Not a pretty picture

I wish I had the courage to post a pix of me doing our taxes. For those of you in the depths of tax hell with me, you know what I mean. I may have very little hair left before this is over, and what is still around, I may have to sell to help pay off our IRS bill. Why does this have to be so complicated and impossible? For heaven's sake, people, can't we go with a flat tax? I'd give anything to just write a check for my percentage, and leave it at that.  I always go into tax season telling myself I'm a smart woman, I'm not afraid of numbers, I can do this. At the end, I just pray I covered all our bases and that the IRS realizes it's a flawed system. Remember that TV ad where a past year's tax return is given to several different tax professionals, and they all come up with a different bottom line? Yeah, that really gives a girl confidence. If I do them myself, at least I'll have no one else to blame.

We've had a couple of nice days in the midst of this interminable winter that lingers on like a bad cold you just can't shake. If it's over 55, I'm out in the garden, cleaning beds, attacking the pervasive periwinkle (shoot me if I ever say I want to plant it again), and digging up bushes that didn't make it through the drought last summer AND the long, cold winter. Good bye, boxwood. It seems like you croaked yesterday, but it was actually late last fall. I have some new plants to go in the ground, so at least I'll have some fun. Believe me, I need it.

My beloved and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary. Can't believe we've known each other so many years. It's nice knowing you married the right man.  We had a real treat on our actual anniversary, because season 3 of Game of Thrones started that night. The dragons are back! I am going to love this season.

Trying something here

I'm working on a couple of projects at once (of course, I'm crazy), and I thought, for a change, I'd post the first chapter of a YA I'm editing. It's gone through several edits, a serious re-write, and now that it's been sitting a couple of months, I'm hoping to see it with "new" eyes.  This format works perfectly for that goal. I hope.  Tell me what you think, if you wish. Proofreading always welcome.

On another note, who else is waiting breathlessly for Round 3 of Game of Thrones???? I can feel the dragons coming. . . .

This is titled OUT OF NOWHERE.  So far.

Chapter 1

 

            Death rarely descends on gas stations. I hide out in them for as long as it takes for the creepy feeling I get now and then, more now than then, to disappear. You can fritter away at least an hour, if there’s a convenience store attached.

            The next Sheetz station I saw, I’d pull in.  I hadn’t planned on driving so long.  Slowing down for a flashing light that warned of an upcoming stoplight in a one-stop town, I saw a big chain gas station on my left.  Goody.  Pepsi and Cheetos, my dinner of choice.  Now that I didn’t have doctors and nutritionists giving me hell over my diet, I ate what I wanted.  No matter what I stuffed in my mouth, my bullet wounds hurt. So why not eat what I liked?

            My luck, for once, was having a good run.  Pulling up to the pumps, I dragged my lame leg out the door and tried to stand in one swift movement. No way. I still creaked like an old lady with bad hips and knees.  In a way, I wasn’t far from it, even if I am just seventeen.

            A hell of a lot can happen in one year. Trust me on this one, it’s not all good.

            So I’m pumping away, standing beside the pumps like a responsible citizen, when I notice the kid in the minivan opposite my side.  His dad’s cleaning the windshield, and the kid, a red-headed hell on wheels if I’ve ever seen one, is leaning out the side door, shooting me the bird.  I mean, the kid can’t be older than seven or eight, and he’s sticking out his tongue and jamming his finger at me, and before I can even wonder why, he turns around and moons me.

            Why me, God?  Why?  I’ve asked that question one hell of a lot in the past twelve months, but She’s not handing out answers.  I seriously doubt She will anytime soon, if ever.

            Turning away from the future juvenile delinquent, I check out the scenery, notice the small garage behind the chain gas station, a little brick post office, even a strip of stores that includes, of course, a small Walmart.  Whoopee.  Maybe I’ll head over there and buy something healthy, like ice cream.  A gallon of it.  Milk has lots of good stuff in it. Now, the question is, does ice cream have milk in it anymore, I wonder, as I hear an insect buzz past my ear.

            It’s heading into summer, of course the bees are heading for the open trash can, filled with empty soft drink bottles.  Sidling sideways to get out of the bees’ flight path, I heard a funny sound.  Like someone gargling.  Then there’s another bee dive-bombing my head, and instinctively, I try to bat it away from my face.

            As I turn my head, I wonder why gas is gushing all over the ground.  Stupid van-driver, he’s too busy washing windows to see that the gas cut-off isn’t working.  Leaving my pump, I hurry over to jerk his nozzle out, when the kid who’s been trying to get me riled up falls out the door.  I mean, no hands grabbing the frame, no shouting at someone to help him, he’s just there.  Lying on the gas-soaked concrete with a funny expression on his face, as if he’s totally surprised and not happy about it.

            “Hey kid, don’t do that, it’s not funny.”  More insects by my ears, only this time the van’s windows shatter into tiny round pebbles all around me.  Dropping to the ground, I try to shield the boy from the rain of glass, but he’s not saying anything.  Giving him a little shake, I can’t figure out why the windows have broken and he’s not giving me grief, when I see the color of the ground changing right under the kid.  It’s dark, almost reddish, and I know instantly what it is.

            Blood.  I know it when I see it, now that I’ve got my degree in getting shot.

            “Mister,” I scream, “mister, your kid’s been hurt!  Call 911!”  I would, but I don’t have a cell phone anymore. Anyone I would want to call is dead.  “Hurry!”

            I hesitated for half a second, then threw myself over the prone boy.  Cradling his head in my arms, I look around, praying I won’t see the shooter walking towards us.  My body won’t stop all the bullets, he’ll kill the boy for sure if he gets close enough.

            I can’t see the boy’s father. I see the holes in the van’s side.  These aren’t those stupid fake decals that are supposed to make your car look badder than bad. God help me, they’re real. 

            “Call the police!” I’m yelling, when I see the father’s feet.  They’re heels to the ground, toes skyward, and I know what I’ll find.  Once again, I am too late to help.

            So I lie still, my body hiding as much of the boy’s as I can, and pray it’ll be enough to save us both.

Looking back to the War of Northern Aggression

Since the weather yesterday was spectacular ( i.e., sunny and warm, yay!), we took a break from the back yard re-do and headed for an afternoon at Cold Harbor. The battlefield is covered with trees, unlike its state during that dreadful, bloody three days in July, but you still get a sense of what it must have been like. The earthworks are pretty stellar, and the size of the park gives a hint at the seven mile expanse of both lines, Confederate and Union, as they squared off and blew each other to bits. General Grant said in his memoirs that he always regretted ordering the last charge at Cold Harbor, and given the staggering loss of men, he probably was right.

 I took a short video showing the field, with its current state of forestation, so you can get an idea of the expanse of land those men in blue crossed under withering fire from Confederates with the advantage of better ground.

 

This place has always felt authentic, as if the battle fought here will never end, and all those dead men have imprinted the ground with their lost lives. Visit it if you're a Civil War buff. It's one battlefield you should go out of your way to walk.

It's been a while

and I wish I could say the 80 degree weather carried through our entire vacation, but alas, the skies clouded over, the rains came, and with them, a cold front. As you can see from this pix of me entering the crosswalk to get to the track at Daytona, I was wearing a raincoat. What you can't see is the heavy sweater that's underneath.  It didn't really matter, however, since the race was a snooze fest. Literally, we fell asleep in the stands. So much for the new car giving Nascar a boost. How about a Boo instead?

Our cruise from Jacksonville's port took two hours of line shuffling and luggage getting soaked on the dock during the monsoon driving rain while we tried to get on board. A word to the wise: cruise from anywhere but Jacksonville, Florida. The worst port I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few. I read a ton of books and basically lived on hot tea, I was so cold.

Three books I loved, all YA. Deviant, Misfit, and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children. Miss P was by far the coolest, but Misfit has a super premise in its heroine, a half human, half demon teenager in a Catholic high school. Deviant is really good for middle grade boys, and I liked the authenticity of the boy's voice.  Aliens and weird private school is bound to work, and it does.

Happy to be home to my own bed and pillow, and my furnace. Yes, snow and sleet has attacked, but at least I'm warm. A big step up from our cruise.

It's 82 degrees

and I sent texts to my kids with pictures of the temperature on the car's dash. I am a bad, bad mother. Just wanted to rub in the warmth and sun, yes, SUN that broke through the clouds as we hustled into Florida on our way to Daytona and the 500.  One child had ice to deal with today, and the other was hit by flurries. I want to say I'm sorry we went South, but that ain't true. I am not sorry, not one wee little bit.

We're getting excited for the race. This new car has the drivers excited, and it sure looks as if you can't win by hanging in the back, then making a last lap move.

Tomorrow we hit a fav restaurant, Your Place, for breakfast. Then on to some great thrift store shopping. The SPCA sponsors the best one in Central Fl. Love their book selection.

I'm going to try to restrain myself  from taking pictures of the white sandals I'll be wearing

Daytona!

The weather looks promising, Danica has the pole, and we're tired of cold weather. I know, the South is nowhere near as cold as north of the Mason-Dixon line, but it's been a bear recently for those of us wondering what's happened to the forsythia. So my beloved and I are loading up the headphones, the race scanner, and sunscreen, and heading farther south. Hope to get some good pix, hopefully of my fav, Bad Brad, in victory lane.

It's been a while since we've sat in the stands. Every race we tried to attend last year was cold and miserable, and we didn't see the end of even one of them. Rain was the culprit. I can take cold, I can take wind, but throw in the wet stuff, and I'm gone.

I'm planning on quiet time on the way down to Florida, so I can re-read what I've written and get a handle on the story. Sometimes I'm just too close to it, sitting at my desk. I feel as if I need to keep plowing onward, when I really need to step back and see the story with different "eyes." So this break comes at a good time for me as a writer and as a race fan.

Let the sun shine, the engines roar, and every word I read be a winner. I don't ask for much, do I?

Valentine's Day

My Beloved amd I long ago gave up trying to go out for dinner on VDay, so we came up with a new tradition - having a VDay breakfast. For a while, we'd cook special breakfast goodies at home, but these days, we splurge on a restaurant. Eggs and bacon cooked by someone else just somehow tastes better. This year we headed for Shoney's, where I love the fresh fruit and grits on the breakfast buffet.

After stuffing our faces, we decided to run an errand or two, which somehow mushroomed into an all day trek to the beach. I know it makes no sense, but believe me when I tell you that the GPS on a Toyota is insane. It saved our hides in D.C. last Christmas when we had to meet our daughter unexpectedly, so we'd begun trusting the little devil. Such foolishness.

I guess because the GPS is in a Prius, it feels it can squander gas. For this hour and a half run to the beach to pick up a new gas cook top (exactly the one I wanted and couldn't get at home), the GPS decided we needed the scenic route. As in, a three hour scenic amble through residential (and not) areas miles from our destination.

We knew we were being had. We also knew we were hopelessly lost, so we had no other choice but to follow the commands the GPS snapped. When we finally arrived at our destination, we knew the $/@&-$ had jerked our chains, but good. There, a hundred yards from the store, was the interstate. We could have been there in less than ninety minutes going the direct route.

As my DH said, buying me a chicken wrap at Burger King, he really knows how to show me a good time. Shoney's and BK, all in one day. And the best part about this VDay (mis)adventure? We got to spend it together.

I guess I should thank the stupid GPS.

TAG Grants and Virginia Independent Colleges

I suppose if you're the money-person for a county, city, state, or school district, you know to the penny how much you're spending per pupil. I remember being amazed when my children spent a few years in public school at the dollars spent per pupil, until it was explained to me that this average included providing services for those with disabilities and special needs, as well.  Then the money made sense.

Getting a child through the higher education hurdle is not for the faint of heart. The money required is astounding.

Today's college graduates are almost universally burdened with a debt they'll never pay down until they're quite a bit older.  I wonder how they'll ever afford a house, a new car, insurance, food, etc., without help. Even the Obamas said they spent years paying off their student loans, and they graduated back when tuition wasn't as high as it is now.

I was asked recently to support a slight increase in the TAG grants Virginia provides its students attending private colleges and universities. You bet I do, and I emailed my legislator to say so. One of my children received a TAG grant, and every little bit helps when tuition is close to $40,000 a year.

Can we learn from the past?

A writer friend has been studying the old Perry Mason books and encouraged me to do the same. I started one, and realized I was reading a master. Maybe not War and Peace ( which I have never finished, I confess, maybe because I was reading it in a French translation), but the hand of a master storyteller is sure and steady. Earl Stanley Gardner is teaching me a lot, and I'm an old hand at this game.

A few quick impressions---

1. Quick character descriptions: sketches that give you a nail on which to hang your assessments.

2. A fast hook to reel you in as a reader. Prospective client, a man we know is wealthy and accustomed to getting his way, to PM: "I want you to find a gold fish." Okaayyyy....I'm intrigued, ecen if Mason isn't at first feelin' it.

3. Short, snappy dialogue. Elmore Leonard-esque.

4. Short chapters, one leading swiftly into the next. Back story is brief and cuts to the chase.

5. The whole book isn't too long. No leisurely, beautiful sentences. No artistic exposition. Just the story, ma'am, just the story. (Where did that come from? Dragnet?)

More later. . . .

Champs

The Super Bowl was pretty durned good. Thought the 49ers had a shot, but the Ravens just weren't going to roll over and play dead. That's what makes a champ. There's no quit in their vocabulary.

I have listened to Jimmie Johnson over the years, and now Brad Keselowski, talk about winning a Nascar championship. The talk is about how tough it is, how you need great people around you, etc., etc., but the proof of what makes a winner shows up when something  goes wrong. When a part breaks and they're twenty laps down. Do they hop out of the car and head for the motorhome?  Not Jimmie Johnson, not Brad Keselowski. They keep their tail feathers in that car and get whatever is left, out of it.

Remember Kyle Busch doing leaving his broken car when he drove for Hendricks? Dale Jr. hopped into it to finish the race after repairs had been made, just for fun, he said, since his car was wrecked. And before you could go "hmmmm?" Kyle was out at Hendricks and Dale left his father's team to drive for Rick Hendricks.

 I've  seen Kyle Busch lay down at Gibbs, just get totally furious at something that happens to the car and check out mentally. In interviews, he wonders why, if he's such a great driver, as he's been called by others, he hasn't won a championship.

I know why. It's pretty obvious to anyone who follows the sport. I wonder why no one has ever told him the truth.

Books for the End of the World

For two nights running, I was busy preparing for the end of the world as we know it. My nightmares may have had something to do with the crazy weather - from the 70s into the 40s in one day - but I like to think it's my subconscious preparing for any eventuality. While in my dreams I busily planned how to convert the shed into an efficient living space (the shed?!), I stocked footlockers with food and quilts, loaded up on cans of gas for the generator (why? What will be around to see/hear? I doubt TV or radio.), and cut wood for the woodstove we ditched last year. Yes, it had reappeared in the yard to be used in this dream. I dragged mattresses into the shed's attic and tried to decide what books to take with us. I don't know what happened to our house, but that's a nightmare for you.  Details don't matter.

I was stumped on the books.

My dilemma was that I was allowed only ten books. I guess there wasn't going to be much reading after the apocalypse, and I wanted them all to be keepers. It was easy to start with the Bible, and then three paperbacks I cherish jumped onto the list. Flowers from the Storm by Laura Kinsale, Pat Murphy's The Falling Woman, and Penelope Williamson's The Outsider were easy picks. Then the five Harry Potter novels jumped into my hands, and there I was, with one slot open and no idea what book to choose.

I think I was sweating bullets in my dream. I almost settled on a Bible concordance, because those are really handy creatures, or an unabridged Oxford dictionary, but I kept wanting to add another novel. Instantly, I knew. Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird wasn't going to be left behind. My list was complete.

You'd think I'd forget this nightmare 48 hours after it's over, but I'm still reviewing my book choice. Who needs food or heat? What you really need to survive an apocalypse is books.

Good bye, Chad Everett

Watching the SAG awards last night, I was shocked to see the list of deceased personalities/stars I was unaware we’d lost. I knew about Andy Griffith (sob!), but Chad Everett? Oh my stars. Those blue eyes. Those dimples. As a young teen, I was drooling. How could he be dead? It’s like I lost my youth when I heard he’d passed on.

I was thinking about the Maggie Smiths, the Vanessa Redgraves,  the shining stars of theater and film who almost guarantee I’ll see anything they’re in because they’re who they are. What happens when they’re gone? As I watched Jennifer Lawrence accept her best actress award, I wondered if she, and other actors of her generation, will have the chops to be the greats of the future. And what was Nicole Kidman, with her botoxed face, thinking as she watched Lawrence climb the stairs to the stage? Actresses over forty aren’t exactly the hot ticket in filmland. Such a shame. Maggie Smith is proving in Downton Abby that age just makes you better as an actor.

The same can be said for writers. We get better (well, I hope I am) as we age. We don’t have as many distractions (rug rats, diapers, picky eaters, etc.) and our experience alone makes us better observers of life. Watching and translating that into fiction is key. We have less to lose by being honest, and an honest writer is a good writer on the way to being great.

Good-bye Chad Everett.  You created a lovely illusion of gentle sexiness for a naïve girl. I will remember you fondly. Now I have to think how I’m going to use you in a story. That’s what writers do.

 

Bling it up

A group of fellow writers has been discussing the ups and downs of offering prizes to readers. The practice has been used for quite a while - I remember years and years ago,  RWA authors talking about professional "prize-hunters" who troll the Net looking for ways to win stuff. The trollers didn't care about the books or the authors, just the bling at the end of the rainbow.

There will always be that faithful group of readers who eagerly await a new book by their favorite authors. For them, a free book is a great reward for entering a contest. Real readers don't crave a $200 necklace or an iPad (well, they might crave them, but they don't expect one) as the prize for entering the author's contest. The books are the real goody bag.

So what has happened? The consensus seems to be that the droves of self-published ebooks has created a monster. Standing out from the crowd is crazy hard, and authors figure bling is just a cost of doing business. The better the bling, the more traffic is driven to the author's site and therefore, the ebooks. I'm not sure the logic follows. While I hope they're right, for their sakes, I doubt it. Better and more expensive prizes make for more money shelled out by writers who probably can't afford it. The authors who can take the financial hit, don't do any of this stuff and nonsense.

Writing a great book isn't enough these days, I hear via the omniscient grapevine. Unfortunately, that's been a truth of publishing forever. Marketing does matter, and it matters even more in these times.  So how do you strike a balance? Reward the faithful readers who truly care, drive more people to discover your book, and entice those who normally wouldn't look twice?

If you figure it out, let me know. But I won't send you an iPad for your response.

And the rains came. . .

It's been raining for two days, and it's not lessening. Last night, the pounding was so loud, I couldn't sleep. It sounded like a thousand clog dancers on the roof, having a good ole time.  After trying to convince myself I shouldn't put on my wet suit and flippers and inflate a raft, I gave up and went to work. That's the nice thing about working from home, as well as its curse. You can't get away from it. Sometimes, you don't want to.

Well, I don't. At long last ( it's a long story, involving painting the dark wood in the family room, oil-based primer, malfunctioning Internet, and a third TV), I was able to sit down and write without interruptions. This Nirvana lasted only about an hour, but let me tell you, I was in hog heaven. My Beloved fielded the phone calls, the workmen, the wet dogs who don't like going potty in the rain, you name it. He covered all the bases while I regained some semblance of sanity. The man deserves a medal. But only when he's not snoring.

This new year has brought changes that have been brewing for a while. Grateful as I am to have them under way, I can't wait for normalcy to return. I love my boring life. May it find its way back to me.

Time Travel?

I just finished reading TIME TRAVELER by Dr. Ronald Mallett, a physicist on the faculty of UConn.  Dr. Mallett's father died suddenly when the physicist was only ten years old, and his life became a long, introverted, and not always happy journey to find a way to see his father again. Science fiction like H.G. Well's The Time Machine and Star Trek encouraged him to research the science behind the theory of time travel, and research he did. Using the GI bill, he delved into topics and math that sound incomprehensible to me. Yet he has a knack for explaining theories in simple terms that give me glimmers of the brain power behind his work.

Parallel universes, bending light, tensor calculus, all seem more important to Dr. Mallett than real people interaction. Driven, and I mean driven, by his desire to see his father, he suffers periodic depressions and a divorce.  When he's deep into his work, he's clearly the happiest. I feel sorry for him in a way, particularly since he's painfully aware he's unable to form friendships as a youth, and romantic attachments as a young man. Living in his head produced brilliant science, though not an especially happy life, it appears.

He does find a measure of peace when a scientist he respects a great deal tells him that while he may not see his father again, his father would be very proud of him. The story of his journey to discover how to time travel is both human, melancholy, and triumphant. Give it a read.

Where did it go? Howdy, 2013

The Christmas decor is gone, done, in the attic, disappeared in the trash pick-up. It always seems to come down faster than it goes up. Phew. I love the sparkle and glitter, but I need the house to be normalized so I can get to work. The laptop has been shut down too long.

The coming NASCAR season has me mildly excited. If Bad Brad can wrangle the new Ford for Penske into another championship, I'll be one happy girl. However, my focus right now is on my concealed handgun permit. Yes, I sat through four and a half hours of testosterone fueled hell to qualify to submit my application. Not that I own any hand gun that isn't over a 150 years old. It's a quandary. Hand guns, like some hunting rifles, can be works of art. And while I've never felt the need to shoot anyone, I like knowing I'm not helpless if a situation arises. Wrestling with this dilemma is giving me fits. Power isn't bullets, but preparation. It's like plotting a novel. I need to know what's coming.

On a different note, what makes men think women are deaf when they make misogynist statements in mixed company? My tongue was bleeding by the time the handgun class came to a whimpering end. I'm coming to think only women should be allowed to possess weapons. Men who think they're hot stuff with a gun should have them taken away while they sit in time out.

Merry Christmas!

Sometimes I feel as if Christmas doesn't last long enough. All that shopping, wrapping, and returning a gift when you find something better, then voila! By ten a.m. on Christmas morning, all that work is just a bag of ripped paper, torn bows, and a small stack of stuff. It doesn't seem fair.

My grandmother would make a lemon meringue pie from scratch ( even squeezing real lemons) and it would take hours and hours of work. The finished product didn't last fifteen minutes. No kidding. She finally declared an end to pie making, deeming the effort not worth the ephemera of the pie. I know how she felt.

I like the idea of spreading the gift giving and merry making over a week or more. Anyone with me?

At any rate, hope everyone had a good one. And that everyone received at least one book from Santa.

Down for the count

Been out of commission with various ailments, so it's been a while. Still can't figure out what's the deal with Blogger. May just have to get going with Wordpress. Oh dear. For someone who grew up moving from country to country every few years, you'd think change was good. Working on that one.

Christmas has finally arrived at our house, despite the loss of our twenty yo cat. It has taken a while for us to realize he's left us - I keep thinking he's coming around a door corner, or I hear him calling for more food. Biff was the perfect cat, and we all adored him. Well, except for the time he broke one of a pair of Lenox candlesticks. And the time he brought me a live vole and dropped it at my feet in the kitchen. I thanked him for his love offering after I stopped screaming.

He came to us as an itty bitty kitten, really too young to be weaned. Being raised like just another one of the kids, he thought he was human, only far superior. He talked all the time - a regular chatterbox. The funny thing is, we knew exactly what he was saying ( or demanding), and would reply in kind. We often held long comversations in "cat."

I'll miss him curling up in my lap while I write, his tolerance for anything weird, and his snaggle-toothed grin.

Is Blogger getting wonky?

Or is it me? This weird format shows up on the home page now,and I can't seem to get the "real" home page without hitting "view web version."


Help? Heeellllpppp......

Respectful silence

Posting has seemed irrelevant since last Friday. I can't be so arrogant to assume I know what it's like to lose a child to a mass shooting. I do know that the fear of losing one of our children was a topic of much deep prayer from day one. Who knew you could feel such deep, life-changing love the first time you saw that tiny face with rosebud lips?

It seemed disrespectful to insert myself into the online conversation. I have my own views, and I'll work as diligently as I can to make my elected officials hear them.

But one thing really ticked me off, and I've waited until now to calm down. Friday night Twitter was rife with pictures of Nascar Team Christmas parties. Charlie Daniels standing with Jeff Gordon, Dale Earnhardt Jr., Jimmie Johnson, and Kasey Kahne, all grinning. Penske Racing posted pix of Karoke by their driver lineup at their Christmas party.  Evidently,  a good time was had by all.

I have never been so embarrassed by Nascar, and the elites especially. This was Friday night, for heaven's sake! So they didn't postpone their parties, but did they have to post pix of one and all making merry during a time of national horror and grief?

Shame on them. Just shame.