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

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

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.

Boobie Check

Today was my six month follow-up mammogram. Naturally, it was snowing so we left home early. And for once, they took me in immediately.

Any woman who's been there knows the drill...strip everything above the waist and put on a gown--open in the front. As I tugged the gown closed, the tech called my name so we went right in--no time to sit around and think of bad possibilities.

The area they're keeping an eye on is high up, even with my arm pit. Just imagine trying to squeeze that area in the smasher unit! It took three tries, but eventually, the tech smushed and stretched and squeezed it all in, including the bits under my arm.

Then she said, "Okay, don't get dressed yet. Wait out there until the doctor looks at the x-rays." And the waiting was...endless. At that moment, whether you're single or married, young or old, you're all alone. You have time to wonder if this is going to be the time when the news is not good? Is this the point when your life changes?

Eventually, she came out and said, "Nothing has changed. That's good! Come back to see us in six months."

And you start breathing again.

Hotdog Taxes

On Monday, the hunk and I went to have our taxes done. Since I'm an author, I itemize. When our preparer was finished, I had more deductions than my income...not surprising as my royalties came to less than $1200.

The big surprise came when we arrived at the bottom line. Our total combined refund was a few dollars difference from last year's refund. But we had dropped from the 15% bracket to 10%...because my royalties were so low.

Hmmmm.

Now I must consider whether writing (and royalties earned) are actually more beneficial to our financial picture or maybe I should aim for one new book a year. I suspect the tax situation is not going to improve over the next few years. Perhaps, just perhaps there's a good reason to slow down and smell the roses!

More hotdogs!

Boogie Man

I freely admit I'm probably the world's biggest needlephobic. Yep, all you have to do is show me a needle and I'll run the other direction. When I have blood drawn or an IV inserted I have to close my eyes and think of England.

So when my doc proposed insulin shots for my ongoing diabetes struggle--well, you may imagine how excited I was at that prospect. My current oral meds have some nasty side effects. Tired and depressed and truly feeling discouraged, I agreed to the new regimen, but my already wobbly belly was engaging in a new set of flutters at the IDEA of injecting myself. I spent a restless night worrying about this new aspect of my life.

I have a root canal scheduled today and THAT wasn't as worrisome as the NEEDLE. Oh, woe is me!

I rolled out of bed this morning--tested my blood sugar (a sparkling 243) and hauled out the papers explaining the process of insulin injection. I have the insulin pen, so it wasn't even like it was a real syringe. (How in the world do drug addicts stand to do this crap???)

I finally fumbled through the assembly process, and then with a DEEP breath, I went for it. Poked my arm. Peered down there to make sure the needle was in because I didn't feel anything. Yep, it was in. Pressed the injection button. And I did it!

I'm feeling a bit silly for wasting a night's sleep worrying about needlegate when I could have worried about the root canal instead.

The boogie man--he just isn't as bad as he used to be...

The Great Chore Debate

http://www.flandersfamily.info/web/age-appropriate-chores-for-children/

Someone posted the chart above over on Facebook. I found the comments interesting and illuminating. First let me get the 'Carry firewood' (under 2-3) out of the way. Is the intention for the child to lug an armload of wood into the house? No, of course not. But any kid can help by carrying a smaller piece of wood. People! Use your heads!

Now. I don't propose to debate the list. Mostly, folks get all snarky if their kids can't/won't do the things on the list because they feel they've failed. Phft! If you as the female parent--and let's just confess, it's ALWAYS the female parent--decide it's more convenient or practical or any other excuse you want to claim for you as the parent to do all the work, then go for it. That has nothing to do with your child's capabilities.

In another era, in a different part of the world, children do all the things on the lists and more. From the time they can walk they have responsibilities--responsibilities appropriate for their age and culture. If we, in our culture, choose to believe our children are less capable, then that's our shame.

My mother was the ideal mother. She did everything. Hah. If the Stepford Wives had been around in her era, she would have fit right in. Then she died in a car accident. I was ten.

I have a vivid memory of my father handing me a can opener, a can of tuna and a loaf of bread and instructing me to fix my younger brothers some sandwiches. Gentle readers...I had no clue how to open that can or what to do with the tuna if I ever solved that conundrum.

As I struggled with my appointed task, I determined my children would never be in such a situation. Over the next few months I was faced with numerous situations I could have been prepared for, but wasn't, because my mother had resolved to be a GOOD mother and therefore did everything herself.

The skills on the chore list above are not just time fillers to occupy our children. They are skills designed to prepare our children for adulthood. We can't wait until they're sixteen, then suddenly demand they learn how to be an adult. Work skills are acquired all through life.

And there's something else I think a lot of parents fail to consider. When your child has acquired the skills appropriate for his age, he had confidence--confidence in his capabilities and he knows he's contributing to his family's welfare. Oh, he may never admit such a thing, but underneath...yeah, he knows.

The Dark Side

Traditionally, humans seek out light. There's an element of evil and danger associated with the dark. From the beginning the tribe gathered around the fire in an effort to keep away the things lurking in the shadows.

Bad things happen at night...in the dark...in the shadows.

We never stop to consider just as many bad things happen during the day, in the sunlight. Evil is evil whenever it comes calling. Personally, I think we're taken unawares more often during the day than at night because we don't expect it, feeling safe simply because it's light.

I like the dark. One of the things I miss about having a dog to walk (one of the very few things!) is the nights I would roam in the shadows, listening to the insects singing, picking out the few constellations I can readily identify. I miss  welcoming Orion in the winter. I miss the fireflies in the summer. Oh, I could go outside without the excuse of walking the dog, but it wouldn't be the same.

It's not a cultural norm. People outside after dark are perceived in a different way. That's that heightened awareness thing. If we see someone standing around in the night, mooning at the stars, we suspect they're up to no good. We're wary--and for the most part that's probably safer--especially in urban environments.

I've done my share of camping, looking at the star-filled sky when there's no ambient light to block out the Milky Way. You have to be pretty far from civilization to do that. Even in the country, folks have security lights on poles in their driveways...to keep away the evil in the darkness.

I remember trotting at my father's side as we walked down an abandoned track in the hills behind the house where we lived in a tiny Arizona town, listening to the creak of cactus and tumbleweeds in the wind, catching the rustle of nocturnal animals scurrying across the sand, pausing to stand in awe at the glorious light show in the heavens.

Good memories, in the dark.

anny

Old Address Books

Usually, near the beginning of each year, I fill in a new address book with the current contacts and addresses I anticipate needing in the new year. I'm not very efficient when it comes to keeping track of doctor's names and other such throughout the year so once, just once at the beginning, I make a stab at collecting all the current information.

While I'm at it, I update friends and family addresses and any others I consider important. I also spend considerable time combing through old address books to make sure I haven't missed anyone.

You may wonder how I could miss someone. My MO tends to be write the new info down on a scrap of paper or sticky note. This is usually stuck to my computer monitor until guilt prompts me to find an address book. It most likely won't be the current one as who can find that when you want it? However, a couple older ones are probably stashed somewhere nearby. Find one. Enter the info, secure and smug in the fact that I actually DID transfer the information to some permanent repository.

Then in January, guilt strikes once again. In my orgy of organizing, tossing out, establishing a calendar for the appointments for the new year, I dig out all the business cards I've squirreled away with the mental promise of someday doing something with them. And...I decide I'll do better this year.

This year as I gathered the usual bits and pieces and pored over the spotted pages for the old books, it finally dawned on me why I despise prowling through the old collections of addresses and ephemera. Most of those people memorialized in the tattered books are gone. On many pages, not even one person is still alive.

Other folks are relics of long-gone life in far off places. The hunk and I have moved often. In spite of the best of intentions, people from those lives slip through our fingers. The glue that held us together dries out over time. Everyone moves on at their own pace.

As I study the list of names, it shames me that some I can't even match with a face...or even a reason their name is written in my book. Who were they? Why was it important for me to save their address or telephone number?

Mysteries...

This year after I fill in my new address book, I'll pack the old ones away with care. I had intended to throw them all away, but I believe I'll file them with my genealogical papers. Who knows? There may be some fragment of information that will come in handy down the road. It's time for me to finally let them rest in peace.

anny

Cabin Fever

It's funny how excited we get when the first snow of the season makes its appearance. And then winter arrives in earnest and we're not so thrilled. By the time the flakes are piled up to our knees we're ready for winter to be over.

Trapped inside while we deal with power outages, broken pipes, arctic winds and temps, it's easy to succumb to cabin fever. For those who are physically fit enough to go out, there are chores--shoveling, snow blowing--or even building a snow man. Some of that cabin fever finds a release.

But for those unable to go out in the cold, isolation and loneliness can exaggerate the feeling they're alone in the wilderness. It can slide along the slippery slope to paranoia and claustrophobia. And even the most physically fit can only spend so much time out in the cold. Soon we all start snapping and snarling at each other.

What can we do?

Stay active. Clean a closet. Bake. Exercise. Write a haiku about butterflies.

Talk to friends and family. There's this invention called a telephone. It's falling out of favor as more and more people text, but the sound of a VOICE is not the same as reading a line of print. Make that phone call and re-discover the joy of reaching out.

Take the time to do something you don't normally have time to do. Pedicure. Try on your old clothes so you can get rid of them. Draw. Paint. Practice that guitar that's gathering dust.

Stay away from the windows. I'm not sure why, but most folks seem drawn to just sit and stare out the window. Don't do that. Find something to keep busy.

Engage the kids in something that will capture their imagination. Build a blanket fort. Build two blanket forts and have a battle. See who can do the most jumping jacks or situps. Have a story telling contest. Let them draw pictures of their favorite summer activity. Turn off the TV and put on some music and have a dance contest. Play a board game or Go Fish.

Plan for spring. Before we know it, it will be time to garden. Pore over garden catalogues--even old ones. Estimate how many seeds you'll need. Draw diagrams. Ask the kids for ideas.

Embrace the time you've been given. It's an unexpected gift that will soon be gone.

Feng Shui New Year

New Year's resolutions are like Feng Shui for our future. We push bad habits around or even pile them near the door to take out to the dumpster while we ponder how to arrange the remaining bits and pieces of our lives. Maybe we even try bringing in new odds and ends to liven things up a bit.

Part of the problem is we don't notice our surroundings after a very short time. They're no longer fresh and new, blending into the hurry-scurry of our busy schedules. Unless...we shake things up a bit.

Most resolutions and changes last less than a month. Perhaps that proves we collectively have more short term memory than long. How to combat that fading determination?

Rearrange things again. Why do we only assess our lives once a year? Why not on the first day of each month? Oh, it doesn't require a major shakeup and cleaning, but maybe we just move that bit over under the window where it gets more light and we shove something else into that shadowy corner, something that will add a warm glow to the gloom.

If we sparkled up our lives more often, would we have as much to fix up at the end of the year? Consider. Why wait until the darkest, most depressing part of the year to assess our short-comings? That just adds to the depression. If we nudged things around all year, then we could look back with a more positive outlook.

I'm planning a Feng Shui New Year, month by month. We'll talk next year to compare notes.

anny

Taming the Dragon

Well, Crispin (the dragon) and I are slowly coming to terms. I've agreed not to bug him first thing in the morning before coffee (I tend to slur my words) and he agreed to be patient when I lose track of my thoughts.

Today is day three of our Dragon Wars...and I've managed to dictate a page of notes, make corrections, move around, add punctuation, and try out a few commands. All but one actually worked. I've been making frequent use of the cheat card and that works well.

Now...if only I didn't freeze up when dictating. You know those brain pauses you have when you're older? I tend to stop and meditate when I'm physically writing. When you do that verbally, you sound very...disconnected.

Dictating the notes was actually a good thing as I practiced a list of questions, three paragraphs of synopsis/notes, and compiled descriptions for some of the potential characters. Some of those items I would not normally use while actually dictating text for a story.

In the meantime, while I'm waiting for various electronic devices to charge up, I'll go back to the previous stories in this series and re-read them. It's amazing how many details we forget...

anny

Here Be Dragons

Yesterday I had my second post-op visit with the ortho man regarding my finger. Recovery is on schedule... for an individual who doesn't use their hands more than a normal-living-way. I, on the other hand (hah!) do depend on my hands for numerous occupational/hobby things (writing, typing, calligraphy, crochet/knitting, drawing).

After a brief discussion with the doc about why my hand--not just the finger, but all the knuckles, etc.--is generating considerable pain, he very gently broke the news. Other than normal day-to-day stuff, the hand needs a rest. A loooong rest. He estimates it will be completely healed around the six month mark. In my efforts to compensate for the non-use of the finger, I'm really aggravating my arthritis and delaying the healing process in the finger.

So. Peace.

I actually own a voice-to-text computer program--Dragon. And now it appears I'm going to learn and implement its use. I've heard good and bad and really ugly things about it, but that's all right. I'm persistent and I'm tough. If it will allow me to do ONE of the things I love, that's reason enough to do it.

So a couple people have been gracious enough to share some tips and pitfalls. If anyone else out there has experience with Dragon, speak up!

And for the curious, I'll be reporting back on my experiences. Now I'm off to tickle the dragon. I believe I'll call him Herb.

anny

At My Feet

Those of us with short stubby legs suffer a particular irritation when sitting, whether it's a chair, the couch, or even the bed. Our feet don't reach the floor.

After a short period of time my legs start to cramp and ache. I get up, walk around, but within minutes once I sit down again, the aches and pain start again. Over the years we've tried all sorts of solutions. None really worked well.

Then one afternoon a few weeks ago the hunk spied a rejected stool in a pile of furniture next to our dumpster. I stopped the car and he fetched the little stool. Except for a frayed corner, it was in excellent shape.

It's exactly the right height. I can watch TV or read in comfort. Problem solved.

But the hunk wasn't happy with that frayed cover. So he crocheted a cheerful new cover for my little stool. Last night he finished it--and wielding his staple gun--recovered the stool. Not all gifts cost hundreds of dollars. The gift of thoughtfulness and love is worth the most.

anny

Roll On

The thing about sabbaticals is they allow so much time for contemplation. In the course of my short, unimpressive career, I've written an assortment of genre varieties. My stories are mostly paranormal, fantasy and offbeat.

Occasionally, I am overwhelmed by the feeling I should write something 'important' or 'impressive'. Something that readers will finish and urge on their friends and neighbors and even strangers. The most recent series I've been working on falls far short of my own expectations though I believe it's an neat series with an unusual premise.

The truth is, I'm just not drawn to the important, impressive, life-changing type of book. My true love is the absurd, silly, kinky love story with oddball characters and whimsical plots that make absolutely no sense, but the reader is dragged along for the ride, simply to see how outrageous the story can be.

I haven't written in months.

Then this morning I sat at the computer, writing for my own amusement and wrote over 1800 words--which is a lot for me at one sitting. In that short number of words, the story has lost all semblance of sanity. But it's rolling along just fine.

It occurs to me I might have been trying to fix something that wasn't broken just because I long to fit in somewhere. And maybe, I should just stop trying to fix it and let it all roll on.

anny

Aliens Among Us

The conspiracy theorists postulate that aliens have not only visited us, but walk and live among us. Apparently, some of them believe the aliens would be obvious like the ones in Men In Black. I don't think so.

Any spy worth his salt would understand the importance of blending in so seamlessly the rest of us wouldn't even notice them. Where could they go to become 'one with the people'? Ahhhhh. Walmart.

You don't really believe those weird outfits are accidental do you? Really?

Consider the wigs and colorful makeup and strange outfits. How could that be anything but a desperate stab at disguise? Why, they even have their own code name...People of Walmart!

When new visitors land, they know the first place to go for orientation and information is their local Walmart. That's why there's a Walmart in every town. It's the local entry station for space visitors. Once they arrive, they instantly feel at home.

Mystery solved.

anny

Tuesday Ponders

Things to ponder while sitting in the dentist chair trying to ignore that dang drill...

Why are there split toilet seats in the women's restrooms? Are they cheaper? Or is there something I don't know?

Back when they only had outhouses did men still stand up to pee? Or did they give the outhouse a pass and just find a handy tree?

Lately, the hunk's taken to going commando. Is this something new in the 60+ crowd or is he just special?

Reading a 'western romance' now. The author has the heroine waving around a Colt Peacemaker. I wonder if she (the author) has ever held one...cause they're HEAVY. And I don't know many women with the wrist strength to wave one around one-handed...

And the author has the hero wearing wool long-johns in August. Now, I have it on unimpeachable authority that the fellows shed those as soon as possible in the spring. Actually, going commando isn't new, at all. My authority got his first pair of under-drawers when he moved to town in his mid-teens...So, that would make the hunk retro...

Huh.

anny

The ONE Way

When I was young, very young, I thought there was only ONE way. The RIGHT way. But an indication of maturity is when we finally realize there are many ONE ways, dependent on cultural background, education, and personal preference and experience.

This is true whether we consider the correct way to make scrambled eggs or ponder the identity of a higher power. Our way is not necessarily our neighbor's way.

In the last few months I've noticed an elitist attitude creeping into discussions about writing. This attitude has nothing to do with grammar or spelling or plot. No, it refers to Point Of View. One group will castigate writers who use first person. Another will vociferously protest third person omniscient. Some folks self-righteously proclaim all romances should be written in third person with no POV changes.

I just want clarity.

As long as I can tell who's saying what, I don't give a flying fig leaf how the writer conveys that information. Is the story interesting? Does it engage my heart and brain? If not, it could be the most meticulously written book of the year, but I WON'T FINISH IT.

AND I WON'T BUY ANOTHER ONE by that author.

Since I've been on sabbatical, I've paid close attention to the writing style of my favorite authors--authors I read over and over, even to the point of nearly knowing the stories by heart. And what I discovered is POV is not all that important.

I grant you, it's best not to leap around, paragraph to paragraph, but CLARITY is the thing. There is no ONE way to present the story. Writer after writer after writer has proven that. Many of those stories we all had to read in high school were written in a mish-mash of POV. They must have been doing something right. Right?

anny