Gifted Gifting

Here is a little slice of my life for yall.

My indulgence for myself this month was 2 books on the PNW, the setting of most of my (full length) stories. A book about the flora and fauna and the geology of the area. The other was an adult coloring book of the same.

Do you know they don't have fireflies as we know them throughout that region? I'm so glad I researched that before I included them in a pastoral scene! I really was looking to see when they appear there, being that region is north of me, and happily saved myself from an inaccuracy. (So happy!)

Anyway, it made me think since so many of my stories are in that setting, I needed a good reference book at hand. (Google leads me down too many rabbit holes.) 
I thought the coloring book would help me become more familiar with the wildlife especially if I use the pictures in the other book as guidelines. Easier for descriptions and environments and other details.

So, I ordered the books.

Now, you may know I have a granddaughter.
This beautiful child (while I can still get away with calling her that-- she's about to turn 15.) If you've followed this blog, or looked at many of my pictures on Facebook, you have seen this child's work.
She is as gifted in her art as I am in mine (I say modestly)
Her art is not the same as mine.
I draw my scenes with words.

She actually draws her scenes.

For a long time now, she has mostly drawn people. Anime to start. Actually it was Sponge Bob to start, almost as soon as she could walk and talk, and hold a pencil, pen, crayon, or chalk. But she has advanced past sponge bob, and even passed beginner's anime. 

She drew a couple pictures of her mother, from photographs. So lovely.

She has tried landscapes. 

She can't help what colors and lines flow from her fingertips  any more than I can do more than direct the barrage of words that flow through mine. 

She was with me this weekend, and I showed her my coloring book, and while looking through it she seems to have fallen in love with the pictures. You could almost see her mind adding in the colors -- with her alcohol based markers, specifically. So she instantly knew the medium she'd use, and was applying colors as I arrange words at such times.

It's not often our gifts arrange themselves in such harmonious fashion., and those times will become even more rare as we both age.

Perhaps someday she will illustrate my books.
Or create backdrops or CGI images for productions of said books.
What a nice family connection that would be for future generations.

So
Happy Birthday (early) Hailey, and ENJOY.
Enjoy using your Gift with my gift to you. 

And I'm gonna buy another coloring book. 

I'm back -- I hope.

Apologies for yet another break.
I'm sorry.
Every day I have every intention to keep up with this and my other blogs, but then somehow I just lack the oomph to actually do it. I don't know what the problem is, except that it is within me. I dom't know if it's physical -- aches and pains and sneezes and hunger, or if it's psycological, or what. Just sometimes I. Just. Can't.

I'm hoping to push myself past that, especially as the year ends; as the season of darkness ends; as light creeps into our days I am hoping thast energy will creep into my backbone, brains and fingers. 
So that I can and will actually write.

Oh I write all the time -- in my head. Balancing sentences, constructing paragraphs, choosing words for their precision and their clarity.
I am never not writing.
In my head.

That doesn't get the job done, though, does it?

I'm not big on New Year resolutions, but I am big on trying again. I should be -- I do it often enough. Plenty of experience at it.

And so, I will once again try to apply myself. Try to be a "good steward" of the "talents" I have been given. 

Writer's Dilemma: Diagnosis

Fellow writers, what would you do? What do you think?


I have written two things that include oddities -- one an illness; the other a behavior. Some of the feedback I have received is that I should be telling (not good storycrafting) what the diagnosis is or explaining the behavior.

The illness is the story of a child who died and her father.  the story is set somewhat ambiguously in the 1940s, USA. The disease that the child died of was not even named until 1938, and that was in Canada.
Therefore, at the time of the story, there was no diagnosis.
None.
Treatment was of the symptoms as they arose.

The fact is, I didn't know myself what the disease was until I had finished writing the vignettes, and looked up the symptoms myself. Not quite a textbook case -- are they ever, really? -- but variations were within the norms for the condition.

In the story, the illness went undiagnosed, even after the death of the child.
Because there was, in that time period, no (or rare) formal diagnosis for it.

It was what it was, and so was the outcome. Those involved had to deal with the situation as it occurred, with no answers.

That was the story.

***********************************

The other situation was part of a novel, a character trait that was not consistent with the character's general development. An irregularity in verbalizing, even though the character had an enormous (for his age and the times) vocabulary with a good understanding of most words and the ability to guess accurately the meaning of unfamiliar words.

In the novel, the child's caretakers do notice and try to have this idiosyncrasy checked out. They mention at different times that this that or the other was done. A thorough physical, and the boy's hearing was tested, even though that seemed an unlikely cause since he could understand.
In the end, the adults decided it was just a quirk in the child's development and let it be, just keeping an eye on it as he ages.

It isn't really a BIG IMPORTANT detail, just, as I said, something of a character quirk.

****************************************

In both cases, or in either case, inserting today's knowledge in a yesterday's story doesn't seem right to me.
I also have not been able to figure out how I would do it, if I wanted to. (Which I don't.)


It speaks loudly and is a sad commentary that readers want everything put in a box, sorted, and labelled, don't you think? I wonder why it is this way. Does this approach really make anyone happier? Are children no longer allowed to be themselves, unique?

There are still undiagnosable conditions, especially in children.
There are still unexplainable idiosyncracies in childhood development.
There are still unique characters whose entire existence is outside the box.

What's most alarming is that these demands were made, not by everyday readers, but by other writers.
Make no mistake, these were demands. One critiquer was infuriated that I did not tell her and every other reader what was wrong with that boy. In her opinion, if I didn't explain it, I shouldn't write it that way.
And she had only read an excerpt. Even when I explained that the 'issue' was addressed in other parts of the book, she was still insistent that nothing undiagnosed, unexplained, or unlabelled could be in the story.

If out creative peoples are thinking and writing this way, what hope is there for the individualists in our world and the world to come?

Reading "It". and Writing.

I am reading "It" by Stephen King.

Yes, I know I'm thirty years or so later than the rest of the world, but this is the first time the book has made its way to me. That's how I do most of my reading. The books come to me. Sometimes it takes thirty years.

It's a difficult read. Numerous characters, each with a back story, as well as the current story. Keeping the reader engaged on all levels. Each character fits into the story the way a jigsaw puzzle fits together. You cant leave one out or make two into one -- the picture will not be complete; will not be what it is supposed to be. Each back story fits into each character in the same way; with/for the same reasons. Putting it all together, connecting sky to trees to earth, is an epic job.

It's done well. This reader is engaged with all phases of the story (and story telling.) I just wish it would move a little faster!

Someone once said of one of my stories, that it would work better as a movie or program. I wasn't sure what she meant at the time, but reading this novel has enlightened me. I now know what she meant.
This novel would work much better as a visual (or even audio) program. The characters can and do and will carry the story.
But the story must be told, with words, and words can be bulky.

"Show, don't tell" is (cliched) advice given to writers, but the fact is you cant do storytelling without the telling. You have to tell the words that show the actions. Or the settings, or the motives. You get more than a handful (literally) of characters in on the action, and the telling of their roles slows down the general forward thrust of the story.

My forementioned story has many of the same components as this one. Many characters . Back stories. Back stories unknown to the others. Yes, it may well work better as an acted-out story, rather than a told one.

But someone has to tell the actors, don't they?

I am heartened by this discovery. That my story (different genre; different style; different audience) has so many same attributes as a story told by a master storyteller. My story has faults that are shared by a story told by the King.

I couldn't ask for much more than that.

I AM a Writer

Last posting, I wondered about even calling myself a writer. I felt unproductive as a writer, and with that, I was losing a large part of my identity.

Well, life gave me quite a wake-up call on this issue.

I lost all my communication with the outside world. No phone, no computer. No tv.
I also ended up losing other stuff, like my electricity.

In part, this came about because I could not cope with the ups and downs of life when I was unable to sit and type and communicate through written word to the outside world.
Yes, friends and family, when you can't interact with them, are the outside world.

Oh, I could write things out by hand, make lists, cry into my soda pop. But it wasn't the same, wasn't effective without feedback. Without readers (listeners.) The solutions would come from me, the answers to my problems were in my hands, but without my readers, I was lost.

Sounds -- and feels -- like a writer to me.

Glad that is settled.

Am I A Writer?

I always have been.

But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.

I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.

But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.

It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!

Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?

I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.

The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.

So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?

I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.

No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?

What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

Apparently, the latest thing is Signs.

On Facebook.

On YouTube (for heaven's sake!)

Now, there's nothing wrong with signs.
There's probably good in signs -- it (they?), after all, sort of promote literacy. I say sort of, because they are not all spelled and punctuated in ways that make sense (to me, yes.)
The Written Word is not dead, after all. People are using it to make signs on social media.

If I see another sign about showing the kids how far a sign can go, I just may scream at it. This was an original and thoughtful idea the first hundred or so times it was done. Now it is overdone, and it has become the same thing as many another adult lecture on the evils of an evil world.
Who listens to that?

Or you may be looking for your biological family so you write your personal information on a sign and post a picture of you holding said sign. Exposing your personal information to all the identity thieves trolling the internet, even letting them know what you look like.
Not to mention, once your quest has been successful, for the rest of your life you will be getting clicks, clues, and info you no longer need or want. For the next fifty years. Your grandchildren may someday be sharing your picture of you and your sign.


Worse, though, at least to me, is the way signs are taking over YouTube. YouTube is a video site. Where you can talk, sing, dance, jump, play, tell stories, make a fool of yourself, sing, share, instruct, learn.

Lately, YouTube has been taken over by signers.
And I don't mean ASL.

Many many bullying stories are told by having someone hold up handwritten signs that explain, one sentence at a time, why someone did something -- suicide, attempted suicide, or self-harm such as cutting.

Wouldn't it be healthier and helpier to hear the voices of the victims?
After all, anyone can write a sign, and anyone can claim to be anyone, if there is no voice to go with the words.

Isn't the point of these videos supposed to be that the voices be heard?
Rustling paper is no one's voice when the medium is visual or aural.

Recently there has been a story making the rounds of what a mom did when the family SUV was going over a cliff. (Or something) This story is told by the daughters, one piece of paper at a time.
With a very loud soundtrack, but not a word is spoken. (That I know of. I have yet to be able to watch the so-called video to the end. It's boring to read that slowly.)

Now, obviously, they know how to add sound to their presentation.
They know how to use the camera.
The signs do indicate that they know the rudiments of story telling.

But they aren't telling anything.
One cannot even hear their emotion.

Poor Mom. Her kids love her sacrifice so much that they can't and won't even speak of it -- just wave sheets of paper around.
At least they get them in the proper order for the most part.


Ah well, as a writer, I shouldn't complain. There has been so much said -- and written -- about the demise of the written word.

Perhaps I should take this as a sign that there is still work for me in this field.

Life and Love and Other Things

I have been trying to write of other things than my own problems. I don't want this blog to be a whining moaning list of things to complain about. I don't want it to be a pity party for me. I don't want it to be about me, specifically.

I want it to be about life in general. Politics, social media, diet, religion, education, children and grandchildren -- all the things that make up the array of things we grapple with from day to day. That's what I want.

For now, I can't seem to think beyond my own life-box. 

I'm stuck and I can't seem to move beyond these limitations.

Someday I will, I'm sure. 

Someday, I'll live again, love again, have opinions again, and I'll re-find my writer's voice.

Someday.

That day isn't yet.

I have many beginnings of ideas, thoughts, concepts to discuss. A recent facebook discussion inspired an article about the education system. But it remains unwritten, as headaches and busy-ness and the visitation of the demon build up walls faster than I can build windows. 

And forget about doors! There's no time for doors. 

The important thing is to keep a little light coming into this thick and sturdy box.

Why keep writing, then?

Well, that is the best way to poke holes in the wall and let a little light in.

Also, there may be someone out there that needs to read something like this.

Someone who needs to know there can be light in darkness.

Someone who needs to know that tears can cleanse as well as burn.

Someone who needs to know how someone else navigates the pitfalls of an empty life.

Someone who needs to know about hope, and choices, and giving up.

Someone who needs to know that, in spite of it all, there remains life, and love, and other things.

What Am I?

I wonder.

When I lost my Rex, it seems that I lost a large part of my identity.

This wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't for the huge chunk of me that I lost when I lost my job and couldn't get another one.

Since then, life itself seems to be chipping away at the essential "me."

I got a job and couldn't do it.
I write but have no way to share.
Shared writing has become more difficult and less frequent.
When I do write by hand, my fingers and thumb go numb, and I have muscle spasms all the way up my arm.

I am no longer a wife.
I'm still a mother, but my children are grown. (One is something of a big baby, but she's becoming an adult at a greatly decelerated rate.)
I'm a grandmother, but I can rarely see or take care of the babies, due to economics  (I'm usually literally out of gas.)When I do have them, they frazzle me, and it's not so easy to just take them home. I don't really want to, anyway.

I'm a writer, but losing the physical ability to write.

I'm a friend, but I have little to offer or share with my friends, when I can even keep in touch with them.

So, I am wondering, what am I?

Rewriting the Romance

You don't really realize how much the romance genre  has changed unless you read older, beginner volumes. I don't mean classics like "Emma," or "Wuthering Heights." I am talking about Harlequin, Avon, Silhouette, and similar or related publishers.

Sometime in the last 25 or so years, the genre boomed or bloomed. The word you choose depends on your outlook.

Back in the beginning of the popular romance novel, the girls were all innocent virgins, sometimes with mercenary boyfriends/fiances/fathers. The men were hard appearing but poor misunderstood souls. The girls were secretaries, nurses, or helpless daughters, sisters, orphans; the men were company owners, doctors, womanizers. The girls (not women) were victims; the men (not boys) were rescuing heroes.

It was the beginning of the cliches for the public.

In these older stories, the men often kidnapped the girls. The Rape Fantasy was a really popular plotline, although it wasn't called that. In fact, in those days, it wasn't even recognized as any form of rape. The man, usually 'foreigners' would whisk their innocent victim away -- or finagle her into consent -- and the next thing you know, she's madly in love with him, supposedly for the rest of her life.
They had never heard of the Stockholm Syndrome in those days, either.

I'd like to think there have been changes. There have been changes. The girls are allowed to be women now, and even be sexually experienced. The women are allowed to be the professionals, the bosses. The men are allowed to have emotions. They are allowed to discuss their emotions.

They still resort to kidnapping and blackmail to force submission as an expression of true love, but those stories are becoming less frequent and are usually enriched with/by character development. Thank God for that. Stockholm syndrome and rape fantasies aside, I never had much respect for those so-called heroines, and phony heroes.

Now, most romances are written with a modern approach to factors like jobs, family, past, and future. Even romances set in the past are fuller.

But it's a lesson to the writers -- at least to this writer -- to take a peek at the past. To read how we've changed our expectations as readers. To appreciate the simple baby steps that led us into walking, running, driving, and flying away from the one dimensional to the three dimensional. In fact, some romances these days often venture into the fourth dimension. (How exciting is that!?)

I am sure glad that those stories have faded into the past. I don't like them.
I don't like a lot of things in my own personal past, either.
Liking does not equal learning, and that is what we are supposed to do as we grow.

Love gives us roots to grow and wings to fly.
So can romance.

Ready to Write

There's been a story simmering in my mind, all starting with Hailey's fairies.( http://otherdissed.blogspot.com/2013/04/finding-fairies.html ). Hailey's fairies and a line from a sometimes heard but never quite understood poem.
Funny, that. I still have no idea how the poem, or the line, fits into the story that is starting to take shape.

I thought at first it looked to be a post apocalyptic tale, not my favorite genre at all. Not my least favorite, but still...
Then it began to look like a Quest Fantasy of the sword-and-sorcery type. That makes more sense, considering it's about fairies, but also a little distressing. It's so cliche!

So, I've been letting the stories, and the visuals, stew in my mind, and it is -- finally -- reaching the point where the words are going to have to be released. At this point, the words are mostly description, and the action consists of someone squinching her eyes and looking beyond the immediate border of -- whatever.

I still have no idea what the story will be. The descriptions have elements of both a Quest and an Apocalypse. Perhaps it will be an apocalyptic quest tale. Those have been done, too.

Most tales told are some version of a quest tale. We (They) are all in search of something, whether it be treasure, true love, or peace of mind.

This storyteller is in quest of a story to tell.

And it will  come. Once the words begin flowing, they will pour out. They will pour, and pour until they overflow. And somewhere in that flash flood of random word associations and description, there will be the nugget of a story.

No, not a story.

THE story.
The story that is waiting for me, that is mine alone to tell.

I hope you're ready for it.

finding fairies

I began with the fractured memories a fractured strobe of a forgotten theme, but one with a title, a phrase that repeats in my mind: The Sinner Cannot Hold.

Over time, I begin to hold the images for a few seconds longer than the strobe flashes. A fountain. Three or four females. Compass points radiating from/relating to the fountain. Many background of red-and-black, projecting a feeling of menace; in contrast to the light and water and spray-rainbows of the women and the fountain

My dear heaven, is my mind, or my muse, heading me into some post-apocalyptic drama? That type of story is not quite my thing, but I'm always willing to learn as a writer. Also as a writer, one must go where one is led.

The women begin to come clearer. They seem to have finely spun wings, although their clothing is heavy and ragged.
They are looking for something, perhaps from the four corners of the world.

Then life gets in the way of the creative process -- or does it?

My granddaughter came for a week long visit. There's nothing new in that. She probably spends one week a month with us. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but that's the average.

This child has a creative imperative of her own. She draws. She sees colors with a depth and intensity that I can observe, but never see. I am in awe of her Great Ability. This three (then) year old child drawing faces on envelopes, calendar squares, and any other available scrap of paper is not so different from my own scrabbling to record a phrase -- such ad 'the sinner cannot hold' on any scrap available to me. It's not so different from a brief description of an image. Not so different from the need to put into words the Visions that Fill the Mind's Eye.

Her last few visits, she had drawn fairies. Tinkerbell is her main model, but she can and will discourse on the differences, although her vocabulary is mainly limited to color. But the different colors do different things.

During her most recent visit, she not only drew her multi colors of fairies, she had to hang them up. Not on the refrigerator. No, that wasn't where they belonged. They had to go on the walls around my bed. They had to be hanged in a precise array, in an exact order, and they had to stay there. A falling fairy was an urgent problem.

It was not until after she went home that I began to wonder. Fairies? Around my bed? The same bed where I dream of fairylike females as a bright spot of air and water as an oasis against a backdrop of dark and angry?

Am I incorporating her fairies into my musings? Is she seeing the fairies I am trying to place and put into words? Are there fairies around my bed that are unseen save by the unconscious mind of the dreamer and the innocent open mind of a child?

Is this an example of the Creative Synchronicity that sometimes happen, especially when there are great grave events in the outer, physical world?

What do you think?

Dream it; Do it; Or Quitcher Whining.

My husband is watching yet another reality show about gold mining or fishing or deep sea ice diving (or ice driving) or whatever excuse this bunch of "men" are using as an excuse to not have to live a real life, like the rest of us have to do.

I don't know why he watches these shows. I don't know why anyone watches many of these shows. I think there's supposed to be a "Man against Nature" challenge, and we're all dreaming of ourselves as winning against the impersonal, implacable elements.

But what you hear during these programs is a lot of whining. "Oh we need 35 per yard and we're only getting six. It's all the machine's fault." "Oh no, if we don't find something, I'm going to go to jail for child support. The boss better find us a better place to work; it's his fault this isn't working." And the self sacrificing Valiant "I do this for my kids. So they'll have something. That's why I'm 2000 miles away and unavailable by telephone."

1) Take care of the machine, and don't over work it. It's a machine, dumbass.
2) If you're worried about paying support, get a real job with a regular paycheck in a regular amount.
3) Maybe, just maybe what your kids really need is a father. Ever thought they might like to see you every now and then? They might like to call you in an emergency and have you there in a half hour or two? They might even appreciate a hug or a handshake, depending on age or gender!

One of the gentlemen earlier today was talking on and on about his "Big Dream" of making "THE Big Strike." Then he'll never have to worry again.

We all have Big Dreams. Almost all of us dream of winning the lottery, especially when that old Power Ball gets way up there. We don't abandon our families to chase that dream. We don't spend money they could use for food or heat while we travel to another state to be closer to the winning-ticket-vending places, do we? And blame the machine for not printing us the winning numbers? Or the clerk for not selling us the right numbers? Because we are trying so hard to realize our dream, the failure couldn't be our fault, could it?

(Of course, that could be why we don't get made into TV shows.)

Another Big Dream of mine is to be a published, income-earning writer. If I never become that, though, it's no one's fault but mine. Yeah, there are publishers turning their backs on a good thing, and editors who don't know what they're missing -- but I'm the one who didn't write right enough to attract them. I'm the one who used the wrong approach or followed the wrong path to their doors.

I'm the one who is dreaming big and doing little.

But at least I'm not on national cable television crying and whining and telling the world that I am a big LOSER because someONE or someTHING  is stopping me. (I admit to whining about it amongst my colleagues and kinfolk, but that is a little different.)

There's nothing wrong with dreaming of a gold mine, but you take care of your family first. You handle your responsibilities first.

You get a day job, for those you love, and you pursue your dream on your own personal private time.

Or you make yourself famous for being a loser at life.

The choice is yours.

Writing a Blog

I like writing a blog. (I must like it I have two)I like the informal language and that I can devote as many or as few words as I wish to my chosen topic. I get to choose the topics, too. That's pretty neat.

Blogging, however, has infected my other writing. Once used to the chatty style, it can be difficult to switch to other voices. It -- that casuality -- sneaks into everything I write. Informational articles, reflective essays, editorials, even personal letters and journal entries have all begun to sound like a xhat.

I'm not complaining, just noting. I'm a writer, and blogging has given me a chance to do just that for a larger audience than just family and friends. It's not the only thing I can write, or the only way to write. I have many voices, depending on what I want to communicate.

It's just funny how the 'blog voice' keeps creeping in. It's like the 'y'know's and 'like's that are really annoying when you're waiting for the person to get to the meat of the story being told. It takes attention and practice and active correction to change that speech pattern.

Another good thing is that writing a blog is a way to learn deadlines . I try to -post at least twice a week on this blog. I'm happy if I can do three times a week, but I wonder if that gives my readers enough time to savor whatever I've written. I may be giving them too much credit. Nah, my readers are all intelligent people and many are writers themselves.  My other blog (www.areyoumycousins.wordpress.com)I update once a week. It is more of a family oriented/ genealogy / history theme. Because I find those things interesting.

Anyway, I love writing. I love the chance to write on a regular, if self-imposed, basis. I love what I can learn about writing through the actual act of writing.I love what I can learn from my readers.

Heck, I just love to write and I am glad to have an outlet for my genius.

Thanks for letting me share ME with YOU.

What I Wanna Do

What I really want to do is what everyone (well, working everyone) really wants -- my own business. I could have a nice little niche business -- but it would work so much better (Translation: make more money, interest more people) if I lived somewhere else.
Not that I couldn't live here and commute, as so many, many people do, it's just that IF I'm going to have my own business, I'd expect to have it on my own terms.

Ideal terms would be to have a big ol' house, and the business could be in the front rooms. I'd have a big picture window for displays and for light inside, and inside there would be dimmer areas, for computer work and desk work and things of that nature.

My business is a "Writers World". For profit and pleasure, I'd sell office supplies -- papers, inks, pens, pencils, posterboards. For pleasure, I'd have Book Nooks and Reading Rooms, with coffee and maybe vending machine type snacks. I'd like to offer sandwiches and stuff, but that would be too much starting out. There are necessarily more complicated health and safety standards when selling made to order foods. So, I'd start out with packaged foods. People could pull up a chair, curl up on a couch with any Recycled book from the shelves, tables, or baskets.

Of course, they'll be able to buy the books if they want to. Or trade them. I expect the books to be the real draw for most of my customers.

I'll also have a 'business center' for people who want to work on computers, or draw at desks. Maybe a few phones -- probably not pay phones as I once envisioned -- for those who need to use a public phone of some sort. There are so few, and still a need for them for a few people. It wouldn't be difficult to include a few within an established business. It would be good for those needing this service to have a place to sit and a desk or table top where they could spread out their paperwork and write down their notes from the calls.

I'd have a children's section, and mats, and maybe a play area -- I'd have to check local laws on that. I won't be a babysitter at my business, but I love having kids around as long as someone else is responsible for them. I'd have books for them, and easels and crayons and miscellaneous creative stuff, because kids should have fun. I'd probably need "Not Responsible" signs, and maybe waivers, and would still need an exorbitant amount of liability insurance anyway. (Or I could 'take my chances'. That's usually not a good business option.)

And I'd have a selling section -- I'd sell handmade stuff and arts&crafts and self-published books and even secondhand stuff. I'd have to be careful there, because I could turn anyplace into a Hoarder's Haven with secondhand stuff. I hate throwing usable things away. I'd sell this stuff for a percentage, so I'd probably have a decent chance of making money -- or traffic -- with that aspect.

Lacking the big front rooms, I could rent a storefront. There are plenty of storefronts empty here in town, but they aren't for rent, and, at this time, I couldn't afford them. Doesn't stop me from looking and wanting and wishing, though. That blue house would be perfect. One window for books, baskets, and chairs, the other window for the best of the crafts and clothing.

That's what I ultimately would like to do.

For now, I would be happy to find a flea market close to home where I could sell my recycled books and 'stuff'. They are all too far away and possibly too expensive, especially after adding in gas and food and drink.

But that's what I want to do, and how I think I could start. Would you like to be my customer? I'd love to have you as one.

Dark Shadows. (No, not mine.)

Spent the weekend browsing the old show. YouTube has quite a bit, if you have the patience to weed out the Johnny Depp- Tim Burton overwhelming publicity. YouTube has quite a few clips from the old show, including one with the very beginning. Fan club events and interviews, from then and a few from now.

I saw a few clips that might have been from the short run evening version with Ben Cross as Barnabas. I didn't look at those.

What I did not see anything of, is the two movies they made from the show: Dark Shadows and House of Dark Shadows. Not surprising. The movies were pretty bad. By the time the movies were made, the show had lost focus and was campy. Blood and guts and 'boos' and very little story. An adventure into variations of time travel and ghosts and vampires and werewolfs and anything else 'not normal'.  It created a lifelong interest in these things for me, led me to some good reading that led to better research that led to more reading that leads to more research.

Interesting the bizarre storylines were, and even educational. Entertaining they often were not.

Over time, everyone seems to have lost sight of the fact that Dark Shadows didn't start out as a vampire-and-werewolf chiller and thriller.

It started out as a Gothic Romance.

"My name is Victoria Winters.My journey is beginning. A journey that I hope will open the doors of life to me.and link my past to my future."

Victoria Winters, you see, is an orphan. She has been pulled out of her orphanage to be a governess in a big old house by the sea. The residents of the house consist of an angry young boy, an angsty teenaged girl (and could anyone be more angsty than a teen in the late 60s?), the boy's drunken irresponsible father and the girl's mother who hasn't left the house for nearly twenty years.

Pure Gothic as far as genre goes. Nowadays cliched, but back then the genre was undergoing a revival. (Maybe as an outlet for all that built-up angst?)

It took Barnabas almost a year to appear. The first few months were dedicated to straight out mysterious events that had logical explanations. Then the supernatural began creeping in -- ghosts and premonitions and dreams.

Oh my lord, the Dream! I don't remember the details of the dream, but the storyline was that each person would have the dream, but each person added something to it. And when the next person had the dream, the last person who'd had it died. It was one of the most intricate and well developed plot arcs I have ever watched grow daily. Just seeing bits of it, and sometimes the actors, can give me thrill-chills because it was such a creepy story. (It was also a good way to kill off a bunch of characters that no longer fit, which as an author, I appreciate today and didn't realize then.)

The Barnabas-Josette- Jeremiah- Angelique story was well done as well. The ghost stepping out of her picture and opening her music box and waltzing through the big empty room. WOW! This story would be reworked over and over again throughout the show, but the first incarnation was damned good storytelling. So were a few of the others as Barnabas keeps going back to try and change the past, and Angelique or/and her cohorts follow to prevent him from doing so.

This is pretty much where the evening television remake started, and they didn't do a bad job with it. I would have continued watching. But too many people turned it off or turned away from it when it wasn't played for thrills or laughs. A common complaint was that there was too much sex.

Really? It was a soap opera. Or a Gothic Romance. Romance IS usually about sex, is it not? And exactly why was Angelique so obsessed with Barnabas? If it had just been for his money or his standing, his brother would have fit the bill just as well. No, she wanted Barnabas, and it wasn't so she'd have someone to talk to during meals.

So much good drama in there. Good plotlines, good story arcs.

It's a shame that it is being remembered as camp and memorialized for new generations as a comedy. although I don't mind the laughs. From what I've seen, they are mostly clever, if campy, laughs.

But I sure do wish they'd revive the "it was a dark and stormy night" genre of serials. The endings are so much more satisfactory than the endings to the current reality spooky shows.

Badly made by today's standards (and even their own) but entertaining and mysterious and fun.
I guess that's what most people remember -- the fun. 

Fear of Phobia

I'm becoming, I'm afraid, a borderline agoraphobic.
No, I have become a borderline agoraphobic.
The becoming I'm worried about is the full blown phobia.

I don't think that will ever happen. I have too many chores and a granddaughter. That should be enough to keep me getting out on a fairly regular basis. And there are doctor's visits for my husband, and going to the pharmacy, and grocery shopping.

Those things should all keep me going, keep me out and about. I'm not so sure they will. Even if they do, I'm not sure that some of those things count. I don't enjoy them. I don't relish going to Walmart after prescriptions. I don't stop at this store or that and peek and poke and just enjoy myself, just enjoy getting out, even though God knows I rarely get alone time except in the car. Maybe alone time isn't really that important, anyway. I can always be alone inside myself. Inside my computer, or lost in a book. (That's not really alone, though. There are people in those books, and some of them are stupider than the ones in real life. Who'd've ever thought that was possible?)

In some ways, I feel I've been heading that way -- this way -- for all my life. I've never been able to easily or naturally speak to other people, sometimes not even those I know well. I have had my electricity and my water shut off because I was unable to make the telephone calls to make arrangements to pay. (Many years ago; not recently.)

But now I leave reluctantly. Not even my writers group holds the same interest for me, because my life has so changed. For a year I had limited contact with the real world.
I had no telephone and no internet. Because of Rex's hospitalization, and his doctor's and medicines, and having to pay other people gas money, the bills got way behind. So there was little talking with anyone, except when I needed something. That doesn't encourage socializing from either party involved. At least I didn't feel that it did. .

No car -- I had to get rides, or arrange rides, everywhere and anywhere. Few trips were worth the trouble. My writer friends were the ones with the most available help, but my sisters were always there also. The writers happen to live and work closer.
But even with their help, I was isolated and alone, and there's too much to handle alone, but I did it.



I did it all, from the safety net of my home.

I'm afraid, often. I'm afraid to leave because I worry about Rex getting sick or falling when I'm gone. Some nights I can't sleep, because I'm afraid I'll wake up and he won't be breathing. I'm afraid to drive anywhere, because what if I'm involved in an accident and get hurt? What will happen to Rex when someone else brings him that kind of news? Who will take care of him while I can't?
My God, what if I get crippled?
What will happen to Rex if I get killed?

Rex, bless his heart, encourages me to go to my group, and to go to family events, if he knows about them. I usually don't tell him, because he won't /can't go. And I don't want to leave him alone for hours at a time. All the what-ifs come alive when that happens.

I can't let this progress. It must not be allowed to get any worse. Even I cannot live that self-contained. There are chores that must be done, errands that must be run. And what kind of example am I setting for Hailey if I turn myself into the Hermit Grandmother? It's bad enough that Pappaw is already that way.

Thank goodness for summer, for the season of picnics and reunions and weddings. Thank God for sisters and friends and other family who will coax me or bully me out of my little blue hole. They, more than anything I can do, are what keeps me straight, keeps me trying. Keeps me on the sane side of the line,

I can thank none of them enough. Ever.

As I lay dying (or so I thought)

Yesterday I thought I was entering my final illness, persistent cramping diarrhea. The pain was worse than childbirth (except for the actual birthing). The effects of dehydration were debilitating, as you can imagine. My sister and my nephew had both commented on bellyaches, so I thought there's probably just something going around, and it was nothing major.

As the day wore on, I changed my mind about that. If there had been gas in our car I would have had my husband take me to the hospital, even though I have no insurance and every test, every procedure, every help would have to be paid for by us. At that point (about 3 in the afternoon) even the IV for dehydration would have been worth the cost. Because I was afraid to drink anything, even warm water.

Instead, I went to bed.
While in the bed, I reviewed my life. It's the first time I ever did that when I wasn't contemplating suicide, so it was a novel experience in its way. The results of the review were more satisfactory this way, I have to admit, but there were some things not so satisfactory.
Of course.

I wished I had played more with my girls when they were young. More walks, more pushing on swings, more silly talk, more books read together, more time. Just more time to enjoy them. But pushing swings is boring after the first couple of shoves to get them going, and neither of my daughters had any great interest in books when they were young. We did walk, from time to time, and the walks nearly always had that 'special' air. I suppose that's a good thing. The regret over not taking enough walks is partly because it indicates a lack of special times, so if the times it happened were special -- well, there's just a balance there, so that one is probably okay.
I hope.

I wish I'd had more patience at some times in some of my jobs, but I have no big regrets over any of those. I gave every job I ever did everything I could, everything I had. Sometimes I didn't have much, and sometimes I hated the work, but I gave it my all. Sometimes my all was more, often less, but it was what I had and I put it into the work.

My writing? I have four completed novel manuscripts on top of the bookcases. I have three of those novels on floppies, which do me  no earthly good these days, but maybe somewhere, someday... someone. I have various writings here and there. It would be nice for my family if I could become posthumously famous, so that I'm not leaving my family nothing but a hole in their hearts.
I hope.

The good-bye letters I wrote a few months ago worried me a bit. I thought about tearing them up before I died, but decided I'd just leave a note with them. Don't remember if I dated them or not. Probably not. I wanted them to be generic, any time. I have letters written to Tracy and to Rex and, I think, to Jean. I haven't been able to bring myself to pout anything in writing for Tammy-and-Hailey. No good excuses for saddling her with my responsibilities, which she would be the one carrying the brunt of the load after the dust settles. No good excuse, no reason.
Anyway, I decided to just write a note, or maybe I'd get a chance to tell Jean before I expire in the hospital. "Hey, never mind those. I wrote them for Christmas last year, or maybe the year before."

It was a different thing to look back at my life this way, from this new angle. I didn't have no instant conversion to wanting to continue living in spite of all its pain, which I have seen happen. I wanted the pain to stop. I wished that I had done some things differently, but feel that I did the best I could at the time.

That's what we should all be doing. The best we can, with what we have. The what we have can be time, or energy, or even interest. Money of the lack thereof is a partial excuse, not a good one.

Be the best you that you can be.

Do the best you can with what you have.

Watch and work and learn and live.

Then,  you can contemplate death with equanimity. Is there any better way to live?

Good Deed for the Next Generation.

I've done another good deed for the next generation. I introduced my daughter's not-yet-four -year-old to the public library. A few weeks ago, circumstances made it necessary for her to accompany me to a writers group meeting

Hailey had one question. "Are there toys?"

The meeting was in a room just off the children's section, so it was easy for me to keep an ear and an eye on her.

At first she just sat in a chair with her hands folded in her lap. I came out and showed her the toys, and told her she could play. She said "Okay, Mammaw," and folded her hands and sat in her little chair.

Fortunately there was another little girl at the library with her daddy. The other little girl brought  Hailey puzzles and puppets, and got paper from the librarian  so Hailey could write with the crayons. The daddy got her to play in the castle. (I really had to keep an eye when he got involved, although I knew he was probably harmless. These days, probably just isn't good enough. Sad fact.)

They left, and Hailey worked kid sized wooden puzzles, one after the other after the other. She had them stacked neatly on the table, and the stack was nearly as high as her head.

We left early -- watching the kid and attending the meeting was a little more difficult and disruptive than I had expected.

Today, my daughter came by, and she asked me what happened when I took Hailey to writers group with me. It seems that now, every time they go to town, Hailey hollers out, "There's the berry, Mom. Are we going to the berry? I want to go to the berry."

So, another generation introduced to the magic of the public library.

Now, we just have to keep the libraries open for them.

Natural Writing

I enjoy writing my blogs.

Of course, I like writing. It's as natural to me as breathing, and as necessary.

That's not a bad comparison. Over time, we sometimes have to train our breathing back to its easy, natural state. We begin to breathe more shallowly as soon as we begin to talk. We star gulping air into our stomachs instead of our lungs as soon as we begin to eat -- and that starts pretty soon. We hold our breath to get into clothes, we remodel our insides, squashing our lungs, cramping our diaphragm, to conform in our appearance.

Soon, we are no longer breathing naturally, although it is adequately for our survival. We go to doctors, we take exercise classes, we learn yoga. We do these things to get back to the natural and easy way of breathing.

Learning to breathe correctly is not easy, after years of doing it wrong and years of lazy breathing. It feels unnatural, to push out our stomachs as we breathe in. It's painful to fully expand the ribcage. It takes training, work, and lots of practice.
Aching muscles and sore abs and later on, we are improved by the improved oxygenation in our blood. We look better, we feel better, we are better.

It's not enough to breathe. We need to breathe correctly to be at our best.

This helps explain why a natural talent for writing isn't always enough. We may have the words flood and flow through our brains, tremble off our fingertips, but it just isn't enough. The words have to come out in proper order, in proper form, to be what they should be.

We need to write correctly to be at our best.

There are people who think that writing cannot be taught, that there is no need for training or practice.
There are people who think that the only good writing is easy writing.

Writing, they think, should be as natural as breathing.