Category Archives: writer

Squirrel!

800px-Klamelisaurus-scene-v1 wikimedia commonsI’m a dinosaur, lost in the woods.

I’m definitely a product of my generation. I have some college behind me, but not much, and what college I do have happened in the Dark Ages.

I am pretty much self taught. Because I am aware of my frailty in regard to REMEMBERING the English Language as it was taught to me in my American elementary school years, I am always trying to reeducate myself.

Fortunately, the internet is big, and full of all sorts of good advice.

Lots and lots of interesting things, all so neatly packaged for my  viewing pleasure.

grey squirrel close up  © Neil Phillips 2007

grey squirrel close up
© Neil Phillips 2007

What usually happens is one question gets partially answered and  suddenly I see a squirrel!

Today’s squirrel is a paragraph in an article regarding comma usage I was directed to by one of my dear friends, editor Irene Roth Luvaul.

I got about half way through it before I was sidetracked by another issue I have struggled with in my writing.  Should I use That or Which when a relative pronoun is REQUIRED? I say ‘required’ because most of the time a relative pronoun is not necessary but, occasionally, one is needed to clarify a sentence.

According to  Mark Nichol, writing for the website Daily Writing Tips:

“The house which Jack built is falling apart,” without commas, is correct. It is identical in meaning to “The house that Jack built is falling apart.” However, the convention in American English is to avoid using which in this sense to prevent confusion with the meaning of the sentence with the parenthetical phrase.”

SO this little paragraph explains the bipolar approach to writing I have when it comes THAT and WHICH!  One of my editors is BRITISH and the other is AMERICAN!  Both are educated and correct in their usage of the words, and both keep me on the right path.

I must simply decide which path that path might be…or something.

The key is to choose a usage and stick with it, I think.  This involves making a list and ♪ ♫ checking it twice ♪ ♫, gonna find out who’s ♪ ♫…squirrel!

Where was I?

Oh yes, relative pronouns.

Complicating things even further is the dreaded Zero Relative Pronoun! According to WIKIPEDIA-THE FOUNT OF ALL KNOWLEDGE (and I quote:)

Zero relative pronoun

English, unlike other West Germanic languages, has a zero relative pronoun (denoted below as Ø) — that is, the relative pronoun is only implied and is not explicitly present. It is an alternative to thatwhich or who(m) in a restrictive relative clause:

Jack built the house that I was born in.
Jack built the house Ø I was born in.
He is the person who(m) I saw.
He is the person Ø I saw.

Relative clauses headed by zeros are frequently called contact clauses in TEFL contexts, and may also be called “zero clauses”.

Note that if that is analyzed as a complementizer rather than as a relative pronoun (see Status of that below), the above sentences would be represented differently: Jack built the house that I was born in ØJack built the house I was born in ØHe is the person I saw Ø.

MH900407568The zero relative pronoun cannot be the subject of the verb in the relative clause (or on the alternative analysis: that cannot be omitted when the zero relative pronoun is the subject). Thus one must say:

Jack built the house that sits on the hill.
Jack built the house that was damaged by the tornado.

and never

*Jack built the house Ø sits on the hill.
*Jack built the house Ø was damaged by the tornado.

Neither that nor the zero pronoun can be used in non-restrictive relative clauses, or in relative clauses with a fronted preposition (“Jack built the house in which we now live”), although they can be used when the preposition is stranded: “Jack built the house (that) we now live in.

And what did we learn here? Holy crap, Jack is a busy man, and the houses he builds…. I don’t think I want to live in a house he built, too risky.

So anyway I think I need to decide if I am going to go British or American, and STICK with it either way. It seems like a simple choice on the surface but it isn’t. I am an American, but I grew up reading Agatha Christie, and J.R.R. Tolkien.

What would Bilbo Baggins do?

What’s that in your pocketses or are you just glad to see me…?

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Lurid and Unsuitable. Yup.

Pinocchio

As you know I have been dealing with 6-year olds a lot lately, and they are full of fibs and fabulous tales. They crack me up with how obvious they are about it.

But little white lies happen in adult life, too.  They are usually a gut-reaction — a sometimes irrational reflex that we justify with the comforting thought that “it doesn’t really matter, and this way we’ll avoid an argument.”  We’ve all done it at one time or another, and in much the same way as our toilet habits are, it’s not a subject we like to discuss in polite company.

But it makes an interesting plot development. In real life, white lies can escalate into big, complicated messes that can end marriages.  Love and white-lies are like the two sides of the family I grew up in – they don’t really mix well. In a good marriage, there are no white lies.  White lies happen when you don’t trust the other person to accept what you have either done or plan to do.

Trust is the key word here.

In Forbidden Road I have one character whose life is one long string of white lies, and that made for the most pivotal plot development in the story. It was difficult to write his tale and yet his penchant for avoiding the truth is the snowflake that causes the landslide and it drives the plot. The repercussions of his white-lies forms the tension for the next book in that series.

Speaking of books I’ve written, you may notice that The Last Good Knight is no longer available. It will be republished when Huw The Bard is published. Right now it is being readied for a complete re-editing, along with new covers to better reflect the fact that both books are a part of the Billy’s Revenge series.

TLGK was my first complete novel. I didn’t know much about writing, other than I liked a good story, so I wrote one. I had been writing for years, but I was working and raising kids, so all my writing was for my own amazement, and the rejection letters didn’t really matter, since they never said WHY my work was rejected.

I have struggled with The Last Good Knight. Carlie Cullen tried to straighten it out, and she worked a miracle, but there is one flaw inherent in this book that MUST be eradicated for it to live up to its potential. TLGK was written for NaNoWriMo, and many of it’s flaws can be traced back to that origin – “did not” instead of “didn’t” (for word count) and two rambling sections where I was establishing backstory. No one but the author really cares about backstory, but I didn’t know this at the time.

I’d never taken the time to analyze what I liked about a book. I didn’t know why some books I read captured my imagination, and some didn’t. I was writing for my own eyes, and I wrote what I wanted to read, and I LOVED a good story.

This is the reason why:

TriplanetaryMy parents were a bit eccentric. (Understatement of the year.)

Dad thought we should read what ever we want to read and of course we wanted to read what Dad read, so my sister and I cut our reading teeth on E.E. ‘Doc’ Smith’s Lensman Series.

This presented a problem at times in elementary school when we brought the book we were reading and it was deemed  to be ‘lurid and unsuitable’ by our teachers, frequently with negative consequences. My sister’s teacher went so far as to tell my mother, “A third grader should not be reading such trash!”  My mother’s response was that children should read whatever they wanted if they understood the words.

The series begins with Triplanetary, two billion years before the present time. What a great notion THAT is! The plot devices developed in this series of serialized tales forms the core of what we think of as traditional science fiction.  George Lucas liked it so much he used it in Star Wars.

200px-DocsavageThe other great influence on what I instinctively thought of as a ‘Literature’ was written by Lester Dentyes folks, my sister and I adored ‘Doc Savage’.  Clark Savage (or “Doc” to his friends), had no special powers, but was raised from birth by his father and other scientists to become one of the most perfect human beings in terms of strength, mental and physical abilities.

So, having spent my formative years fighting with my sister over who got to read dad’s Analog first, and having eagerly shared every crumb of any book, from Tolkien to McCaffrey to Heinlein with her, my notion of what constitutes a good tale was formed.

All these tales were TOLD, using phrases like “there was” and “he felt”.  These are HUGE no-no’s in the current culture of show-don’t-tell, as in the eyes of the modern reviewer there is no greater crime than that of “TELLING” a story.

Tolkien would have never gotten off the ground.

Thus, I need to completely rewrite two sections of TLGK, under the eye of an editor with a cruel red pen. It’s a great story, and I LOVE Julian Lackland. I just need to have modern approach to telling his tale and I think that when  he emerges he will be all that he is now, and more. So for the time being Julian Lackland is in literary limbo.

It’s been a hard decision to make, as I love that book, and the characters in that book have spawned two other stand-alone books and a whole world of tales. Once Huw the Bard is published I will re-release The Last Good Knight in some form or other. In the meantime I feel good about this choice.

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Transporting Dead Dinosaurs

The Joy of Childhood  © Leah Reindl 2012

The Joy of Childhood
© Leah Reindl 2012

So I went on an outing with one of my grandsons and his Kindergarten class. You may remember this child–The Boy whose antics keep Grandma hopping.

I honestly thought he was going to be the difficult child on the trip, but it turns out that he has an image to maintain (already) and his little mates believe he is the soul of reason. His teachers adore him.

(See Grandma’s look of shocked disbelief.)

However, I did have the pleasure of riding on the school bus in the seat directly in front of the ‘interesting child’ in the class, a little firecracker we’ll call Mercy. Her voice was beyond piercing–my ears are still ringing.

MH900001542First though, you have to picture the school bus packed with 6-year olds, each one in varying stages of that mania only a 6 year old child can bring to such an event. The adult volunteers were given groups of 3 children each to monitor. We lined up outside the school at the curb, and got on the bus, keeping our groups in order. My daughter and I shared our group, which worked out well.

MH900422812The first thing I noticed was the amazing lack of leg-room in Grandma’s seat. That and the fact that nowadays Grandma seems to take up more than half of the bench.

Oops.

Still, two of ‘my’ children were able to sit on the bench with me, and despite the fact that my knees were firmly pressed into the back of the seat in front of me, we rode fairly comfortably.

Directly behind me was the girl who we’ll call Mercy. She was imaginative, boisterous, and full of ‘it’.  She wore her emotions for everyone to clearly see, and every thought that entered her mind was immediately expressed, loudly, twice for emphasis. She was needy, loud, inappropriate and hysterically funny.

Mercy was the poster-child for ADHD.

As the large yellow sardine can I was trapped in hurtled down I-5, Mercy’s commentary dominated the din. “Look at that dude! He’s smoking a cigar. I’ll bet he’s a gangsta. He’s gonna do a deal. I saw it on TV.”

“Mercy, that’s inappropriate. We don’t talk like that, remember?” The lady who was Mercy’s wrangler was awesome. She was an older lady who volunteered at the school and who was also the school crossing guard. I suspect she was a retired teacher, as she had opted to wrangle the three toughest discipline cases in the class.

The other two were boys and they were…interesting…, but Mercy was the real loose-cannon in the bunch. She was the ringleader, the one the other two looked up to.

Just around the time I noticed I had lost the feeling in my legs, the school bus pulled alongside of a long semi, an open-top box trailer that was covered with a canvas tarp.  A corner of the tarp had come loose, and flapped in the wind as the truck rolled down the highway, giving a tantalizing peek at the contents of the load. (It was sawdust.)

Mercy said, “Look that truck is broken. I wonder what’s in it? It’s probably going to crash, cuz its broken.”

Her seatmate, a boy we’ll call Dewayne, said, “It won’t crash. That’s just the tarp. I wonder what’s under it?”

Dinosaur_comic_left by Luuva wikimedia commonsMercy said, “It’s broken, so it’s gonna fly off and kill someone and there’ll be blood everywhere. We’ll probably be on the news when it happens. And it’s a dinosaur, under the tarp.  A dead one.”

Dewayne said, “How do you know its a dead dinosaur? It could be any sort of dead body.”

“Human bodies aren’t that big. It has to be a dinosaur.” Mercy’s tone implied that she held the trump card. “I wonder where they’re going to bury it.”

All I could think of was that the seat behind me was occupied by two future authors of fantasy crime fiction, and the girl could possibly be a future Quentin Tarantino. This little girl was hysterically funny, obsessed with the macabre, totally off the wall and sharper than a tack.

I was SO grateful she was not in our group, as she was fast as lightning, didn’t hear any instructions, and made her own rules as she went.

It was a fun trip.

Grandma needed a nap when we got home.

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Gurus, St. George and Uncle Orson

200px-Saint_George_-_Carlo_CrivelliI write stories.  I tell people what may have happened had St George not slain the last dragon and taken the fun out of life.  Obviously I am telling the tale from the position of a storyteller.

This works well in the first draft, where I can “he did” “they went” to my heart’s content, but during the second draft I must take these “telling” places and expand on them, making them more active.

Many people ask me what I think about ‘critique’ groups.

I don’t.

I don’t think about critique groups at all, as critiquing is only a small sliver of what an author needs to hear in order to get his or her work ready for submission. Any wannabe can trash another person’s work.

I have found that for every serious author, there are five posers who think they are Jane Austen and that gives them the right to “just tell the truth.”

My ears are bloody with the sounds of unpublished and unpublishable authors piously ranting about the rules and quoting self-help writing gurus as they shred a fellow author’s work in the guise of critiquing it. This is why I don’t go to the groups whose main focus is destroying the dreams of others.

I have found a group of writers who share an understanding of all the phases that a manuscript goes through before it reaches the final draft.  Comments, when solicited, are encouraging. Flaws are noted, yes, but more importantly the places where the story shines are also noted. The writer is a fragile creature–it takes very little abuse to make them bleed.

enders game orson scott cardThe award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy, Orson Scott Card is one of the guru’s whose books on writing have shaped my approach to not only my own work, but how I look at the works of others.  Uncle Orson, as he refers to himself, has a fabulous website with many links to writing seminars, Hatrack River. Orson puts himself out there with his political and religious views, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that he KNOWS about writing and how to write a good, readable book.

Orson’s wife is his first-reader. He has a list of questions that he asks his wife to answer in regard to his work, and the way those questions are phrased is interesting. I now use those same questions and so do my two writing groups when we are PRIVILEGED to be first readers of an author’s cherished manuscript.  This is the list as I have it in my own files, tailored to my own work:

Five Questions for The Wise Reader who is evaluating my tale:

1. Were you ever bored? Please tell me where it became slow and hard to stay with it.

2. What did you think of the main character _______________________? Of ____________________? Of _________________________?

3. Was there anything you didn’t understand? Is there any section you had to read twice? Is there any section you became confused?

4. Was there anything you did not believe? Any time you said ‘Oh come on!”

5. What do you think will happen to the characters now I am done telling their tale. What are you still wondering about? 

My goal is to eliminate any areas of boredom, implausibility and cliché and I need your help to do so!

I think that writers grow when another eye is on their work. Of course it is an uncomfortable thing to have a whole section pointed out as being repetitive and possibly irrelevant, but it’s better to hear it from trusted friends before you publish than to never know why you keep getting rejections. Agents and editors rarely have time to tell hopeful authors why their work isn’t acceptable. This is why they use the dreaded form-letter-of-rejection.

outhouse at lake bernardHaving received enough of these to wallpaper an outhouse, I can tell you honestly that we aspiring authors are left to struggle on our own and learn the craft of writing as well as we can. This means we take courses if we can afford them or we avail ourselves of the very good education we can receive via the internet.

It also means we must ask others to look at our work. Local writing groups are the best places to meet people you can trust. Perhaps you’re not a member of a writing group and you want to become involved in one, but you are afraid of having your work torn to shreds. This is a real possibility, but there are MANY groups in every community, and quite a few will have the same rules as my group does. Attend several meetings as an observer before you commit to bringing any of your work. Once you see how they treat each other’s work you will know what you can expect from them.

Treat others the way you want to be treated, regardless. Don’t let the occasional bully stop you from growing and achieving your dream.

And this brings me back to where I started–trying to take an idea as it was laid down in the first draft, tell the story and yet show the action without going off the rails in either direction–showing OR telling.  As a reader I cut my teeth on Louisa May Alcott and J.R.R.Tolkien. They were authors who knew how to TELL a story and I lived it as they told it. Nowadays it takes a special sort of reader to enjoy classics as they were originally written, because they were rife with telling and not showing.

The second draft is much easier when it comes to laying out the action.  In the first draft I know what is supposed to happen at a given point, but I don’t always know how to show it, so I have a conversation that tells what happened. In the second draft I take those conversations out and replace them with the event.

Now I must have my characters go forth with their swords and kill me a dragon. We’re done talking about it boys! Show mama what ya got!

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Did I say that…?

killedI love words.  I hate auto-correct. I love writing words that make sense and say what I want them to say. Auto-correct is not conducive to that.

I hate spell checker. Now, if I was smart like Shaun Allan, I could take all those crazy nonsensical sentences that auto-correct accidentally gives me and make a dark, joyous joke out of them.

Shaunie can write circles around me. Actually, he can write circles around ANYone.  My prose when I try to write the way he does comes out forced, as if I was acting like a writer. When Shaun writes it, it’s entertaining. When I write it that way, it reads like ‘Ulysses’ would have read if James Joyce had written it via text-messaging on his smart-phone.

Although, now I think of it, that might have been an interesting lit-class….

But I have to say, that if anyone could make auto-correct work FOR them, it would be Shaun Allan.

41AIUjinHwL._SL500_AA300_I find that just reading Facebook posts as posted from my Android smarter-than-me-phone would be entertaining if they weren’t so embarrassing. My comment on a friend’s post regarding vacations last year: “We went to DC but didn’t get to Vagina, as we didn’t rent a car and were on the Metro.”  I’m not sure why my phone felt the need to auto-correct Virginia in such an interesting manner, but hey–what ever works, right?

My comment received five likes from people I didn’t know before I took a look at it and saw what was actually posted.

The really strange thing is my brain didn’t process the fact that we were IN Virginia! We were staying in Arlington, but for some reason I thought we were in Maryland! Washington DC is built in such a way that when you go across town you can literally travel from Virginia to Maryland in ten minutes, something my rural west-coast brain couldn’t seem to get straight. My phone really WAS smarter than me!

I’m not sure how to fit that comment into a medieval alternate reality tale, but I’m working on it.

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Rain, rain, rain

51jPbExehrL._SL500_AA300_Once again, spring has decided to funnel water on the Northwest.  Two weekends ago it was lovely- mid seventies weather, with the feeling in the air that winter had indeed ended and better days loomed on the horizon. I had all the cushions out on the back porch and was, briefly, in heaven.

Now, the doom and gloom of the standard Northwest spring has returned, and I find myself suffering from the blahs.  I can’t think straight, much less write a coherent sentence.  On the positive side, my 2nd oldest granddaughter, Courtney, will be staying with us for a few days, so I will have someone to share the misery with.

The locals joke that if you see someone with an umbrella, they’re from out of town. This is not true, as I have a large collection of umbrellas, many of them unbroken and still useful!  Even the cutest umbrellas frequently end up in street-corner trash-bins, ending their days as the tattered and broken relics of impulse purchases.

The winds here in my little valley are known to be death to umbrellas, even expensive ones.

I do confess that I can be seen at large events in the summer with an umbrella keeping the SUN off my lily-white skin! 81UuqzVF-1L._SL1500_

Despite the carnage, I feel compelled to keep buying umbrellas, feeling somehow as if the next umbrella will be the one–the true umbrella for all seasons, able to withstand 40 mph winds and sideways rain-bullets.  I just know that my desire to have some cheery vestige of spring in the form  of a floral print over my head will somehow work out and I will manage to remain both dry and stylish.

(snorfle)

The weather here is kryptonite to even a super-umbrella.

Unless….

Wait… is that…

Oh god.

It’s the one personal rain-shelter superhero that can take the hurricane force winds and merrily give Spring a thumbs-up. ( I’m sure that the one-finger gesture was meant to be a thumb…it’s pointing up anyway….)

31YA3A1XV3L._SX385_It’s  a Golf umbrella, that ubiquitous bastion of Pacific Northwest Fashion. Conversations between middle-aged sisters in Northwest restaurants tend to run like this:

“Is that my umbrella by your chair?”

“No,  its mine. Mine is the blue and white one.”

“MINE is the blue and white one. I’m sure I brought it in with me.”

“Well, this one is mine, see?  Here are my initials. I knew this would happen, so I used a sharpie. You didn’t come in here with an umbrella. Did you leave it in the shoe store?”

“No, I’m sure I had it when we went to Costco. That was after the shoe store. Are you sure that umbrella isn’t mine?”

“NO! It’s mine!”

“Next time I’m getting a red and white one, so I can spot it more easily.”  (Eyes restaurant full of red and white golf umbrellas.)

MH900399383

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I-5 or The Handbasket to Hell

__Hell's Handbasket__400 1Today I am back home, doing massive amounts of laundry and also doing revisions on Huw the Bard. For the last week I have been trundling up and down the I-5 corridor in Western Washington like an elderly gypsy in a 2009 Subaru Forester. Or, as I like to think of  the old family wagon, the Handbasket to Hell.

Anyone who  regularly has to drive this particular stretch of highway knows what I am talking about.

The  traveling population in Western Washington numbers about  5,229,486 people, and they are ALL eventually funneled onto the 6 to 8 lanes of  I-5.  Except for I-405, that 30 mile long stretch of misery that bypasses Seattle east of Lake Washington, this is it, folks. Unlike civilized places like the Midwest or Florida, you get only ONE major highway serving five-and-a-quarter million people out here in the urban-wilds.

Basically the legislature in Washington State is too dysfunctional to even begin contemplating fixing a toilet, much less our traffic troubles. The feds also feel that under normal circumstances conestogas  and Sasquatches require very little in the way of freeway access, so there you are.

Oh, the Agony.

Olympia, Tacoma, and Seattle each have public transportation systems in place, and you can make it on public transport if you work at it, although it becomes a looooooooong journey with many tricky connections. This is the least expensive option and if you have all day and little cash, it’s doable.

There is also the time honored Greyhound Bus for those brave souls who don’t mind the smell of a rolling Porta Potty AND who enjoy the thrill of being stranded in the worst, sleaziest sections of strange cities.

But there is no light-rail connecting Olympia to Everett. Believe me, if there were I would take it! I could ride Amtrak, but that is $24.00 each way, rather expensive for an underfunded book-monger like myself to consider. And then I’d still have to find a transit bus to Snohomish. I could use my daughter’s car once I got to Snohomish, so it may become an option.

At certain rare, beautiful times (after 8 pm or before 5 am) my journey to Seattle will take 1 hour, exactly as it should. However, most of the time the traffic is such that I allow 2 hours to Seattle and 3 to Snohomish. As I inch along in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, I feel that if the car is rolling forward, even if it is only going 20 mph, I must be making progress!

41-QRjuVtOL._SX300_While I am away from home, every coffee bar or cafeteria where I see the words ‘free wifi’ becomes my office! Grandma pops open the hand-bag, hauls out the little Acer and voila! Grandma is back in business. Not only that, but Grandma can write a book while helping Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader team up with Batman and the Green Lantern for a little kick-ball, pausing only to walk to the Pilchuck Drive In for a snack of those lovely morsels of greasy, salty goodness that we call fries (that’s ‘chips’ to you in the UK.)

Yes, I am that kind of grandma. (Here kid, eat yer spuds. They’ll make ya into a superhero.)

I have begun fleshing out Billy Ninefingers, and holy krraapp, once again I’ve fallen in love with my characters. I just LOVE the Rowdies and the snarky merriment Billy seems to generate.

Parisfal - Creator - Hermann Hendrich PD-Art Wikimedia CommonsIrene Luvaul and I have just finished the first draft of ‘Mountains of the Moon’, with me writing and Irene reading and removing ‘thats’ and ‘which'(s) right and left, along with de-comma-tizing frantically, and directing me to “Show not tell!” The woman is a saint, to want to do this on such a raw manuscript.  She began work on the beginning chapters before I had even finished the story, but that gave me the impetus to just get it done.

As I mentioned before, Irene and I are embarking on the third edit of  Huw the Bard, preparatory to sending him to Carlie Cullen.

By trial and error, I have discovered that I need two sets of editorial eyes on my wretched work – and when Carlie has made her trip though and I have fixed her findings to her satisfaction, my sister, Sherrie DeGraw, and several others will beta-read it, checking to see that it is ready for publication.

All this while, Carlie and Irene are writing their own wonderful works, and Sherrie is painting her little heart out.

When you are an indie author, if you want your work to be enjoyable, you must have a thick hide and the ability to work with others even if they are telling you things you don’t want to hear.  Believe me, there is no agony like the agony of a bad review, other than that of having your heart ripped from  your chest.

Write the story the way it falls out of your head.  Rewrite the story until you are satisfied with it.  Find an editor who is HAPPY to work with you, and TAKE THEIR ADVICE by sucking it up and making the revisions they have requested.  Go through the MS at least 3 times with them, or even 4.  Then find another editor, a ‘Line-editor” and go through the same process.  Have the book beta-read by people who read in your genre.

Spend the time that it takes to make your book reader-ready and you will have a product you can be proud of.

Even if you’ve written it while riding in a handbasket to hell.

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The Wheels on the Bus

FREAK FLAG SOCKSAh spring! Once again I am traveling the grand Highways of Life, surfing the net from hospital cafeterias and meeting some of the nicest, most caring people in the world.

As I’ve written before, two of my children suffer from Adult Onset of Epilepsy. Most of my time has lately been divided between Seattle and Snohomish, trying to help them cope and then returning to my home south of Olympia.

c436259aI spend a LOT of time on the road.  I take my husbands car for these long trips, as my 1999 Suzuki Swift (known locally as ‘the Grape’ because of its grapey-blue color) is not that good on the freeway. It’s so small that it gets blown around a lot by semi-trucks and mini-vans.

This time the ‘e’ word has struck my oldest daughter .  Her seizures manifest themselves differently than her brother’s. Dan goes from being just fine to Tonic Clonic without warning. His are currently being managed well with proper meds.

Leah has only had one Tonic Clonic event and that was in 2000, but she has once again begun having episodes where she ‘just goes away’ for 3 or 4 minutes. She has no memory of these mini events. They are Complex Partial Seizures, and are quite random in the way they strike her.

They share the same father, and there are indications that this may be something that his family has dealt with in the past on his mother’s side. The problem is, they emigrated to the US from Norway in the 1920s, and all the ones who would know anything are dead.

260px-ReceptionistsChances are they would not have been willing to discuss it, were they still alive. The stigma of epilepsy was, at one time, enough to keep members of an epileptic’s family locked in a code of silence. In the public mind, epilepsy was intricately bound up in a knot with mental illness and mental retardation. From the 1920’s through the 1990’s, just having a family member with one of these conditions was enough to prevent you from getting a white-collar job, no matter what your education and qualifications. It is only in the last decade that the public has begun to be educated in regard to ALL of these conditions.

In many ways, we are still fighting these sorts of battles, breaking down the stigmas attached to these illnesses and conditions. It is illegal to discriminate against a person in hiring just because they disclose that they have an illness or disorder, but who knows what will affect the person’s chances at a job interview?

Fortunately my children are employed well.  Dan is a software engineer and Leah is a hair stylist, and owns her own business. Dan’s employer is absolutely awesome. He’s been there 10 years and is very happy. His employer has many employee-support programs, and they treat their employees like family.

And so, the saga continues. The vegan hits the road, wondering if she will be forced to starve or if there will be food she can eat there, wondering how her kids are holding up under the pressure of dealing with new meds and medical bills.

Yet, no matter what, they always seem to manage, and yes, sometimes they need my help with logistics or hospital stuff, but most of the time they just handle what life throws at them.

And this makes me rather productive–I have finished writing the first draft of Mountains of the Moon, and am doing revisions. It has an ending and everything.

I have 48,000 words written on Billy Ninefingers.  I have the beginning, and I have the end, he just needs the middle filled out!

I am also doing a complete rewrite of my Galahad tale.

So the wheels on the bus go round and round and I keep rolling down the highway, but I say to heck with reality, I’m an author. Escape is my middle name!

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Filed under Battles, Epilepsy, Fantasy, Humor, Literature, writer, writing

Prompts, Me, and The Garmin Lady

MH900305798This week I will be on the road again. It is spring break for the schools there and so I will head north to Snohomish to stay with The Boy for a few days while my daughter, Leah, is working.

I love Snohomish. It’s full of little secondhand shops and antique stores. And just like in Olympia,  the vegan can eat really well in that town.

Also, it is paradise for those of us who LOVE small, independently owned bookstores.

Apparently there is a lot of road construction between my house and my destination.  But don’t worry!  I have our trusty GPS device, complete with The Garmin Lady to guide me around the back-ups and traffic jams.

arrowYes, The Garmin Lady is better than your mother-in-law at giving orders and (unlike me) she always points the correct direction when she says “Turn Left .”

(Oops! I meant the OTHER left, dear. Sorry.)

Gosh, I’m helpful.

My dear friends Carlie Cullen and Donna L. Sadd are doing another month of blogging to writing prompts and today’s prompt was the arrow you see to right.  I’m not good at writing to prompts, but that arrow perfectly defines my poor hubby’s sense of direction, although he would deny it if asked! Therefore, in the interest of not publicly mocking my spouse I will not be blogging on it.

But I did get him the Garmin originally so that he would listen to directions from someone, anyone.

Unfortunately, you need to update the maps regularly and while my hubby makes his living as an IT man, he’s not really into it at home, so little things like that tend to languish unless they update automatically.

One of the first things we found out was that if you have the Garmin set on “Pedestrian” mode, it will tell you how far an how fast you have walked. This has been really helpful for my hubby who regularly takes long walks on his lunch break. It’s amazing how far he can walk in an hour.

HOWEVER, there is a down side to this. IF you forget to switch it back to driving mode, and you decide to make a random trip down Interstate 5  from Olympia, Washington to, oh, let’s say McMinnville, Oregon, you may have a random encounter with The Garmin Lady that goes like this:

220px-Garmin_255W_GPS_deviceGarmin Lady: “Exit Freeway at next exit.”

Me and Greg: “What? No way, we aren’t even in Chehalis yet!”

Garmin Lady “Recalculating. Take Next Exit, to the right.”

Me and Greg: “There’s something wrong with this thing. We’re passing Longview. We’re nowhere near McMinnville yet. We’re still in Washington, so what she wants us to do, I can’t imagine.”

Garmin Lady “Recalculating. Make U-Turn at next police turnout and then exit freeway, to the right.”

Us: “What?!? That’s just plain crazy, not to mention illegal! Turn that damned thing off!  It’s broken!”

SO, if I am going to rely on this miracle of modern technology to guide me around any traffic jams, this three-hour road trip could really be an adventure. I could end up in Mukilteo, or Woodinville. Heck, I could end up back in Seattle if I really piss The Garmin Lady off!

300px-Seattleskyline1cropped

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Filed under Adventure, Battles, Fantasy, Humor, Literature, Uncategorized, Vegan, writer, writing

Trains That go Bump in the Night

Train_wreck_at_Montparnasse_1895

Life is a rolling train wreck sometimes.

I think I write for the same reasons that I read.

I’m an escape artist.

I have two adult children with epilepsy, and they frequently face challenges that would daunt the average person.  They didn’t ask for it–they just have it.

Oddly enough, although the ‘e’ word still rears it’s ugly head and we sometime spend long hours in hospitals, epilepsy is the least of the worries.  When you throw into the mix several other loved ones who are dealing with varying stages of meth addiction, your family will occasionally have a train wreck.

When the addict went to jail I felt joy–joy that he was out of the gutter and in a dry place where they feed him and supply him with his insulin, and his violent, hateful self was locked away from me.

I’m a rotten sister.

I’m no longer buying into the insidious guilt trip that the addicts are SO good at pushing on us. I no longer allow him to bleed me dry of money and in November of 2012  I called BS on his protestations of innocence.  His attempts to make the rest of us feel guilty because we never devolved into gutter-dwelling crack-hos no longer have the desired effect on me. I told him that I would purchase his insulin, but that was all I would buy. I do love the wonderful boy he used to be before meth destroyed him, and I don’t want him to die. So that day in November, I paid for his insulin at the pharmacy. His nasty attitude was such that I felt he could pick it up himself.

That didn’t play to his plans at all. He couldn’t wheedle cigarettes or any other outlays of cash from me.  I was sent a text message that referred to me in the most vile of terms. He hasn’t called me since. According to the local grapevine, he has cut me off–I am no longer a member of his family.

Neither is his son, for the same reasons.

When he was released from jail last week, phone calls from him to others in the family demonstrated that it’s business as usual for him. I feared that the threats and cajolery, lies and promises would begin again, but so far he hasn’t called me. Every member of the family who remains in communication with this creature of the night is poisoned by his touch. You never know what phone call to answer and what to ignore, because once he figures out that you won’t answer when your caller ID says he is calling, he uses other people’s phones.

Let the celebrations begin! Since he cut me off, I have not had to pay for his insulin, which is not cheap. Where he is getting it, I don’t know. He is still alive, and I haven’t bought him any since November.

Thus it is that I immerse myself in fantasy worlds and my husband spends his free time gardening. We are united in our efforts to avoid dealing with the addicts.

Addicts have NO gratitude. Don’t expect it, they don’t have it. All they have is a bottomless need and a burning envy. The addict desires to own your possessions but not to enjoy them the way you enjoy them.  They will use them and give them away in exchange for drugs or position within their clan of using ‘friends’. The user feels completely separate from his family. The user will hate you for not being a fellow user, but though they despise you, they will use you until you are an empty husk.

Princess of Quite a Lot by Mary Englebreit

Princess of Quite a Lot by Mary Engelbreit

I am in so many ways a princess of quite a lot, in a completely Mary Engelbreit way! Having a train wreck in the family really helps to underscore what is true and positive, what is real and important. It underscores the love that binds us and also breaks us.

I am grateful for the fact that my home is a calm, pleasant little castle; 1100 square feet of modest suburban serenity. My husband and I worked hard for this tiny bungalow, and we are a bit house-proud in that we maintain it well. I am grateful that my children have good, happy lives.  I am grateful for my beautiful grandchildren.

Even when the sound of grinding metal alerts me to the fact that another train has gone bump in the night, I am grateful for the truth of my real treasure–love. Yes, it is a deadly weapon and can be used against me, and it has been used to cut my heart out, but nonetheless I am grateful for it.

I am not alone in living with the wreckage of this devastating, evil drug. Nearly every family in my county has been touched by it.  The schools are filled with children whose lives are forever tagged with the label ‘children of meth’. Society looks down on them and turns away, fearing their misery is contagious. At Christmas, polite society buys a teddy bear  or a Christmas basket for the annual “Toys for Tots” campaign, but what about the rest of the year? The problem is so huge, so overwhelming that the Washington State Department of Social and Health Services can’t even begin to cope with it.

It falls back on the rest of us to do what we can for the affected children in our own family, and hope for the best when it comes to society at large.

Gratitude is my wealth.

Living in my fantasy world of make-believe is my refuge, and writing about it is my liberation. Real life I take one day at a time, and I remain grateful.

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