With a Purpose

In the past, when I wanted an area to work on a project, I've piled stuff out of the way, promising myself I'll do something with it later. And generally 'later' is several years in the future because life happens and I never get back to the dump.

About five years ago...maybe four...I dismantled my drafting table and put away my calligraphy stuff when my family circumstances changed. Now, there's really no place for the table and I'm determined NOT to create another dump in the quest to figure out a place.

And so? Well, the alternative is to actually CLEAN and SORT and THROW OUT stuff purposefully. To that end, each day I go through a box or basket or stack of papers and toss out. It's a slow process. Some things need to be shredded. Some can simply go in the round file. Others need to be filed or placed in notebooks or set aside to pass on via Goodwill.

I'll confess something. I absolutely hate this kind of cleaning. There are people who LOVE organizing and making things tidy and all that other crap. That's not me. I can organize specific things like art supplies or craft supplies or notes for a book. But that other stuff? Nope. Really not my thing.

I don't care if the piles of this or that totally take over the universe. The only thing that compels me to clean is peer pressure. You know. SOMEBODY might come in the apartment and goodness knows we wouldn't want them to think we live like pigs.

Nope.

So I pick up and stash things in odd, out of the way spots so the main impression is neatness. And heaven help me if I ever need to find something specific.

Now, if I want to get back to my calligraphy, I must clean with purpose. Blech. Determination is everything, right?

Onward...

Lowest Common Denominator

After two or three days of spotty Internet service, it took me a while to scroll through posts on Facebook, Yahoo, and a few of the other sites I check out. When you take a writing sabbatical, you have time for other stuff. Lot's of stuff. So maybe, I read more than I would otherwise.

Mostly, it ended with a bad taste on my tongue.

In the last twenty years or so, we've slowly but surely oozed into the dumpster of the lowest common denominator. It is possible that is one of the reasons I'm not very motivated to write. Why write when there's no challenge?

I read poorly written posts with multiple spelling errors--posts that mostly posed banal questions, loosely related to writing. Over the past year, the subjects have slithered from mildly interesting to not even close. Perhaps...I've just reached the point of saturation.

Or possibly, I'll searching for some meat in my rock soup. In the rush for popularity and sales, we've all jumped on the wagon of mediocrity. Publishers were the initial wave, imposing their 'thou shalt nots', but even though we have the freedom of self-pubbing, we're still adhering to the same rules.

Has anyone stopped to consider why? One author posted a short piece about HEAs and the absolute rules for romances. Does that rule matter if you're self-pubbing? Or is that supposed to be part of the definition of romance? At one time, forced seduction was the norm. Yet, we've mostly moved past that, seeking other story forms. Who says we have to have an HEA?

Actually, the most respected and beloved books over the past hundred years are those written by authors who dared to be different--dared to write stories that posed questions without answers.

Perhaps we should aim for the top instead of grubbing down in the mud pit. What if we used vocabulary above third grade level? Suppose we didn't tie everything up in neat little packages, but left something for the reader to consider and decide. What if we challenged our readers to think? What if?

The Dark Valley

The Windflower by Laura London (Tom and Sharon Curtis) was recently re-released after a twenty year hiatus. The Curtis duo retired way back when, at the top of their game after winning a Rita. Since The Windflower was originally released, I've owned eight copies. Every time I loaned it out, it never returned. Finally, I refused to loan it anymore.

As I re-read The Windflower on my Kindle, I pondered the consequences of the authors' retirement. If they had continued to write, turning out another twenty books would their fans have been as excited when The Windflower was re-released? Or would we stifle a yawn and move on?

The current conventional wisdom is write, write, write. Otherwise, your readers will lose interest and move on. Harper Lee, Margaret Mitchell, and a host of other authors produced one or two books and yet, we haven't forgotten them. So wouldn't it make more sense to write fewer books with more impact? Instead of churning them out at an impossible pace, shouldn't we be writing something of worth and interest?

For the last year, I've written nothing of consequence. Oh, I keep my hand in by producing a blog, but my novels are moldering under the metaphorical bed, gathering dust. At first, I told myself it was because I had writer's block. Or I was dealing with too much stress due to poor health. Or... Then, this last week I finally faced the truth.

I'm not terribly interested in writing at the moment.

Will that change in the future? I have no idea. Simply put, I have nothing to say. I used to wonder how the Laura London duo could simply walk away. What about all those other wonderful stories they could write? Now, I begin to understand, maybe. There might not have been anymore stories to write.

Is 'more' really more?

Again, I don't know. But I've decided I'm not going to feel guilty anymore because I'm not writing. Until I can feel excited again about writing, I'm going to set it aside and enjoy other parts of my life. When or if I have a story that grabs my soul and clamors to be written, then I'll sit down and write. If I don't like the stories I work on, why should anyone else? In the meantime, I'm going to return to my first love--reading.

Anyone have something special to recommend?

'59 Pontiac and the Prom

I saw a story on Facebook today about a woman who left the top down on her convertible while she went grocery shopping...and then it rained. In the weird way these things happen, the story rang a distant bell of memory for me.

Back, back, back in the past when I was teenager and graduating senior, all my classmates were yapping about the prom. The PROM!!! I wasn't because my parents didn't approve of dances, low-cut formals, or all night dates. Mostly, the whole idea of going to the prom gave me a queasy, roiling tempest in the gut.

I had no social skills. No 'girly-girly' skills. No yearning to wear revealing clothing as I was not even remotely endowed. And had not the faintest clue what to do with make-up. I weighed 97 lbs. straight out of the tub before I dried off. So I was okay with not going to the prom. Oh, yeah. We had ZERO money to invest in dress, shoes, etc., blah, blah...

I'd only been dating the hunk for a few weeks when he mentioned taking me to the prom. After some discussion, he reluctantly agreed that an evening out at a fancy restaurant instead would be okay.

The day arrived. Most of my female classmates cut their afternoon classes so they'd have time to get all gussied up for the prom. I didn't have that excuse so I went home at my normal time.

The humidity was a killer that evening. I had a very nice cool white crepe dress and white heels. A friend loaned me a gauzy purple shawl and tiny handbag so I was all set. When my 'date' arrived in his suit, I felt very grown up.

He had a 1959 Pontiac convertible--baby blue. That thing was a tank. He had a glasspack muffler so let's just say you could hear him coming and going. He had the top down when he arrived, which was just fine because I had enough hair spray on my hair to make it qualify as a football helmet. And away we went!

He chose a very nice restaurant--The Black Angus. We left the top down since it was such a warm night. Inside was cool, chilly enough I was glad I had the shawl, and really dim with little candles on the table. My experience with restaurants was very limited, but looking back, this was a pretty formal place. There were heavy white tablecloths and napkins and flowers.

It was a lovely meal. We even had dessert! And while polishing that off, we decided to go bowling. Once the check was paid, we pushed the heavy outer doors open and stared in dismay at the rain pouring down. Yep. Pouring.

The storm moved on quickly, but the damage was done. We crossed the wide boulevard and surveyed his car. After a moment, he walked around and opened the doors so the water on the floor could roll out. Then he opened the trunk, took out an old ragged towel and a blanket. After wiping the doors, dash, and steering wheel, he spread the blanket over the seats and sort of smiled. "Ready?"

Heh. It was a foretaste of the many disasters we faced together over the next forty-plus years. Disaster happens. We clean up. And we go on.

We went bowling. We stopped at an ice cream joint and had a sundae. And at eleven PM sharp (my curfew), he parked in front of our apartment. I had a great time.

I'm so glad that Facebook posting reminded me of my long-ago 'prom' night.   

Mom Wisdom

It's Mother's Day in the USA. This is the day the card companies, florists, candy makers, and restaurants count on to boost their income for the spring.

I'm in the minority. So far, I received a small hen 'n' chicks plant from the hunk. I'm not complaining, you understand. I believe it's more important to honor our mothers throughout the year. Call. Write. If you're close enough, go visit. Know your mom.

I can hear your snort of derision. So let's take a little test. Can you answer the five questions below?

What's your mom's favorite color?

What's her favorite leisure activity?

Does she have a favorite author--and if so, who?

Who is her best friend?

Name one important event from her childhood.

Hmmmm. Harder than you thought, isn't it? Our tendency is to sort of take her for granted because she's always been there for most of us. My mother died when I was ten...and I learned the most difficult of truths. Our parents aren't ALWAYS going to be there. My father re-married, and I received a precious gift--a second mom.

Mother's Day shouldn't be the ONLY day we appreciate moms. It should be a gentle reminder to honor them everyday. In the hustle and bustle of life, it's easy to bypass the opportunity to speak to our moms. But a phone call takes so little time out of our day. A letter or card takes a few moments to write and mail. Flowers sent for no reason at all are a marvelous surprise.

Lost opportunities to show our moms how much we care can never be regained. Love 'em while you can.

This and That on Monday

I haven't figured out why Monday is such a drag for me. Usually, I have no obligations or appointments because I don't schedule anything on Monday. Retirement means I don't have to deal with a job. Nothing going on.

Maybe it's the sixty-plus years of facing work and school. I just don't know.

However, sometimes we don't have control over life. Today we're up bright and early waiting for the maintenance guys to arrive. They'll be fixing our bathroom floor. The tiles are old and have started to come up. A couple broke. We're not sure exactly what they're going to do...but it will mean using our 'other' bathroom (toilet and sink crammed in a tiny closet) until they're done.

Thank goodness we have another bathroom.

Sometimes we forget to be grateful for the small stuff. My usual practice when I get up is to check the weather, the news and my e-mail. The first thing I saw this morning was a piece about folks fighting a wildfire in Oklahoma. One person has already died.

Last week a lot of folks died or were injured or lost everything they owned due to tornadoes. Others out in California lost their homes. There's nothing left...not even a bathroom.

I confess I'm cranky in the morning when I face dealing with finger pokes and belly pokes before my first cup of coffee. But I never forget to be grateful for those teeny needles and the pen technology so I don't have to deal with syringes and long needles. I'm blessed I have an insurance plan that pays for them.

Though my family is scattered all over the country, I'm blessed that we all get along and keep in touch. Not all people are so blessed. My brother, who is sixty, is going to take my mom--eighty-five--to the mother-son banquet at church this week. I'm so happy he lives close to my parents.

It's easy to be grumpy when our cozy little world is disturbed, but most of us have shelter, food, clothing and security. Most of us have reasonably good health and family or good friends around us.

Monday. A day to be grateful for all I have. Sun is shining. A hot cup of coffee. And the hunk makes a wonderful breakfast. The rest of life? Bring it on...

Anonymity

Our debit card recently expired and we were issued a new one. Then, of course, we had to notify and update the various places our information is stored. Netflix, my website provider, places we regularly shop online, the online pharmacy...our banking info is in an appalling number of locations.

All my e-mail providers want my mobile phone number. I'm behind the times enough that I don't have one. Oooops. They don't know how to cope with that.

When I opened a PayPal account it was a big problem because they wanted copies of snail mail bills, etc. for identity proof. Except...our bills arrive via e-mail. Ditto the bank statements. Ditto everything.

I just wonder. What happens when everything crashes?

We had a small taste of that when our debit cards expired. Can't pay for anything. Can't get money from the ATM. In a plastic world, what happens when the plastic world shuts down?

We keep small amounts of cash on hand--enough to buy milk or bread if necessary. Certainly, we don't have enough to pay for medicine or gas or an 'emergency'.

In our 'modern' world, we rely on technology to an astonishing extent. Much of that technology leads directly back to the Internet. Our private information is shared on a daily basis--financial, medical, identity--as casually as we change clothes.

I recently finished re-reading Nora Robert's 'in Death' series. Part of the background premise for that series is the enormous amount of personal information available to the 'authorities'. Marriages, births, divorces, educational history, arrest history, finances... Back when I read the first book (when it was first published) all that was fantasy.

Think about that.

When she wrote that first book, the idea that our personal information would be so easily available was fantasy. It was off in some nebulous future.

The future is now. There is no anonymity. There is no privacy.

Light Surprise

Sometimes we get stuck in a stuffy, dark tunnel in our daily life. I haven't blogged in a while because my brain just closed in, leaving me with nothing to say. It wasn't the usual suspects like bad weather or poor health or family weirdness. I think it's discouragement.

It's easy to get in a downward spiral when your professional train runs off the track. Since writing is such a solitary vocation, there really isn't anyone else to blame when things aren't working for you. And once you're off in the weeds and rocks, it's harder and more unlikely you'll drag your train back on the track.

I've spent some time this week taking care of professional paperwork. One of the things I did was analyze my sales for 2013. They're down, of course. When it's been a while since you've had a new release, naturally the sales drop on your older books. And my last release with this particular publisher was...a while ago.

Our perceptions of how we're doing is often no where near the truth, but I was quite shocked when I finished wading through the royalty statements. It turns out the two books I'd pretty much figured were my worst sellers were actually the top two. Hmph. How did that happen?

There's never any conversation or reviews or flash about either of them. No one posts things like, "I loved this book!" when I put up excerpts or post the covers. And yet, they both are quietly selling at a steady pace.

Strange.

Anyway, in an odd way, that new reality perked me up. As did, flipping through the various 'bibles', skimming through the notes and plans I've jotted down in the past for series, both active and future. I found myself wondering how I wandered off the path, getting lost in the murky undergrowth of life. When did I give up?

In the past couple days, I've noticed a light in the distance, a far off glimmer of hope and interest in the darkness. It seems there's a light at the end of the tunnel, after all.

anny

Monday Musings

1. I never open e-mails from authors trying to sell their books. Never. Ditto blog hops, writing services, crafts, crystals, life readings, etc. To my way of thinking e-mails are letters, reserved for personal communication.

2. If I really like a book, I will re-read it at least once every year. If it's part of a series, I'll re-read the entire series every year (or when the newest book is released). I love finding a book I can re-read.

3. I never click on the links for books, gizmos, clothing, blah, blah, blah sold on Amazon, B&N, etc., etc. I also rarely have to deal with virus attacks. Wonder if there's a connection...

4. I 'unfollow' any individual who posts pictures of abused animals, children, adults, etc. Post a link to the article and I'll decide if I want to read it. But children can see my newsfeed and I don't believe they need to look at such pictures. I often wonder why folks post such things. Usually, there's very little accomplished in the end.

5. I skip over all political links. About 90% of them are false or so slanted it's nearly impossible to determine the truth. If you have an opinion, state it clearly with supporting evidence.

6. I wish there was a course or cheat sheet or something that explained the whys and wherefores of writing a blurb. Really. Shouldn't I be able to catch a glimpse at the story? Maybe be able to tell whether it's a comedy or mystery or horror? I wish folks would just say, "Read my book. It is a mystery set in Podunk Holler. Murder and mayhem abound."

7. Why do so many book covers have headless people on them? Naked hairless chests? Overflowing, out-of-period gowns? People in their underwear? Actually, why do we have people on the covers at all?

8. Do women ever think about how impersonal and objectifying naked/nearly naked pictures of young men are? I find most of them vaguely embarrassing...kind of like looking at someone young enough to be my grandson. I get the whole someone-paid-them-money to take their picture, but really...

9. Why do people post weather/news updates without any information regarding location? "Shooting at Roosevelt HS!" Hello, there must be thousands of Roosevelt High Schools. What city or state? "Twelve inches of snow on the ground!" Where? You know...a general area...California...Texas...Canada. It makes a difference.

10. I almost deleted this post because it's mostly belly-achin' cause it's MONDAY. Feel free to ignore it. Or add your own beef...

Dragon Creating

It's been a while since I mentioned my struggles with taming my new dragon, George. Technically, George is a fine, fine dragon. The problem is with my memory difficulties.

Writing--the act of creation--is a slow process at best. Backing up, changing your mind, choosing a different phrase or word from your initial one, rearranging the sentence structure...all of that is part and parcel of the writing process.

Then you add in an entirely different set of skills when you use voice-to-text software. A simple sentence such as ' "Take the ball and run across the field," Rachel shouted. ' becomes something like:

New paragraph.
Open quote.
Capitalize.
Take the ball and run across the field
Comma.
Close quote.
Capitalize.
Rachel shouted
Period.

First of all, I have a LOT of trouble remembering the commands. Second of all, remembering to speak the commands while trying to remember what I want to actually CREATE is...a very slow process for me. And frustrating.

I haven't given up. But I suspect it's going to be a while before I smooth the process out so it's worthwhile to use. This is for ME, for my personal drawbacks. For an individual whose memory is good, I suspect things would be different.

In the meantime, I found this review today and thought I would just tack that one here for the curious. Click on the caps below!

Dragon Review

Take the Flowered Cane

Some folks are blessed with excellent physical health. And then there are others...who aren't. For about half the days in any given month, my hip vigorously protests when I climb up and down stairs or walk for any distance. On half of those days, the knee also complains. After falling several times when the knee or hip decided to quit working, I was afraid I would do some serious permanent damage.

For a long time, I just didn't walk. Then I discovered I could complete a walk if I used a cane. Sigh. That cane made me feel old. Never mind I was already hobbling around like an ancient old goat. I could still tell myself I wasn't in that bad of shape. Somehow, using the cane made me face up to reality--and I wasn't ready for that.

One day when the hunk and I were in Wal-Mart I saw a cane covered in flowers. Over his protest that I didn't NEED another cane, I bought it. And the next day, I took it for a test run. And you know? I didn't feel so old. Having a stylish accessory for my walk made it all different. I find I don't mind walking when I have my fancy flowery cane.

Maybe I'll look around for one with a dragon's head...

anny

Once Upon a Time

I think of time as a series of traveling tubes we zip through passing each other on our way to unknown destinations. Some events--or rather the possibilities of those events--might come our way more than once. Or not.

Reading is one of the events with multiple opportunities. Depending on where we are in life, we may (or may not) enjoy a particular book--even a much anticipated book. Then later, at a different time in our life, even a few weeks or months later, the story might have great meaning or solace for us.

I think that's why I re-read books. Sometimes, that old favorite has something especially important to tell me. Sometimes, it makes all the difference in how I'm dealing with a particular issue in my life. No, I'm not talking about self-help or non-fiction books. I'm speaking about the wide world of fiction. Mystery, romance, westerns, suspense. A good story has something to say, regardless of genre.

We just aren't always ready to hear what's there. Hence, re-reading the story later.

Recently, I re-read a story I first read nearly forty years ago. At that time, I desperately needed the humor and hope the story gave to me. It made all the difference in my life. When I re-read it more recently, it was a mildly amusing book, but didn't carry the same punch it did before. And that's quite okay. That just means I'm in a much better place now than then. I still enjoyed the shenanigans of the characters, but now see them from the perspective of a different age and experience.

Quite a few years ago, a woman reviewed one of my books. She prefaced her review, almost apologetically, by explaining she was bored and not feeling well so she'd chosen to read my book as a nightcap. When she finished her scathing review, she gave it two stars. Small wonder my story didn't speak to her on any level!

I often wonder about reviewers' lives and how they're affected by their personal issues when they review a book. Of course, we all know they're supposed to be objective, but that's plainly impossible. All of us are influenced by the events surrounding us. That's pretty much why I discount the opinions of others when it comes to movies, television shows, books--even art.

Let each of us experience it on our own. And if it speaks to us, let that be enough.