Jumping off cliffs

Poopy Day (Factory Politics and other Nasty Stuff)

2009-11-05T18:53:00.018-06:00

Into every life some . . . Well, anyway . . . I woke up yesterday morning prepared to write, but found I was too tense to concentrate and finally abandoned the effort. The thing is, I didn't really have a sound, rational reason for it, I just was.

Then Gary came in the door, tense and unhappy and, no, I don't think it was an accident that I'd felt the same way. But more on those connections another time . . .

He had a great annual evaluation the previous night(one of our best, glad to have you), unfortunately followed by a write up for a very minor paperwork snaffoo (and I mean as minor as dropping the fourth zero when writing in the military time on a chart in a slot that already has the time in it--you're right, that doesn't make much sense). Unfortunately, the write up costs us our quarterly bonus in February. The bonuses this year have been dismal, so this isn't a big deal. However, he's already lost half of our Christmas bonus for the self-same kind of error two months ago. That particular bonus, which is quite a lot bigger and necessary to Christmas around here, hurts badly (and that is even more complicated by a supervisor who screwed up too). On top of this he was warned that four write ups on two years earn a three day suspension or firing. So in addition to having a very small Christmas bonus, we get to live with that ax hanging over our heads. He's been in this job for a little over two years, doing the same job, entering the same numbers on the same chart, and he's never had this problem until now.

Coincidence? I think not. When Gary came back from vacation, the man who filled in for him, who has been in the job for thirty years, was written up (same offense) and he's never been written up before. When Gary came on shift last night, the guy he was relieving quietly told him to watch his paperwork because the individual who works the same piece of equipment at the other end of the factory was just suspended for--you guessed it--a 4th minor paperwork snaffoo. People around the factory who've been there forever are beginning to accrue write ups for tiny offenses (since there are no large ones). This factory has won awards for the quality of their work and, while other factories owned by this company have had their wrists slapped and not received their bonus checks more often than not, this one always has.

It is dirty pool to separate people from their bonus checks (often counted on to buy Christmas gifts) by punishing them for minor infractions instead of simply stating that the money is not there. I suppose this way they can continue to point out to their employees how well they're taking care of them and hold themselves up as a shining example of how companies should be run.

And if you're wondering about the condition of this company's finances. By all reports, they are doing extremely well, a very long lived establishment, turning a comfortable profit, and winning awards for their great service to their customers. So, no, I don't quite understand what's wrong either, though I have my suspicions, and they're not very nice.

In brief, today hasn't improved on yesterday one bit, though I have slogged through a thousand words. It is about to be another short paycheck. We've had a lot of these lately. Though I've stretched our resources, and the bills are getting paid, and no one is going without anything they need, things are tight and I'm worried because I always worry when money is tight.

So tonight most of the boys are off to a church lock-in and I'll have the house to myself for most of the evening. After I've retrieved Daniel from his girlfriend's house (that boy has GOT to learn to drive), I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine (or two) and write the murder scene in the Dotted Line. My mood is ripe for it.

Tomorrow I will rise early and write, then we will go up to the church as a family and set up for a sizable youth concert that Jeremiah and I have been organizing for the last three months. The adults will crouch in the kitchen with our fingers in our ears as the youth jump around and cheer while the Christian Rock Bands play their music for them, and talk to them about God's love, and we will smile because we know that at least a hundred of the youth in our community are safe and having a good time. And we will know too, that they are hearing some important good news.

2009-11-02T17:29:00.006-06:00

I spent most of the day writing yesterday, finishing up the last of the edits on Troubled Waters before I could, in good conscience, turn my attention to the new one. After a major rewrite, it looks and feels far more polished than it did a month ago. I faced down glaring problems, cut and rewrote some major scenes, sat back and looked at it with satisfaction.

I am a brilliant writer, I announced to the nearest boy.

"Cool," he said absently, plugging away on whatever video game they're playing online at present. "What's for supper?"

So much that burst of confidence.

That project completed, I've turned my now undivided attention to The Dotted Line (it needs a better title). In two days I've written over five thousand words and can feel the momentum tugging it along; it is almost writing itself. This is likely to be my strongest work to date.

Later I raked leaves in the late afternoon sun, carrying wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow load to the pile of mulch behind the garden. I am rich with leaves and kitchen scraps and watching the hill of leaves grow is like laying up treasures for the future. Pausing, I pulled a few stray weeds from around my broccoli and lettuce. Solomon lay nearby watching with interest as I went about my business. I know he has to wonder why I feel the need to carry yard debris from one place to another, but he's faithful in his attendance even if he doesn't understand it.

I could feel someone else watching though and I looked up to find Gary standing on the back steps watching me.

"What?"

"I just wanted to come out and tell you something," he said.

"Oh. Okay." So I stretched my complaining back and waited.

"I'm glad you're still here."

"Me too?"

"You choose to stay when there's nothing that says that you have to."

"Except for my marriage vows."

"Would that really be enough by itself? If you really wanted to go?"

No. I had to admit. It certainly wasn't just about the vows. Or, for that matter, the love. As anybody who's been married longer than ten years can tell you, while powerful, love isn't enough by itself. Sometimes you just stay because it's the right thing to do, and sometimes you stay because of the kids, other times you stay because he's not just your lover but your best friend and without him there's no place else to go, but eventually stay because you know that this too shall pass and that the good times will be back if you'll stay on and fight for them.

I didn't say any of that out loud, but I didn't need to.

"You chose to stay on and I'm grateful. That's all I had to say." And he went back in the house.

I was a little bemused by this conversation until I came in to cook supper and found The Dotted Line open on my desktop and Gary's coffee cup on my desk.

No dear, I thought. Thank you for staying on.

NanoWrimo

2009-10-30T07:29:00.004-05:00

In two days I will very likely go quiet for a month or so. Don't worry. I'll just be Over Here at TUF. My time in front of the computer will be spent Doing This Very Important Thing.

I've never made the 50,000 word goal in the allotted thirty days, but I've come close. For me the word count is immaterial. I'm less concerned with the typing and far more concerned with the momentum that writing like this gives the beginning of projects. However, I confess, it would be nice to make it just once. Either way, though, it is a great running start.

I'll check in with a word count as I can, but if you'd like to read the WIP, you can register at TUF and read it as it develops. Or, even better, you can register and write your own!

WIP Wednesday and NanoWrimo

2009-10-28T01:37:00.006-05:00

I spent a fair amount of yesterday and all of this morning editing Troubled_Waters. At one point I sat back and looked at a scene that was unquestionably a muddled mess and wondered if I was just making it worse. But self-doubt is familiar territory for me and I plugged on anyway.

This particular stretch of edits has been especially challenging as so many of them have required going backwards and forwards in the timeline, making sure I've not written the same thing twice or said something that conflicted with something else. It's also been difficult to walk away from because every time I do, I lose the thread of what I'm trying to accomplish. Even notes and page numbers don't help. I spend the first hour reacquainting myself with what I'm doing pretty much every time.

I've rewritten a number of the events leading up to the ending, cutting weak logic that I knew was weak when I wrote it, but was so anxious to get on with matters that I let it stand. I don't feel entirely bad about this as I've read books that have made it into print that read like the author did the same thing. I understand how they got there; I'm just amazed that their agents let it stand. Perhaps after you've written several best sellers you can afford to be sloppy. However I believe I am winding up with a more "mature" book than I started with, meaning that it is tighter, more polished, and certainly better organized, than previous projects.

Not being famous and not having thousands of forgiving readers, or an agent (yet), I am hoping this will deliver. I want it done by November 1st as I plan to join Nanowrimo for the 50,000 words in 30 days competition. This particular program has jump-started both of my last two books and I'm hoping it will be the same this time. Maybe I'll even make all 50,000 by the end of the month this time.

Mirrors

2009-10-25T09:13:00.007-05:00

Sam, wants to go trick-or-treating as a mirror this year (which is a vast improvement on being a brain eating zombie). Now I've just got to figure out how on earth I'm going to turn my entire child into a reflective surface. Any suggestions?

The others are making noises about being too old, though Joe (14) is waffling a little. He's all into the Twilight books and is kicking around going as a vampire. My suspicion is that it's more about looking cool and getting girls than the traditional blood drinking image. I have him reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" for school and he likes it quite a bit, but apparently not enough to dress up like a lawyer, which I think is far scarier, but probably won't score as many chicks.

Still not a fairy princess in the bunch. My sister, Amy, is about to have her second girl (Two girls! Two! And I don't have any! Life just isn't fair sometimes). Maybe I can borrow her older one next year.

Fall Gardening (update)

2009-10-19T10:10:00.008-05:00

I went looking for autumn with my camera this afternoon and this was what I found . . .

Multitudinous updates to follow.

First off, there will be no pictures of my first attempt at fall gardening. Largely because it is the first time I've attempted one and it is a rather pell-mell experiment. Summer gardens--yes, many of them. Spring gardens, of course. Fall garden? Until now I was too over committed to keep up with one. So rather than spend more money on what might be a failed experiment, I gathered up the last of my spring seeds and early summer seeds and planted them here and there as one summer crop after another stopped producing. This amounted to some broccoli, lettuce, spinach, peas, and some green beans. The bell peppers and the cayenne peppers continue to produce more than I can use and I have strands of cayenne strung up all over my office. Interestingly something ate all the spinach seedlings just after they came up but ignored the broccoli and lettuce on either side of it. Perhaps an anemic rabbit? I'm not sure I'm going to get any broccoli heads, but I like how the plants look and there is always next year (one of the many things I like about gardening).

Having pulled up the plants that are no longer producing, I've let large sections of the garden unattended. Most of it is covered with a fine sprinkling of pale green clover. I've decided to leave it alone until it's time to till it all under. I tell myself that this is a good organic gardening philosophy, but, the truth is, I think it's pretty and says a lot about the necessity and beauty of rest. The remaining marigolds and the New Zealand Spinach are running wild as well, having spread well beyond the borders of their given beds. While perhaps less fruitful, it is hardly a lifeless place. A few small volunteer sunflowers continue to sprout, thanks to Gary's approach to filling the bird feeders (which included tossing handfuls of seed across the garden). Having harvested the mammoth sized heads that were planted intentionally, I've left these for the very happy finches.

Day before yesterday, Sam and I carried arm loads of linens out to cover the fall plants with in preparation for the first frost of the year. As we worked, we chatted about next year's growing season. He's already asked for another raised bed to grow carrots in (the only way you can grow them here) in addition to the raised bed he already grows his tea garden in. Gary has agreed that dwarf fruit trees--another one of Sam's requests--are a good investment. Sam is a happy young gardener and has mentioned a possible future career change, from eye doctor to that of a future extension agent. Curing tomato blight is beginning to sound more important than putting glasses on people's faces.

Joe (fourteen year old) has asked if he can grow pumpkins next year. I've fallen for this one before (Jeremiah: Green beans. Daniel: Corn. Their father: Strawberries). Poor Joe, having two older teenage brothers means that you've got fairly seasoned parents by the time you start having your own adolescent crises. More than once he's heard lately, "Better than you have already been there, so don't even bother." I informed him that I'd be delighted to have his company next summer but that this did not mean that I've acquired another crop. If he wants to grow them then he will care for them and see the project through to the end. Meanwhile, I have to figure out how I'm going to fit them into the available garden space. If I plant them among the sunflowers that I'm planning to use as trellises for the green beans, perhaps?

I finished my rock wall last week. It is not pretty at all (mortar is harder to work with than I expected), but I think rose bushes and a bird bath will go a long way toward offsetting its ugliness. And no, I won't post pictures of the wall either, as I am against junking up the internet. Just be assured that it's about a foot and a half tall, made up of a weird combination of rocks of various sizes and goops of mortar and more or less makes a five foot wide circle. I'm going to build a walk way around it using sand and the remaining rock once the rain slows up for a few days. That should at least make it look like the artist tried really hard and perhaps passing motorists and meter readers will feel sorry for me instead of pondering its eye-soreness.

Gary built me a 5 x 5 x 4 compost box and it's already full of leaves, kitchen left overs (like orange peels, coffee grounds, etc), and garden remnants. I'm only half done with raking the front yard and I'm beginning to suspect the box is not big enough, but I haven't had the heart to tell him. I suppose I'll just start another pile next to it.

My greenhouse plans have been delayed by two months of short pay checks (more on factories, bonus checks, and dirty pool in another entry), but we do have the frame for it in place (keeping in mind that in a former life it was a 10 x 10 dog kennel donated by a friend who simply wanted it out of her yard--so putting it together was easy). Work appears to be back up to speed, so perhaps I will still be able to start tomatoes, broccoli, and cauliflower in January, though it does throw it a little late.

Our really big news is that we've decided to invest in bee hives. Dennis Bryant (Hi Dennis) is to blame for this. Dennis, who kept posting enticingly beautiful pictures of his bees and hives on his facebook page, makes bee keeping seem like a Zen experience (probably not Dennis's choice of words) and you know how I can be about zen and nature and God (who probably wouldn't use those words either). Actually, it simply fits with our still evolving philosophy of self sufficiency. We aren't anywhere near
being able to pull the plug on civilization, but we would like to move further away from depending on strangers for our food. And honey is an excellent source so many things that it seems foolish to not try it. More on that as it comes.

WIP Wednesday and why kids are often better writers than grown ups are

2009-10-14T14:30:00.009-05:00

I have a shiny new letter ready to go out to agents and I'm getting anxious to mail it, but this time I want to be sure I'm sending off a truly finished work. After a few rejections last year I studied my first chapter closely and realized that it had a big problem. Fixing that meant fixing other things. This morning I cut a scene and have inserted another in its place. This should be the end of the edits.

Meanwhile I've been joined in the trenches by all the boys. Everyone, it seems, is writing something right now. It is both great encouragement and a little intimidating.

My youngest flopped down on the couch between his dad and me today and announced that he's written the second chapter of his new book. His newest "book" is entitled "The Way of the Wind" (Are you jealous of the title? Me too.)

"My book has an old woman in it," he says. "She's a hundred and seven years old and she's still living a full life."

"Wow. That's a great detail," said his dad. "How'd she get to be so old?"

"She makes a solution of orange juice, lemon peel, egg shells, ground up sunflower seeds, and pineapple shavings. And she puts on her deck every night before she goes to bed. She also wears it like perfume when she goes to town. It actually smells pretty good."

He has our undivided attention. "Why does she do that?"

"She believes it keeps Death away." Sam stood and wandered toward the door.

"So does it really work?" I asked.

"You'll have to read the book when I'm finished with it." He smiled and went outside to play.

There you have it--a nearly perfect synopsis out of the mouth of a (newly minted) eleven year old.

Sometimes I think I'm complicating this writing thing far too much.

I'm editing and growing really tired of it. Just when I think I'm done, I run across something else that simply has to be dealt with. Rewriting and amping up the secondary plot line means rewriting the intent of the lesser villain, which meant cutting an entire scene and rethinking the motivations of yet another character.

Confuse yet? So am I occasionally, but that's what outlines and notes are for.

Let me clarify. I gave my Troubled Waters two villains. One obvious one whose mission was to keep the tension high while I built the tensions with the less obvious one. Because I'm doing a "slight of hand" with the the less obvious bad guy, a lot of what he does is "off the page" (reported by other characters and two somewhat dark glimpses). So the obvious one must carry a fair amount of weight. In the first drafts, he didn't. After some rewrites, he does.

I'm chomping on the bit to start The Dotted Line, but I've committed to finishing this draft before moving on. November is just around the corner and NaNowrimo cometh nigh. All I've got to do is hang in there a little longer.

Meanwhile I think I'm going to take a peek at Sam's work. I think I might learn something.

God and Dog

2009-10-12T21:36:00.005-05:00

I had a completely different post planned for tonight, but then my mom posted the following on Facebook and then I read Scotty's entry about the dog who attempted to save another dog's life and it seemed more important to share this. Made me smile and tear up a bit at the same time.

My House is Haunted

2009-10-11T09:34:00.008-05:00

Let's face it, no one really knows for sure if ghosts exist or not, but I've always suspected (wished, hoped) that they did. I suppose I find the idea reassuring in a strange way, but as I've had no experiences of my own, I've had to rely on other people's stories and theories and hope they weren't smoking anything when they saw or heard what they said they heard or saw.

In researching my next book I've been doing some reading about them. Not ghost stories, as you might imagine, but books written by people who claim to have communicated with them. This time, for at least part of the book, I'm writing from the vantage point of the ghost, so I'm not as interested in rattling chains as I am in why they rattle them.

In the process of researching this topic, I may have stumbled across the answer to an ongoing problem that plagues our household. The mystery of missing items. According to one writer, some ghosts think it's funny to move items around when no one is looking. If so, then the one that haunts our home has a strange sense of humor. This can probably be explained by the fact that the people who live here also have a strange sense of humor and like energy attracts like. Personally, I am not amused.

This ghost seems to concentrate on two things: the dust pan and my socks. Not the boys' socks, not Gary's socks. Mine and only mine.

I don't know exactly when it started, but over the last few weeks, I've grown increasingly aware of my shrinking pool of socks and I've had to resort to mismatches or borrowing Gary's more and more. At first, I blamed it on my own carelessness with the laundry and assumed they'd gone into some boys' drawer.

Yesterday, I finally went in search of them. Having emptied the utility room, checked all dressers, and dug through the small container in which I keep all single socks (in hopes that their mates will turn up), I paired multiple erstwhile single socks and did a count of all the ones without mates. All of the men's socks were located and now everyone has drawers full of nicely rolled, clean socks. Everyone, that is, except me.

Until just a few weeks ago, I owned twelve pairs of socks--nice ones of various breeds and colors--thick thermal ones, fuzzy ones, footies, ankle socks, and thin dress socks. I now own twelve mate-less socks. In fact, I'm presently wearing a pair of Gary's thick black ones, which are comfortable, but don't look very nice with leather penny loafers; and they look especially goofy with white New Balance tennis shoes. My socks are not in my drawers, nor are they in any of the boys'. They cannot be under my bed as my box springs are sitting on the floor (no monsters will be grabbing my ankles during the night!). I've looked high and low, even in places as tropical and illogical as the shed, the dogs' beds, under the sofa cushions, behind furniture, and even the far reaches of my own closet. This is not the first time I've had socks go missing, but it is the first time they have all vanished at the same time. They are simply gone. Coincidence? I think not. If this is indeed the work of a ghost, it is an evil, sick entity.

It also seems to think it's funny to move the dustpans. Pull out a broom and dustpan around here to do some sweeping, set the dustpan in some conspicuous place, and, I promise you, at some point while sweeping, you'll reach for it and it won't be there. If you're like me, you'll assume you've lost your mind, and wander from room to room muttering, "Where did I put that thing?" Or you'll blame the kids, who will (in their own defense) jump to their feet and help you look. After you've dismantled the room in which you were sure you set it, someone will trot in waving it, saying "I found it!" They will tell you they found it in the broom closet (where it belongs), or on top of the washing machine (near the broom closet). Lest you think I'm just absent minded (and I'll own up to that), let me add to this mystery. Sometimes it's never found. It goes missing and never reports back. Wanna hear something even creepier? I've probably bought six dust pans in the last year and a half. And NO ONE KNOWS WHERE THEY WENT. (Cue spooky music . . .)

I've decided against hiring a TV ghost hunter for the time being as they are expensive and I don't like being laughed at, but I'm thinking about performing an exorcism in my utility room, which seems to be the nexus of the entity's power. I'd contemplated lighting some candles and saying some Hail Mary's (though as I'm not Catholic, I'm not sure how convincing I'll be) and waving around some incense. However Gary, (who says that anybody can be a ghost hunter--all they need is a flashlight, a movie camera, and the ability to gasp believably) insists that I'll be better off to set out some warm banana bread and a glass of milk and leave him to watch for spiritual activity. Apparently ghosts love banana bread and milk. Who knew? I asked him what he'd do if it made an appearance and he replied that he'd probably offer to share. I have no idea how this is supposed to exorcise the ghost, but Gary seems enthused about it.

PS. There's this girl . . .

2009-10-06T22:57:00.003-05:00

So shortly after I posted the entry below, Jeremiah came out of his bedroom with a big grin on his face. "So Daniel . . . Who is the girl?" he asked.

Daniel mumbled something at him.

The entire house stopped. Gary muted the TV. We all stared.

Girl?

"Look on his MySpace page, Mom. He's changed his status to 'in a relationship'".

I thought it had to be a mistake. A tab he didn't mean to click. Daniel said nothing and that nothingness spoke volumes (he has the loudest silence of anyone I've ever known).

What's her name?

"Kristy"

"How long has this been going on?" his Dad asked.

"For a couple of weeks." He glanced around at his slack jawed brothers. "What? Why are you all here?"

"Because the walls in this place are all only an inch thick," said Jeremiah.

"You can never escape da family," quipped Gary, doing his best Godfather impression.

However, we took pity on him and chased his brothers out of the room. Then Gary and I carefully sounded him out on it. Whose idea it was (her's of course). Why he liked her (she's funny and she's nice and she doesn't mind that he doesn't have much to say. For a seventeen year old Aspie who is a little immature, this enough to base a first relationship on). Was she a Christian (Yes. He seemed surprised that we'd even ask. And, if you're wondering, this isn't a requirement in this house, but it does make things easier for all involved). How did they meet? (Stacy introduced them. Thank you God, once again, for Stacy).

Gary talked to him about relationship expectations; no one has to tell Daniel to be kind, but reminding him of the importance of reciprocation is necessary. We talked about the possibility that it might not last very long--or that it might last a really long time--and that both were normal. I mentioned learning to drive and for the first time he actually looked interested.

Then he showed me a picture of her (on his My Space page). And, of course, she's really cute, and she seemed genuinely happy to be with him, but the part of the picture that interested me, was the fact that my son was in it with her and he was smiling a wide, joyous, gentle smile. Quite frankly, I've never seen that exact expression on him before and it was mind blowing. He had morphed into a young man in love right in front right in front of me.

He seems to be handling it all fine. But his parents' heads are spinning.

Daniel in School

2009-10-06T22:56:00.001-05:00

We are two months into school now and Daniel is fairing better than I expected. At his own request, he's attended two dances and actually danced a little. Stacy who I've mentioned before and a small circle of girls seem to have made it their mission to include him in their activities. He usually comes in the door happy and as talkative as Daniel ever is. He's taking Chemistry, Communication Arts, Algebra A, American History, PE, and an advanced Art class (Art is his thing the way music is Jeremiah's). I'm delighted to report that he's making As in everything except History, and he's got a B in that.

However not everything is coming up roses. A few days ago, he came home with an assignment to create a "brochure" that would convince people to move to or visit a town, the name of which he drew from a hat. Daniel drew "Warren, NJ".

For the uninitiated, Aspies often struggle with decision-making and exercises that demand abstract thinking. It's not that they are unimaginative (not even close). They simply are at their best with the tangible, with the familiar, and what comes directly from their own heads and immediate experiences. Daniel's never been to Warren, NJ and has no desire to go there himself so he can't imagine why anyone else would want to either. Additionally, unlike his older brother who could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo (trust me), the idea of selling anyone on the idea of doing anything, is beyond his comprehension. When Daniel did googled it, he didn't spot any obvious answers to his quandary, so he was frozen in time, sitting in front of the computer, staring into space.

When we realized he needed help, Jeremiah and I both jumped out and googled Warren ourselves. We quickly found numerous links and sent them to him. Jeremiah offered several suggestions and I gave an inspiring speech about what this town must be like, talking about their numerous city parks, the annual hot air balloon festival, the historical sites, their community gardens, and their great museums, lovely old homes, schools, and so on. Heck, when I got done with it, I wanted to live in Warren, NJ (Sometimes I don't know my own power).

In spite of all of this, and hour later, Daniel was still sitting in front of the computer, frozen in time. When I spoke to him, he turned and looked at me with tears pouring down his face.

A meltdown. Albeit a quiet one. Crap. Crap. Crap. We haven't seen one of these in a couple of years. I had to swallow my reaction (which was to cry with him).

He was embarrassed and upset enough that he had trouble talking. Jeremiah back wandered in and actually sat down. Jeremiah isn't known for cutting Daniel any slack, which can be both good and bad, but this time he was quiet as Daniel began to sort through what he wanted to say.

"I can't think straight. My head is cloudy. I don't know what's wrong."

Do you feel sick? I asked.

No. I'm just tired. I'm tired all the time.

Are any of your classes worrying you?

"No. In fact it's easier than homeschool."

Big surprise. Are you having problems with anyone at school? Another student or a teacher?

"No."

So what do you think it is?

"I don't know."

"I do," said Jeremiah. "I know exactly what your problem is. You're not getting enough sleep and you're not eating right."

Daniel opens his mouth to argue and shuts it.

"I did the same thing and I felt the same way." Jeremiah glanced me and smiled. "Do you remember what you did?"

"Yes I did. You were a straight A student and you didn't fake being sick and you never tried to get out of going to school. So I let you take a day off to catch up on your rest and then you worked out a better schedule for yourself."

In fact, I did this for him twice in four years ( the last time he was under the gun to write a paper and stayed up all night two nights running--the result was an eighteen year old zombie--not a pretty picture). I figure a better rested student with a couple of "bogus" absences on his record is better than a worn out, stressed one. Unfortunately, the school's policy limits excused absences to illness, death in the immediate family, or doctor's appointments (with proof). This means I have to be dishonest in order to practice this policy. Once upon a time, the only unexcused absence was one in which the parent hadn't given the kid permission to miss school. Now the school decides this and it irritates me no end.

"Yes I did. Man, you got to go to bed earlier and you've got to grab some fruit or a salad at lunch time."

I was a little blown away by Jeremiah and told him so later on. He shrugged it off, but was pleased.

I let Daniel take the day off (he actually protested this--largely because he had a hard time understanding that the teacher would let him turn the work in a day late), let him sleep in some. When he got up, I put him back to work on his assignment. He also had extra chores around the house (he was disappointed to learn that a day off from school did not mean a day off at home).

He made an A on the assignment, by the way. I didn't see the actual finished result until yesterday when he showed me the artwork on the front--a sketch of a hot air balloon--which he tells me he almost forgot about. It took him seven hurried minutes in art class. I wish I could draw like that when I wasn't in a hurry.

I've been corresponding with his history teacher to find out why he only has a B in that class. It seems he's not been turning in daily writing assignments. When I sounded Daniel out on it, I learned that he doesn't turn in the ones he considers unfinished, even though the teacher only picks these papers up once a week.

You do know you can finish them at home, right?

Daniel looked surprised. "But he only gives us five minutes at the beginning of class to write them."

But he doesn't pick them up every day, which means you could finish them on your own time.

"But . . ."

It's okay, Daniel. It's not cheating.

He looked uncertain, but acknowledged me with a nod.

I've often been grateful that I only had one Jeremiah, who--along with being gifted musically, extremely intelligent, and quite driven (and mouthy)--is the one who always spotted loopholes and exploited them (But Mom, you didn't say . . .). However, I confess, sometimes I wish a little of it would rub off on Daniel.

.

Lauren O'Connell

2009-10-04T09:27:00.010-05:00

I discovered Lauren O'Connell's music a few months ago when she collaborated on a song with Julia Nunes. One of the things that attracts me to Lauren's music is her amazing ability to string together lyrics and music. Her lyrics are always unfailingly unique and thoughtful, sometimes whimsical, occasionally haunting, and frequently ( and somehow) both. The other thing I appreciate about this young lady is her experimental approach to sound. In her cover of the Wilco song, I am trying to Break Your Heart, she effectively uses both a garage door and a set of drawers as percussion instruments. I never knew repeated flying karate kicks into stationary objects could be anything but annoying (but I live with four boys, which probably explains a lot more than just my musical tastes).

She's also likable for a completely different reason than Julia. Julia is comfortable in front of a camera and you often get the feeling that she feels like she's talking to several thousand friends when she speaks or sings. Lauren is clearly not and it is part of her charm. I completely relate and I think a lot of people do. She is on camera because she wants to share her music (reminds me a little of Emmylou Harris in that regard), and maybe make a few dollars to support herself through college. I don't pretend to have a bead on her personal life, but I get the impression she could use the help and at a dollar a song (on her My Space Page), I don't think she's being too greedy.

If the music moves too fast for you to catch all of her remarkable words, I posted the lyrics below the video. The opening strikes me as a little strange; I think it's my exposure to blue grass and the minor key she's got the banjo tuned to. However it picks up quickly and, if you're like me, you're hooked after just a few bars.

Lyrics to

The Daylight Here
by Lauren O'Connell
To my mother, I'll be sorry that I gotta go
To my brother, I'll be sorry that I gotta go
To you I wish that I could say I wish you well
But I think I'll be waiting until
I'm honestly able.

I'm sure the air is lighter on the seas
In every city settled far away from me
Now I'm negotiating with the fear
That something's wrong with the daylight here
And I can't fix it.

Crooked or kind, if I'm free, if I'm fine
Either way, whatever I do
Whichever coast, there'll be room there for ghosts
Either way, I'll be thinking of you.

When gone I have sworn that I will worry not
Of satisfaction, justice, or the will of God
I'm not sure there's any difference in the three
Whatever the conscience decrees
I hope we both feel right.

Crooked or kind, if I'm free, if I'm fine
Either way, whatever I do
Whichever coast, there'll be room there for ghosts
Either way, I'll be thinking of you.

Vacation

2009-10-03T09:28:00.006-05:00

I have Gary home for ten whole days for vacation. We'd planned to take the two younger boys camping, but between the predicted rain, both here and in Southeast Missouri, and hours being cut at work (what a lousy time for the factory to burn through their inventory so their books balance), it looks like we'll be staying much closer to home.

Frankly, I think I'm far more disappointed than everyone else is. I really look forward to these trips with just us, away from television, computers, and ringing phones. And I love taking the boys hiking and doing the tourist thing. However, I suspect Gary might even be a little relieved. This means he doesn't have to attempt to build any camp fires (Which I'm rather good at and he's not. But, since he's the guy, I'm supposed to stand and watch appreciatively and try really hard not to make helpful suggestions while he throws one match after another into piles of logs, then gives up, blaming damp wood. His solution is not to take my-finally given because I can't just stand there--advice. Instead he soaks everything in lighter fluid and pronounces himself a great woodsman as six foot flames shoot into the sky while he jumps backwards in order to avoid being singed). Sam's eleventh birthday is Thursday so he's good with whatever happens as long he has a birthday party and Joseph is happy just have the week off from school.

So I suppose we'll just putter around here, go for hikes in our own local national forest, and cook out on the deck (lots less drama). And maybe I'll squeeze a couple of household honey-dos out of him while we're at it. I've got this plan for a greenhouse . . .

Daniel in School

2009-10-02T14:15:00.009-05:00

The Dotted Line

2009-09-26T20:49:00.007-05:00

This is the working title of my newest manuscript. To be honest with you, it was a right brained decision, so any reasons I'd give will probably change before I'm through with the book. The outline itself has taken some unexpected turns in its development and I'm more than a little excited about this project.

I've never discussed my work with family in a very specific fashion, though they are all aware that one character killed a bad guy with chopsticks (which the boys think is just great-so much so that they gave me a set of chopsticks to keep on my desk, just in case any magical sociopaths astral-project into my office). But they are all suddenly old enough to be curious about the entire story and this evening they began asking questions. After some hesitation on my part, largely because the subject matter is somewhat mature--dealing very directly with family, infidelity, and murder, I gave them a verbal synopsis. A universal "oh cool" erupted from the crowd. The next thing I knew, ideas were flying back and forth--many of them remarkably useful. While I firmly believe that group-think is bad for books (which is why I didn't go back to the writer's group), and that writing is best alone, at dawn, when no one is looking, I guess I know where to go if I get hung up.

I don't usually do this at this stage, but I'm going to post the first page (if it disappears later and you missed it and are curious, email me and I'll send it to you).

Nine am to Nine-ten: Make the coffee.
Nine-ten to Nine-twenty-five: shower and dress.
Nine-twenty-five to Nine-forty: Stare futilely into the mirror willing time to open up and swallow your mistakes. And if not them, then you.
Nine-forty to Ten am: Give up on time travel and take your husband his coffee.
Ten am to ten-o-one: Admit to your husband that you've had an affair.
Ten-o-one to forever: Try to pick up the pieces of your marriage.

***

It began with the smallest of infractions. A cup of coffee over some paperwork that needed to be signed, a conversation that ended with an all around feel-good, god aren't we both funny, on the same wavelength, in the same boat, under the same rainspout, laughter. A couple of emails, a phone call, another phone call. Some texting. And the worst infraction of them all—admitting to the loneliness of being married to someone who did not understand her.

Nora was a grown up. She knew the playing field of marriage and relationships and where the boundary lines were. The ball flew out of bounds the moment she admitted to this man, this client, that she was not contented with her marriage. And she followed it, with every intention of throwing it back in before the umpires noticed. Before the pressure grew too great.

But that was the weird thing about it. No one seemed to notice or care that her lunch hour was often two, or how easily a fourth of the appointments on her calendar didn't seem to result in new clients. Perhaps after twenty years of marriage people think you're immune and they don't watch you as closely. Or maybe it's that you're forty-something and slightly over-weight with three kids and a mortgage. Maybe they assume that no one would want you.

On a side note, I've just finished tweaking Troubled_Waters for what I hope is the final time. The first chapter is fixed. At this point I'm subbing it on principle. After all the work, and all the support, it seems silly not to.

A Homeschool Family

2009-09-25T14:27:00.003-05:00

A friend posted this on Facebook today while the boys and I were waiting for our homemade bread (aka our science experiment) to rise for the first time. The boys got a good chuckle out of it.

found on my desk this morning

2009-09-24T18:57:00.002-05:00

Dear Mom,

I screwed up, I'm sorry

signed--
The-one-who-screwed-up

aka my oldest son

Letter to my oldest son

2009-09-21T09:01:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about how you relate to us and it's occurred to me that you don't really understand how this family thing works. That's okay. I don't think most nineteen year olds do, especially nineteen year olds who--at the last minute--opted to live at home and attend college for their first year instead of moving out in order to save money. The thing is, I think you have to live among people who don't love you before you truly appreciate the people who do. So in that regard, and only in that regard, I am looking forward to the day in which you face that realization. Sadly, we rarely make this leap until the moment we are left with only family to turn to.

I know your friends care about you; I remember that point in my life when I thought my friends were more important, but I'm here to tell you, it's not the same. You see, you can insult us, take us for granted, treat us like a hotel, behave insensitively, never apologize to us when you're wrong, be anything but graceful about helping around the house, and we'll open the door when you pull in the driveway, offer you food, talk with you, put aside what we're doing and listen to your day, but more than that, we'll love you--always, no matter what. Do you sense a trend here? This never goes away. We love you even when you are being unlovable. Go find a friend who will tolerate that.

Don't worry. We'll be here when you give up. As always.

Aww man . . .

2009-09-14T20:01:00.004-05:00

Patrick Swayze dies

In 1987, in the wake of a failed romance, I wanted nothing to do with watching a romantic movie, much less one with dancing in it. But a group of dear friends dragged me out of my apartment and paid my way into Dirty Dancing. The first few minutes of it confirmed my worst suspicions. The movie was going to be stupid.

Then I saw that face. I am not the sort to go all weak in the knees over a good looking guy, but . . . well . . . that face was different. I was hooked. I took myself back to see Dirty Dancing in the theater, by myself, at least ten times. This is the only time I have ever done this.

Shortly after this, Gary began to come around. A few months later he disclosed his feelings. I informed him that the only competition he had was Patrick Swayze.

Fast forward to July of 1990. Gary and I were still figuring out what marriage was all about while coping with a colicky newborn who typically cried from three in the afternoon until well after midnight. Gary was working two jobs and I was home alone with the baby in a small apartment all day. He typically came in the door late at night, just exhausted. I'd been holding a screaming baby for hours so you can imagine how I was feeling. On top of this, unlike the blissful articles I'd read in baby magazines claiming that newborns slept for most of the day--my son didn't. Ever. All night meant to him was that it was hard to see. On a good one he slept for an hour.

I was grumpy and tired. Gary was grumpy and exhausted. We were broke and arguing a lot. Both of us were wondering whether this marriage thing was a good idea or not.

Gary had a rare night off from work. Someone from church (who must have been very observant because we certainly weren't telling anyone what we were thinking), offered to keep Jeremiah so we could go out. I was reluctant to leave him, but the lady gently encouraged me to spend sometime with my husband.

We went to see Ghost and came out arm in arm and suddenly very aware of the brevity of life. In some respects, I think it moved Gary more deeply than it did me. That night he wrapped his arms around me and held me without complaining when I had to disturb him to get up with the baby. Living without one another was not an option.

Gary said he thought Patrick Swayze was a fine competitor.

We saw City of Joy in 1992. It was based loosely on the true story of a priest named Gaston Grandjean who lived among the poor in Calcutta. The phrase, "All that is not given is lost" made a real impact on me. As my husband put it tonight, if he'd made no other movies, that one would have enough.

Patrick we thank you for leaving us such a legacy, for being a class act, for making us smile and cry a little. I wish you the best in your journey home.

The following video is a clip from "One Last Dance". This is Patrick dancing with his wife, Lisa. I saw this some months ago and was struck by both the beauty and the bond they clearly share.

You didn't read this here

2009-09-12T16:19:00.012-05:00

It is considered a professional "no-no" to slam other authors' books so I generally avoid making specific references to those I don't like. And since my feelings about books usually revolve around the writing or clumsy plotting this is easy to do.

This time I'm going to make an exception.

My dear husband very often brings me paperback books to read. Most of the time I like what he finds. Once in a while he lands a real groaner or a book that would appeal more to him than me. That's okay. The fact that he thinks of me when he's shopping is a really big deal.

We have loose (really loose) filing system. There are "books Mary likes enough that she wants to share them with everyone old enough to appreciate them" (it's hell getting that onto a filing label), then "appropriate for mature audiences only", and "books destined for the thrift store" because they're badly written or aren't likely to be reread and I don't think anyone will benefit from my keeping them. Finally there's the rarely used "burn after reading" file. A book has to be pretty awful to earn this title. Pornographic, overwhelmingly bloody, so badly written that it makes me angrily question why I can't get anybody to read my stuff--you know, so awful you don't want anyone to know that you spent your money on it.

Laying in front of me is a book entitled "Secret of the Seventh Son". You can do a search for it if you want to; I'm not even going to link to the description and I'm not going to mention the author's name. The premise is this:

A murderer is on the loose on the streets of New York City: nicknamed the Doomsday Killer, he’s claimed six victims in just two weeks, and the city is terrified. Even worse, the police are mystified – the victims have nothing in common, and all that connects them is that each received a postcard in the mail before they died – a postcard that announced their date of death.

In desperation, the FBI assigns the case to special agent Will Piper, once the most accomplished serial killing expert in the bureau, now on a dissolute spiral to retirement.

Battling his own demons, Will is drawn back into a world he both loves and hates, determined to catch the killer whatever it takes and close out his career. But his search takes him in a direction he never would have predicted, uncovering a shocking secret that has been closely guarded for centuries.

A secret that once lay buried in an underground library beneath an eighth-century monastery, but which has now been unearthed – with deadly consequences. A select few will defend the secret with their lives – and as Will closes in on the truth, they are determined to stop him at any cost.

Sounds just fantastic, right? Should have been gripping, exciting, three kinds of "keep me in my seat until the wee hours, tossing back cups of coffee to stay awake" kind of suspenseful. And the first two chapters were quite good. I settled down for a good read.

Then I met the main character. A drunk. A sexist drunk to be exact, who is in disgrace because he slept with another cop who got mad at him because he wouldn't help her get a raise and so she charged him with sexual harassment. Initially this sparked some sympathy. Poor misunderstood guy who is clearly a "man's man", the kind so frequently victimized by modern society.

But Will lost my sympathy when we met his new partner--her name is Nancy--and his first thought was that she was overweight. He didn't linger on her extensive qualifications; he concentrated on her appearance, describing her as "bulging unattractively" in her clothes, that she needed to lose weight everywhere, that surely there were some cheek bones under there somewhere. Never mind the fact that she had ten times the education he did, that she had worked extraordinarily hard to get where she was. That wasn't relevant.

Now don't misunderstand me. I get it that different men are attracted to different things--some like 'em svelt. Some like 'em with curves, some like blondes, brunettes, tall, short, etc. This wasn't the deal breaker.

I also got it that Will was a little out of step with the times, that he was supposed to be a sexist pig. This was clearly supposed to be part of the plot. Maybe he's going to grow up, I thought. Maybe he'll begin to see her in a different light as they go along. Maybe he'll sober up and maybe she'll lose weight (or not) and maybe they'll work out some pleasant romantic something. Or maybe they'll just be good partners and good friends and he'll come out of it more enlightened.

Fast forward past some decent, but not sparkling, writing and some interesting plot developments. Along the way Nancy does lose weight. And she develops a thing for him. And she tries hard to be the partner he wants as he continues to be a complete and total ass.

We arrive at the night of a dinner party (which, by the way, follows a hotel room tryst with a flight attendant---which was supposed to be okay because Will had helped save her life while in the air, even though he was drunk). The guests--one of them his brilliant daughter who he managed to insult more than once--have gone home. Will is drunk (what a surprise). Nancy, who is by some miracle even more smitten by him at the end the evening than she was at the beginning, sticks around to do the dishes and because the evening was too good (??) to end abruptly.

The hero takes another look at her. He notices how she's lost weight, how she has an "hour glass figure" now, and thinks about how far she's come under his tutelage. How she's matured and changed. And now he wants her. He wants her bad.

And because every beautiful, intelligent woman wants a drunken sot for a bed mate, what does our Nancy do? She sleeps with him of course. After which he realizes he loves her . . .

Have you figured out yet that the author is a male?

Can you guess which file this book is going into?

Anybody got a match?

A New Illiteracy

2009-09-05T00:53:00.009-05:00

Everyone should have someone in their lives who challenges them to think about what they hear. In my case this was my Uncle Paul, a large, swarthy man who smelled like cigars and loved a good story--especially if it contained a punchline. He was a hopeless practical joker and his sense of humor knew no bounds, even including small children as his list of targets.

My father tells me that at the age of two or so I was demonstrating my new found knowledge that dogs barked and cats meowed and was quite pleased with myself until my uncle informed me that the sounds were the other way around.

"Dogs go meow, Mary," he said. "And kitties go woof-woof."

I giggled at him. Uncle Paul was funny. Any minute now he was going to hug me and tell me I was right.

But he continued to insist that I had it backwards and I continued to repeat the facts as I knew them to be.

"That's what my dog says," he said finally.

According to all accounts, I narrowed my eyes, studied him for a second, and asked him to go get his dog.

He looked sad. "You don't believe me?"

"No. I teach him how to go woof-woof."

When I was four, Uncle Paul waited until just before Christmas and told me a horrible story about how he'd shot Santa Claus and barbecued Rudolph. My cousins confirmed it and my father chimed in, telling me how good reindeer tasted. I am apparently either an optimist at heart or a hard headed skeptic, because I laughed and assured them that I knew there would be presents under my tree, but if they kept on lying they were going to get coal in their stockings.

Looking back on my family's idea of a good time--i.e. messing with preschooler's heads--I am amazed I am not more warped than I am.

I'm pretty sure my dear uncle was simply having fun with me the way he did with everyone he loved (my mother says he sometimes planned jokes for months in advance). But I think this teasing actually functioned on more than one level--triggering my B-S detector early on. I rarely believe anything I'm told unless I can prove to my own satisfaction that it's true.

As I've perused online news articles over the last few months and listened to the various debates concerning everything from health care to immigration to the president's speech on the value of an education I've become aware of a disconcerting fact.

More people in this world need an Uncle Paul.

Our country has a huge literacy problem. I'm not just talking about high schoolers graduating with fourth grade spelling skills. And I'm not talking about people who are too lazy to reach for the shift key. Nor am I talking about people who really can't read for whatever reason.

I'm talking about people who can, but don't read or listen critically. Who have not been taught (or never bothered to try) to think about the information they've just been handed. People who scan headlines and assume they know the whole story. Those who read the first few lines of the article and skip to the comments because they're less complicated and more fun. Once there, they become the victims of someone else's poor reading comprehension and come away mouthing the same half-truths and lies. They read scandal sheets without seeming to recognize the fact that they are reading dubious sources of information. I am refraining from naming names to avoid angering anyone, but scandal sheets sometimes masquerade as Christian news sources who are guilty of sensationalizing half-truths in order to boost subscription rates and their own agendas. Too, people often read blogs without taking into account that the blogger might themselves be misinformed or just passing long what they "heard". Then these people take all their misinformation, half-baked theories, and outright lies and spread them like fertilizer across equally uninformed fertile fields.

Whether we know it or not, we are influential. It does not matter whether you're a guy working behind the machine at the factory, or a minister who stands behind the pulpit on Sunday morning, or a teacher in the classroom, what you say, what you think, and what you know matters. Someone somewhere will trust you to be speaking the truth, so it pays to get your story straight.

I've seen it everywhere on the internet and I'm hearing it coming out of people's mouths. Easily disproved facts that only require that the person who is mouthing it stop for just a second and ask, "Does this make sense?" "Is this rational?" "Is this too ridiculous to be real?" And "How can I check it out for myself?"

Choosing not to challenge the information we are given by those supposedly in the know makes us easy targets for lies and misdirection and consequently makes us better sheep (not the good kind of sheep that Jesus was talking about, but the stupid kind who can be led by anyone who says they know the way). If a secret government was really planning a take over (and, no, I don't that's in the works, but being a fan of X-files, I'm always on the lookout, because you never know . . . ) easily led people would make terrific citizens.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is not a one of those conspiracy theories I love to joke about. In truth scares me more than the deficit. Our nation is in trouble. I have met the enemy and it is our own ignorance.

Attack Bees?

2009-09-03T15:45:00.002-05:00

And all this time I thought people kept them for the honey . . .

Bee Swarm thwarts Theft

I'm really starting to think I could get into this bee keeping thing.

Jeff Allen

2009-08-30T23:20:00.004-05:00

Funny is funny. Clean humor, if it’s good, works anywhere.--Jerry Seinfeld

We watched a video called "The Apostles of Comedy" today and became acquainted with three extremely funny men. In my opinion, these men are living proof that you don't need F-bombs or rated R-material to appeal to a broad audience and get lots of laughs.

Our favorite was a man named Jeff Allen, not to be confused with Tim Allen, though there were some surprising similarities (They do not appear to be related, but lots of people wonder). As you listen to him, you can't help but notice that there is a certain depth to his humor that can only be acquired through life experience. It's not hard to tell this guy loves his kids and his wife, but, more than that, even if he didn't volunteer that he'd been to the brink of hell, seen the brimstone smoldering, and turned away, you'd smell it on his clothes and see it in his eyes. He's funny because of what he knows.

Below is just an excerpt of one of his acts. He does the same act both in Las Vegas and in front of churches. I like that. Many people can relate to the issues he jokes about--teenagers, marriage, weight loss, getting older. But what impressed me about him, more than even his material, was the sense that this man had lived through some difficult times. He hinted that he'd once filed bankruptcy, that he'd only just barely managed to stay marriage. The interviews between performances gave out a little more information, but did not really give the full picture. I was intrigued enough by him to search out more of his material as well as his life story. I wound up very glad I did.

The video below the excerpt is him telling the rest of the story. It is twenty minutes long and will take your breath away if you have the time to give it. Regardless of what you believe, the story is moving.

So this is a midlife crisis?

2009-08-28T22:37:00.007-05:00

In mid June I decided to stop lying to myself. I was getting nothing done and pretending that I was. Rather than continue this fiasco, I simply stopped doing anything but blogging and even that was spotty. I wanted to play outside, work in the garden, read, and contemplate my next move. So I did. I had a good garden and feel physically better than I've felt in some time.

In truth, as I faced turning forty-four, I found myself quite suddenly standing beside the mile marker of middle age and not liking the view at all. I suppose for the first time it occurred to me that getting older was not an option, that I could not turn the car around and go back the way I'd come, that there would be no redos. A vague, nagging sort of grief followed closely behind this realization.

I know I'm not supposed to feel this way. I know this because people who are older than I am have rolled their eyes and assured me that I don't know how lucky I am (Oh yes I do) and if I was busier I wouldn't have time to feel this way. That if I was living the kind of life I should, I'd be feeling fulfilled and satisfied right now. Shame on me, I guess.

I kept the sad secret to myself until Gary and I went camping and, after a second glass of wine one night, confessed my discovery. Gary can be trusted with deep secrets and fears, no matter how minor, or how disturbing. This is one of the many reasons I love him. He is four years older than I am and knows the terrain. It felt good to have another time traveler say, "How you're feeling is normal. No it is not easy. Yes, it does pass." We talked until the early morning hours and I felt better at the end of it. No real answers, exactly. I just found a certain degree of peace.

I am anything but unhappy with my life. I'm very much where I want to be, doing what I want to be doing and I'm aware that this is a rare admission. The only ongoing dissatisfactions I have are things I must change within myself and the so far unmet hope that some day some agent will think something I've written has value. With those being my only complaints, I suppose I have no real problems. However acknowledging this does not change how I feel (believe me, I've applied "counting your blessings" as a treatment for this and the good feelings only last until the next time it occurs to me that I'm forty-four). This is a powerful awareness of the passage of time, of getting older, of the relative brevity of all of this, my own mortality, and trying to figure out how to get comfortable with what has been a very fluid, abstract fact that only happens to other people. Until it happened to me.

Like many creative sorts I am at my best when I'm suffering from some kind of angst. I came home from our camping trip with a story idea, the first of its kind in better than six months. It was inspired by a combination of experiences--a coincidence, a note from a friend, observations of a strange man camping alone at a nearby site, and my own serious preoccupation with mortality. It is a sci-fi/thriller, far darker than I've tackled up until now, and far more serious. No title yet. Like Troubled_Waters and its sequel, the story was born complete, with a beginning, middle, and an end. I've typed out a rough outline and will probably start it in November.

Meanwhile I suppose, for lack of a better idea, the kids aren't the only ones who are hitting the books this month. I've committed to sending out another round of letters to whoever I haven't queried at this point (I'm pretty sure there are one or two left). This is largely an exercise of principle at this point, an unwillingness to "not try", on my part. TW is an entertaining series with the sequel stronger than the original, but maybe not as strong as the next story will be. I don't feel like I can just abandon the project after the amount of work I've put into it.

God's Original Masterpiece

2009-08-26T15:58:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine posted this on Facebook (without the Arabic subtitles). It really lifted me up and gave me much to think about.

We're back to school as of today. This is a little early for us, but Gary's taking a week of vacation in early October so we can take the boys camping before it gets too cold. We want to take them to a place called Johnson's Shut-ins in the northeast part of the state.

Speaking of camping, Gary and I spent a lovely weekend on the Buffalo River in Arkansas celebrating our 20th anniversary. Just the two of us, the river, a tent, a bottle of wine, some steaks, and a couple of starry nights.