the same page and save a lot of anxiety and stress.

Disasters or bad weather don't always give us warnings. Everyone should be prepared year 'round for whatever might come up. Are you ready???

anny

PS: Today is the house hunk's 65th birthday. I just want to give him a big hug and wish him many, many more!

Shake it baby!

2011-08-23T20:49:00.000-04:00

For several days we on the East Coast of the U.S.A. have been obsessing about a Hurricane named Irene. Where was she? Where was she going? How fast was she going to get there?

Little did we know the true danger would smack us out of left field. In the middle of a sunny afternoon, our world shook. For most of us, it was a new experience. For a few seconds we shook, rattled, and rolled with the best of them.

And then most of the sensible ones were appalled when they realized this was a really small earthquake. In our defense I would like to point out any earthquake on the East Coast is unexpected.

There was some sporadic damage, but not the horrendous stuff seen after other, bigger earthquakes. It did serve the purpose of taking our minds temporarily off Madame Irene. After all the excitement wore off, we went back to the weather guys and discovered Irene has shifted focus and is now taking aim a little farther up the coast to say...Baltimore/Washington, D.C. and points north.

Just in case that's the real destination, I'll be off, preparing for the next disaster. One thing I can't complain about is a lack of excitement.

anny

What the Blog???

2011-08-18T19:09:00.000-04:00

Is blogging over? I've been pondering this question for several weeks. Except for "professional" blogs, I'm thinking a blog is mostly...personal. As I've traveled around the interwebs, I've noticed the formats are falling into several distinct categories.

A) Unrelentingly professional. Regardless of the writer of the blog, it's entirely about writing, publishing, editing, etc. Many of them could be pubbed in a newspaper or magazine (and that's not necessarily bad) but if I want to read professional articles...I'll go to professional sites.

B) Author informational. "This is what I'm doing....Title blah-blah-blah will be released on the 17th...I'm working on the third book in blah-blah-blah series..." For my own information, I usually check the author's website.

C) Author personal TMI. I try very hard not to fall in this category. My own blog borders on folksy without dispensing personal (REALLY PERSONAL) information. I think. Most of the TMI blogs are really aimed at friends and family--not readers. Again--I think that's how it's supposed to go.

D) Just friendly observations on life. Here's what I'm wondering--does anyone care anymore? I remember when Erma Bombeck was one of the first pages I turned to when I opened my newspaper in the morning. But do we take time to read that sort of stuff now? Is there still a place for it?

What do you think? I'd be interested to know if the friendly blog is a thing of the past...

anny

Social?

2011-08-17T16:43:00.000-04:00

Social networking? As with almost anything, there will inevitably be someone who abuses a good thing. Nope, I don't want to join your group. If I did, I'm perfectly capable of joining it on my own. Go away.

Thank you.

anny

Rites of Passage

2011-08-16T14:43:00.000-04:00

Eyesight. It's usually the first thing to go. Then the knees. Maybe after that the stomach starts acting weird. Age creeps up with startling speed.

Back when you're eighteen, you can barely envision being twenty-five. By the time you reach twenty-five, you believe forty is old. Forty? Pfht! Sixty is really old then. But when you make it to sixty, you know for certain that ninety is when you're finally old.

Some rites of passage push your nose right in the dirt, though. One of those is registering for Social Security. You can receive junk mail from AARP and that won't phase you. You can even make arrangements for your work pension and you'll be just fine. But then along comes...Social Security. After that it's just a short step to Medicare. A really, really short step.

I've heard it all about how age is just a number and all that stuff. Yep. It is until you make the call. Because until that point, Social Security is just a vague abstract concept. Suddenly, you have to prove who you are and why you are eligible to receive the money that's been deducted from your paycheck forever and ever.

Well. I've worked since I was sixteen. When I reach sixty-six, that will be sixty years off and on in the workforce. I don't feel bad at all about claiming my Social Security benefits. I just wish the implications weren't tied to age. Senior Citizen my backside...

anny

Pondering

2011-08-15T11:06:00.001-04:00

No, the picture doesn't have anything to do with anything. I just like it. Sometimes life is like that. I determined a while back that I would not bring anything into my home that I didn't enjoy. Life is just too short.

While researching something for my current work in progress, I was struck once more by the way history is skewed by the winners. The particular subject I was researching had numerous entries on the internet. They were widely disparate in both factual information and conclusions drawn from that information.

It reminds me so much of the story about the elephant...Three blind men touch an elephant. One grasps his tail and concludes the elephant is similar to a rope. Another grasps his trunk and decides the elephant is like a snake. And the third touches his leg and believes the elephant is like a tree. Who is right? All of them--sort of.

anny

Fifty Years!

2011-08-12T00:06:00.000-04:00

August 12th, 1961--It was a hot, humid day in Chicago. I was nearly twelve years old and not very impressed with the fact that my father--a widower with four children--was getting married again. Looking back from fifty years down the road, I remember the hustle and bustle of getting four children dressed and keeping them clean on the drive from northern Indiana where we lived.

I wore my absolutely favorite dress of all time, a deep grape purple cotton dress with a crinoline underdress. I loved that dress and mourned inconsolably when I grew up so it didn't fit anymore.

My new stepmother was lovely in her white wedding dress. Like all brides, she looked like a fairy princess as she came down the aisle. I mulled over the possibilities that this deal might not be too bad, after all.

My brothers and I were no bargain, that's for sure. After losing our mother in a car accident the year before, we were a wild and wooly bunch, unruly and rebellious. No one was going to tell us what to do.

Really.

Well, the new woman in the house persevered. Believe it or not, we grew up to be fairly decent adults. Amazing as it might be, Mom hung in there through thick and thin.

Yesterday she gave us a scare when Dad rushed her off to the hospital because of chest pains. But after her 50,000 mile overhaul, she seems to be doing just fine. The doctors checked her out and let her go home by evening.

Today, they celebrate their fiftieth anniversary. In an era where couples change partners more often than their underwear, that's quite a feat. Mom and Dad are both in their eighties and both still active.

I love them both, though I don't get to see them very often.

With all my heart I wish them a very Happy Anniversary!!!

anny

Road Trip

2011-08-09T09:03:00.001-04:00

This weekend we drove the grandkids home--a fourteen hour round trip. As I see it, grandparenting incorporates the opportunities to share some family values and some memories. I believe grandparents are the keepers of the family memories.

As we passed a particular area, I pointed out a shopping center and mentioned it was the beginning of a memorable road trip to my grandmother's funeral. The kids were full of questions. My grandmother died when their mama was a small girl so this particular story wasn't part of their experience, but this opportunity allowed me to share some life lessons with them in story form.

The year my grandmother died was not a good year at our house. My sons and I worked at the Waldenbooks warehouse every night as book packers. Our shift started at four p.m. The hunk worked down in New York City--a two hour commute each way--and arrived at home around six p.m. That left a two hour gap when the girls were alone, but my older daughter was about twelve so she watched the younger one until the hunk arrived home.

One night, a Thursday night, my supervisor called me to her office and informed me I had a phone call. Only in the direst emergency were phone calls allowed. It was eight p.m. My daughters were on the phone, in a panic because their dad had never arrived home. While we were talking, the older one said, "Wait! There's a limo out front."

A few minutes later, the hunk got out of the limo--on crutches.

After a quick discussion with my supervisor, my sons and I went home. My husband had fallen over eight feet from a scaffold at work when it collapsed. The initial diagnosis was a badly sprained ankle, with followup at an orthopedic specialist to follow.

Friday was taken up with making arrangements for his orthopedic appointment. Then the hospital in the city called with a revised diagnosis of a fractured ankle. More calls to the orthopedic office. And then a family member called to say my grandmother had died.

We lived in New York. She lived in Indiana. Once again, I was torn between two responsibilities.

My best friend stepped in and volunteered to make sure the hunk made it to the orthopedist. My second son and older daughter offered to travel to the funeral with me so I wouldn't be alone while my older son and younger daughter stayed with the hunk. After a hasty oil change and fillup of the gas tank, we headed out for the long drive. By my calculations, if we drove straight through, we would arrive with about two hours to spare.

A little over an hour later, we had the first clue that things were not going to go well. The radiator sprung a leak. I pulled into a small shopping center with a K-Mart and McDonalds. My son lifted the hood and we all stared down at the steaming radiator, wondering what to do while water and antifreeze poured out on the ground beneath the car.

A trucker parked in the lot came over and suggested we buy some stop-leak, a product that might possibly help seal it if it was a small leak. So I went into the K-Mart, purchased the stop-leak and some gallons of water plus anti-freeze and returned to the car. We had to wait for it to cool off. While we waited, we grabbed dinner at McDonalds.

When we returned to the car, the second disaster happened. I slipped in the antifreeze and fell down, soaking my "funeral" outfit in antifreeze. I had packed sweat pants and sweat shirt I planned to travel home in. While my son dealt with the car, my daughter and I went into the rest room in the K-Mart and I cleaned up and changed clothes.

When we came back, the trucker pressed a twenty dollar bill in my hand--"Just in case", he said--and went back to his truck. We all got back in the car and started out once more. We stopped at every single rest stop and added water. It was a long arduous trip.

I should probably mention I was driving a small bright yellow Ford Fiesta. It was quite distinctive and hard to miss if you were looking for it. Evidently, a lot of people were keeping an eye out for us as the trucker had shared our story over his radio. At every stop, we were approached by people asking us if we needed anything, if we were hungry, if we needed money...

It was an overwhelming demonstration of the compassion of total strangers.

Twenty two hours later, we approached Gary, Indiana. I stopped to call for directions to the funeral home though I already knew I was too late for the funeral. My cousin informed me they were "waiting" for me, since they knew I was on my way. I found the funeral home and parked in front, tired, grieving, and realized I was dressed quite inappropriately for a funeral so I sent my daughter in to let my dad know we were there.

He came out at once, hauled me out of the car and escorted me in--inappropriate clothes not withstanding. In the hall way, my family--aunts and uncles and cousins--were lined up. One after the other, they hugged me and told me how glad they were to see me. Now for reasons I won't discuss here, I had spent much of my life feeling like an outsider in my own family. Yet, moving from one person to the next, exchanging hugs and words of welcome, for the first time in my life I knew without question that I belonged.

And that's why I attended my grandmother's funeral in my sweat suit.

Afterwards, we went to my cousin's house, for dinner and she presented me with a birthday cake. It was my birthday--something I hadn't even thought about.

We stayed overnight and headed back home. To my surprise, many people approached us on the way home, checking to see if we needed anything, if we made it to the funeral in time, if we had enough money to make it home.

When I finished my story, my granddaughter observed, "Everything turned out better than you expected."

Yes it did. Like most of life.

anny

A quick reminder--tonight is the monthly chat at Love Romances Cafe. See the box in the upper right hand corner for details! I look forward to visiting with you!

Writer's Lament

2011-08-07T17:26:00.000-04:00

When discussing writing, there is always the likelihood of misunderstanding. Most people are in such a hurry they fail to read the words for meaning and context, instead skimming for the surface content. Over the years as I've written blogs, I've observed this many times. But I persist for those who seek more than the quick fix.

In the past few months, I have spent many hours considering writing (as opposed to publishing) and have finally reached some conclusions about where my writing life will go in the immediate future. As I say, this is my future--not some other writer's future--and my intentions. I don't seek encouragement or platitudes, but understanding.

Some of my readers are aware that I've been entering my royalty statements in a spreadsheet so that I may better understand both my sales and income. At this time, it is clear there is no real point in my writing for financial gain. No point at all.

Reluctantly, I had to decide if any reason still exists for me to spend hours sitting in front of a monitor, typing away at a story few people care to read. Let me say first that I appreciate and honor all readers who spent their hard earned dollars on my books. You cannot know what it means to me. I know very well how difficult it is to have to choose exactly which books to spend money on.

As I've mulled over my future, it occurred to me that I really haven't had any joy in writing. In the beginning, I did, but lately not so much. So. If there's no financial reward and no joy in writing, what am I doing?

Some writers write for pure financial gain. Monthly or yearly or weekly they produce a work--sometimes to contract--and they grimly churn out pieces through thick or thin because they like to eat or pay their bills. Other writers write stories, catching the most popular genre trains, moving on to a new genre when the old one dies. Some write quickly. Others struggle to finish a book in a year. All have their own reasons for sitting at the computer, pounding the keyboard day after day.

For me, it's always been for the pure joy of sharing the story. Money would have been nice, obviously. But I've always received more of a kick from a reader hunting me up to tell me they loved my story. Now royalties convey more information than how much money the author receives. They also tell you how many people like your writing so much they're willing to spend money buying your books. Clearly, this number is dwindling.

Yes, I understand all about the economy and the way publishing is changing and how much self-publishing is changing the market. I've spent many hours thinking about all of this. But the cold hard truth is this--if you have a compelling story to tell, people will buy your book, regardless of all those things. That's why some less-than-skilled authors sell, even when they clearly need a good editorial hand and a dictionary.

I'm a fairly decent writer. No, I'm no Shakespeare, but I know how to spell and write a complete sentence. The thing is, that isn't enough. I have no story to tell, at least not one that engages the reader.

In the beginning, I had more stories than time. Now I have time, but no stories. It seems I must seek out the stories I have bubbling inside me. They're in there somewhere, just waiting for me to find them. When I do, then I'll have something to share. I don't know what it will be. It's possible I'll travel down an entirely different road.

Until then, I'm going to take some time off. I'll write my blog. And maybe some short stories as I learn more about my craft. And when I have a story to share--well then, I'll gladly let you know.

anny

Summer Doldrums

2011-08-04T10:02:00.001-04:00

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Brain mush. It's not writer's block. That's too wimpy a phrase.

No, this is complete absence of ideas, thoughts, words. It's all the more frustrating as I feel the urge to write "important" things, things that fade like a vapor when I sit down at the computer with my fingers actually on the keys.

Brain freeze.

It's not a new phenomenon. Every summer it arrives as regularly as clockwork with the heat and sun, my mind sinking into a snoozy, somnolent state. Maybe it isn't brain freeze, but fried brains.

Connected to that hazy, lazy condition is a conflicting awareness of time speeding by and the loss of opportunity. I will never retrieve the minutes and hours lost.

Instead of fretting, I choose to fill this time with reading. Or chores left undone in the winter. Or other interests pushed aside when I'm writing. Perhaps the summer doldrums are my brain's way of crying "Enough!" and forcing me to take a rest.

When I had my own home, I used to garden in the summer. And with the gardening, the digging in the dirt, the planting of flowers and vegetables, I had time to think. I suppose this is still my thinking time.

I have to admit I will be glad when fall returns and the summer doldrums are over.

anny

Sue!

2011-08-03T09:14:00.001-04:00

My grandchildren and I were discussing an incident from my childhood the other day. When I finished sharing my story my granddaughter asked, "Did your parents sue them?"

"Well, no. Back then, people didn't sue other people very often."

"Why not?"

"They just didn't do that. The accident was actually my fault..."

She couldn't understand what that had to do with anything. I thought about how much things have changed and I've concluded it all has to do with the TV ads for personal injury lawyers. Mostly, they're all about getting money. And greed for money leads to spurious lawsuits. That's the reason all of us--you and me--pay more for everything in life.

Our car/house/medical insurance is higher to pay the premiums that have to cover lawsuits for people who don't take responsibility for their own actions. You say there's water on the floor? Well, walk around it. Better yet, bring it to the attention of someone so it's cleaned up.

You say the sidewalk is icy? Don't walk on the icy part. Have we all lost our common sense?

If the coffee's too hot, don't drink it. Add ice. Add creamer. Don't act like your stupid genes outweigh your smart ones. I swear more and more people live like they left their brains at home in a drawer.

Now I know there are people/companies who should be sued for sheer negligence. A few years ago the hunk fell eight feet and permanently damaged his ankle when a defective scaffold collapsed at his work. And yeah. We sued. That was over twenty years ago and his ankle still looks like someone hit it with a baseball bat. In my opinion, he had no part in causing that accident.

But when common sense goes out the door...when individuals get hurt because they're doing something stupid, then how is that the property owner's fault? When kids climb a fence to swim in a pool--and then drown--how is that the owner's fault? Or when they climb a tree and fall out of it? Or steal a car and then have an accident, killing a family in the process?

It's nonsense.

Because everyone wants a guarantee in life, our medical premiums are through the roof. Guess what? There are no guarantees. If you truly believe your doctor is incompetent, find another doctor. Get a second opinion. Research your doctor's training and record. Be pro-active instead of placing your life in someone else's hands. Read the literature for every one of your prescriptions. If you have reservations, discuss them with your doctor. Know your risks. And do what you can to minimize them.

Personally, I think all ads for prescription medicine, lawyers, doctors, medical procedures, etc., ought to be illegal. While we're at it, we ought to make political ads illegal, too. Instead we should just publish the voting records for the incumbents.

Hmmmm. Wouldn't that make life different?

anny

Lights Out!

2011-08-02T09:01:00.001-04:00

There are individuals (we won't mention names) who thrive on cleaning. Clean house. Clean clothes. Clean car.

I'm not one of those people. If things are down to a dull roar, I'm perfectly happy to live that way.

I have absolutely no interest in looking for dust bunnies under the beds or moving the refrigerator out to clean the floor under it. My curtains are not taken down weekly/yearly to wash. And as long as I'm not tripping over something on the floor, I'm content.

That doesn't mean I don't know how to clean. I'm just not interested. My philosophy is slightly different. It seems to me if you always put items back as soon as you finish using them, then the cleaning is minimal.

Where I run into trouble is shopping.

Have you ever noticed when you come home from the store you have a bunch of stuff to put away? Except by the time I shop, carry everything in, and set it down, I'm exhausted. Then I'm supposed to put stuff away? No, no, no.

I've taken to weighing how much trouble any particular item is going to be before purchasing. Really. If I'm going to have to move three pieces of furniture before I can put that rug down...well, how bad could I possibly need that rug?

See? Simple. And think of the money I save...

anny

Life

2011-08-01T09:07:00.001-04:00

Risk. It's part of life. If you take no risks, then you aren't really living. Oh, I believe you should do what you can to minimize the risks, but once you do, then life is for doing.

The fear of failure is the main thing holding most people back from living life. How many of us say "one day I'll do such and such", but one day never comes?

How many of us are holding back until we think we're "ready". Will we ever be ready? Really?

anny

Passing Time

2011-07-29T18:21:00.001-04:00

My granddaughters are here this week. And the universal cry is "I'm bored..." We talked about what Nanna (that would be me) did when she was young. They were fairly appalled to discover that I didn't have cell phones, video games, and other electronic paraphernalia in my youth. But the crowning touch was when they found out my family didn't have a television.

To be perfectly honest, it wouldn't have made much difference if we had one because we lived so far out in the sticks there wasn't much available for television, anyway. It was well before cable and satellite was even a twinkle in someone's eye. I remember the to-do Sputnik caused when the Russians put it up.

Movies showed up once a week at the tiny theater in town and besides...they were considered sinful by most folks in town--except for the new Disney movies. I remember the excitement when I got to go see Bambi.

Mostly we went outside and played. Sometimes I rode my bike. I played with my dolls on a blanket under the shade of a mesquite tree. We didn't have any grass. It was dirt and rocks.

It rarely rained, but when it did, the yard was a sea of mud. Then we played inside on the living room floor. There were some critters to contend with, of course. Since I lived in the desert southwest, there were scorpions, spiders, millipedes, and other assorted wildlife. Somehow, we survived.

Telephones were grown-up devices. I remember the half-dozen times I was permitted to talk to someone on the telephone prior to my teen years. Time was strictly limited on the telephone. It wasn't an entertainment device. And we shared a party line with other people so whatever you said was broadcast through out the town.

The thing that strikes me now was I never felt underprivileged or deprived. Life was what it was.

I wonder how our children of today would cope if they were suddenly tossed back in time?

anny

Temporary Leaning

2011-07-24T18:20:00.000-04:00

During the in-and-out ups-and-downs of life, most people stand on their own two feet, making do the best they can. That's the way it should be for the most part. But the day arrives inevitably when we just can't do it all by ourselves. When that day comes, there is no shame in asking for help. Actually doing a little bit of judicious temporary leaning demonstrates wisdom and good sense.

None of us are so strong we can deal with everything. None of us are invincible. And none of us can always be the rock that everyone else depends on.

It is a reality that it is so much easier to be the helper than the helpee. No one wants to admit they can't do it all on their own. As a matter of fact, I suspect it's harder for us to admit our need for assistance than it is to deal with the actual emergency or situation.

I know it was for me. The temptation to bear up and hang tough rather than ask for help was something I had to deal with more than once. But I want to point out something from the other side of the coin.

I've also been the helper occasionally when a friend or family needed that temporary rock. There are blessings to be earned by being a helper. If no one ever gracefully accepts help, then how are helpers to earn those blessings?

Rather than shame at needing help, we should feel blessed that we have friends and family who love us enough to make that offer. See? Blessings all around.

Everyone wins.

anny

Baby, It's Hot!

2011-07-22T13:01:00.000-04:00

As most of my readers know I live in Baltimore...where the heat index at eleven a.m. was 114 degrees Fahrenheit. When I write a post about the weather, there's always some competition among commenters about how hot is it where they live (or cool). But the bottom line is it's hot, hot, hot and uncomfortable. And more importantly, it's life threatening. So if you don't have a really, really, really important reason to go out--then stay in.

And don't forget the pets, either! Keep 'em cool!

anny

Vacation?

2011-07-12T18:18:00.000-04:00

Er, leave of absence... Too many things goin' on. So I'm taking a short time off. If things slow down I might pop back in with an update!

anny