Three Bad Things
So many things to fix, so little knowledge base.
It was brought to my attention recently, that I had neither running lights, nor brake lights. I’d noticed the console lights not coming on, but was blissfully unaware I was driving around at night without being seen from behind. Great.
Car is now at dealership. I should hear by five PM that it will cost as much as Imelda Marcos’ winter shoe wardrobe to replace (they don’t ‘fix’ anymore) some mythical sensor that will only be available during monsoon season if purchased by a lactating sheep farmer, who must also be a veteran in order to qualify to receive one of the three remaining sensors in existence.
Laptop is having issues seeing files, can’t remember that it had shortcuts to printers and is otherwise as useful as, well, the car, for lack of better example; just as useful as an abacus for Posomotor. This began (I believe) when the electricity failed two days in a row. Progress Energy apparently thought I could use the practice of resetting every digital clock in a three-mile radius. Some of those items require a degree in some field, like, say, chemical analyst, that I do not possess. Suffice it to say that he who is near and dear to me mostly wears a bemused expression when I try to insert a DVD in the HDTV with 16 remote controls, each of which may as well be a tuba, for all the good they do me.
I need a web page, or so I’ve been told. I have not obtained clue number one about what content would be worthy of taking up bandwidth, but presumably my fans will want to read previously published stuff and I should provide links for just such a purpose. Again, this is quite a challenge for me, who cannot seem to keep two computers chatting each other up, nor finding a solution to my poor Colin’s itching, never mind finding new and improved ways to procrastinate.
Third bad thing….. new resident of phylus chordata, class mamalia, Mus musculus has set up mousekeeping, under the stove. Apparently, it (I’ve not determined gender) views the dry dog food bin as a mega-mart, a Wal-Mart Superstore if you will.
I’m running around from one thing to the next, not effectively fixing anything, fretting, whinging, and otherwise pissing and moaning about my lot in life.
Any suggestions will be gratefully received.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Squirrel
It was a good day to practice some ecology, to hang laundry out to dry in the spring sunshine, and save some fossil fuel. I pulled sheets from the washer and loaded them into a plastic laundry basket, then made my way to the clothesline in my back yard. Zephyr breezes brought hints of Confederate Jasmine and fabric softener to me as I hung the freshly washed linens. I remembered, so long ago, a similar clothesline draped in diapers, and the baby in the basket at my feet.
Staccato screams, high and wide, emanating from the canopy of the Laurel oak broke my reverie. I raced to the tree, and craned my neck. There, up in the highest branches, a battle between the frantic mother and the would-be killer raged the nest, swaying it nearly vertical. My hands flew to my mouth, to my breast in a cliché’ of helplessness. I couldn’t breathe, could only watch, horrified. My throat constricted and it felt as if my bowels had turned to ice water. A broken corpse, nurtured and tortured, murdered, tiny flopping fractured bleeding baby squirrel tumbled down from the canopy to the leaf littered ground at my feet, followed by three siblings, vulnerable to the very real threat of stray cats, dogs, and young girls with the best of motives, the least ability to carry out any plan.
The overhead war ceased, as quickly as it had begun. The attacker retreated, high-wiring to the adjacent trees, his mission of decimating the litter aborted by the ferocity of a dedicated mother.
I gingerly picked up the surviving blood-spattered babies. Their eyes were barely open, and they were nearly hairless. One made a plaintive cry when I placed them in my plastic laundry basket. I set the basket down where the mother could see it; where I could watch them, protect them, if necessary. I waited.
My neighbor came out her back door to leave for work at the Free Clinic. She walked up beside me. “She’ll abandon them. I’ve seen it a million times. It’s nature’s birth control.”
I cringed, reminded of my own abandonment by my mother; my struggle to rectify any damage I might have caused by not giving my daughter up for adoption to someone in a better position to raise her. Would she have had a better life? Would I be doing it for her, or so no one would have evidence of my sin. It was an internal debate that had raged on in me for nearly thirty- three years.
That this neighbor woman could be so cavalier enraged me. It brought me back to that gymnasium in tenth grade, four months pregnant, the cool girls who lived on the Pink Streets clique drilling me for information. Was I pregnant? Did I know who the father was? When I’d declined to satisfy their curiosity, they’d bounced a basketball on my softly pouching belly until I’d, in a rage, flown at them to protect my unborn baby.
“Slut.” They’d said when the gym teacher blessedly, finally, came to my defense.
I snapped back to the present. My lip curled in an involuntary sneer. It’s so easy, I thought, for you, with your perfect upbringing, your idyllic childhood. You have no idea. You probably knew who your father was.
“So, you find a job yet?”
“I’m writing.”
“Oh. I thought that was just a hobby.” She smirked. I wanted to slap that smirk around to the back of her head. I could visualize her wearing one of those stupid gym-suits they made us wear, dribbling a basketball, cracking her gum, smirking at her girlfriends circled around me, calling me tramp, and slut and whore.
“Look, here she comes.” I said, and pointed to the Mother squirrel as she abseiled to the ground to her surviving family. She grabbed the closest by the nape of its neck and dragged it out through the holes in the side of the basket.
“This is why I don’t watch the Nature Channel,” I said. “I know animals kill each other, that it’s a necessary part of survival. Nonetheless, I can never get inured to the cruelties and inequities of life.”
With arms akimbo, a self-satisfied smile crossed her face. “You should get used to it. For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”
The mother squirrel returned to the basket, and dragged another of the babies to the new drey. I waited, held my silence until Mama retrieved the last one, before picking up the basket. “Yeah, well, apparently, she doesn’t think this is her babies’ time to die.” I pivoted, and left her with her platitudes to call my daughter, to wish her a happy birthday, even though it was three months away.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
The Bereavement Group
“I didn’t say ‘I love you’, anymore. I hung on to it, like an old miser,” She said. “He said actions speak louder than words.” She shook her ash blonde curls, like a dog coming out of a lake. “He was right about that.”
I just listened, staring at her long slender fingers. She twirled her wrist, causing a silver charm bracelet to spin, glimmer, and tinkle like a hundred tiny bells.
“That was your mother’s bracelet, right?”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” She fingered a tiny bicycle. “It snags on everything.”
I glanced at the man seated at the table next to us. It was so close, he might as well join us.
“Most of the charms didn’t have any bearing on the person she was.” She laughed. “We bought her charms for birthdays, Christmas. They were anything we could afford. Look, like this one. My mother didn’t even know which was the business end of a golf club.”
“Why do you wear it, then?”
“To remind me to mourn her. It’s hard to remember. She died so soon after Gary.”
I glanced over, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know what you mean. Actions do speak louder than words. Kevin’s Internet actions certainly did.”
Stephanie stopped, put her braceletted, manicured hand upon mine. The contrast of her soft hand against my clay roughened one was sharp. My cuticles were ragged, with remnants of pottery clay buried deep beneath the surface.
“Gary used to say, about saying ‘I love you’, ‘too often said, it loses impact. Not said enough, it causes pain. Said to the wrong person, it's meaningless. Said to the right person at the wrong time, it damages.’”
She sipped her chai tea. I felt compelled to fill the silence between us, to sidetrack her before it was too late, before we were both blubbering in public, again. Our grief fed off the grief of the other.
“Come on, we’ll be late for the bereavement support group.”
She stared at a spot over my head. “And death wipes it all out to a zero balance sheet.”
I looked around at the other bookstore coffee shop occupants. No one seemed to be paying attention to us, but the guy at the next table could be, and we’d never know. It had been some time since he’d turned the page in the book he held like a barricade, a shield concealing all but the furrows of his brow beneath a shock of black, onyx black hair.
“Let’s not go.”
“You say that every week. Every week you admit it helps, but only after.”
“It’s just.” Her voice trailed off.
“What, Stephanie, it’s just what?”
“It’s just, it’s like one-upsmanship on misery. They all act like, since theirs were all police or firemen, heroes, that somehow their pain has more value.”
“I know. Like because they were heroes, somehow their loss...like, none of them were ever unfaithful or had gambling debts, or liked porn. The divorce rate among police is astronomical. If you could look into the future, I wonder how many of them would have been divorced, had it not been for nine-eleven?” I looked into my empty cup. When had I started drinking chai tea? Oh, when Kevin died. One more way to not be reminded, to stop drinking Mocha Java. “I suppose they don’t consider a gunshot from a husband of a client to be the same as ‘in the line of duty.’”
“Let’s not go. I can’t stand looking at those tall girls who worship Buddha another night.”
“What do you want to do, instead?”
“Let’s pack. Go south. Get on I-95, head down the New Jersey Turnpike and find some sun.”
The man at the next table looked up, grey eyes, eyes like Galapagos Tortoises, “They’ve all gone to look for America?”
“I didn’t say ‘I love you’, anymore. I hung on to it, like an old miser,” She said. “He said actions speak louder than words.” She shook her ash blonde curls, like a dog coming out of a lake. “He was right about that.”
I just listened, staring at her long slender fingers. She twirled her wrist, causing a silver charm bracelet to spin, glimmer, and tinkle like a hundred tiny bells.
“That was your mother’s bracelet, right?”
“Annoying, isn’t it?” She fingered a tiny bicycle. “It snags on everything.”
I glanced at the man seated at the table next to us. It was so close, he might as well join us.
“Most of the charms didn’t have any bearing on the person she was.” She laughed. “We bought her charms for birthdays, Christmas. They were anything we could afford. Look, like this one. My mother didn’t even know which was the business end of a golf club.”
“Why do you wear it, then?”
“To remind me to mourn her. It’s hard to remember. She died so soon after Gary.”
I glanced over, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know what you mean. Actions do speak louder than words. Kevin’s Internet actions certainly did.”
Stephanie stopped, put her braceletted, manicured hand upon mine. The contrast of her soft hand against my clay roughened one was sharp. My cuticles were ragged, with remnants of pottery clay buried deep beneath the surface.
“Gary used to say, about saying ‘I love you’, ‘too often said, it loses impact. Not said enough, it causes pain. Said to the wrong person, it's meaningless. Said to the right person at the wrong time, it damages.’”
She sipped her chai tea. I felt compelled to fill the silence between us, to sidetrack her before it was too late, before we were both blubbering in public, again. Our grief fed off the grief of the other.
“Come on, we’ll be late for the bereavement support group.”
She stared at a spot over my head. “And death wipes it all out to a zero balance sheet.”
I looked around at the other bookstore coffee shop occupants. No one seemed to be paying attention to us, but the guy at the next table could be, and we’d never know. It had been some time since he’d turned the page in the book he held like a barricade, a shield concealing all but the furrows of his brow beneath a shock of black, onyx black hair.
“Let’s not go.”
“You say that every week. Every week you admit it helps, but only after.”
“It’s just.” Her voice trailed off.
“What, Stephanie, it’s just what?”
“It’s just, it’s like one-upsmanship on misery. They all act like, since theirs were all police or firemen, heroes, that somehow their pain has more value.”
“I know. Like because they were heroes, somehow their loss...like, none of them were ever unfaithful or had gambling debts, or liked porn. The divorce rate among police is astronomical. If you could look into the future, I wonder how many of them would have been divorced, had it not been for nine-eleven?” I looked into my empty cup. When had I started drinking chai tea? Oh, when Kevin died. One more way to not be reminded, to stop drinking Mocha Java. “I suppose they don’t consider a gunshot from a husband of a client to be the same as ‘in the line of duty.’”
“Let’s not go. I can’t stand looking at those tall girls who worship Buddha another night.”
“What do you want to do, instead?”
“Let’s pack. Go south. Get on I-95, head down the New Jersey Turnpike and find some sun.”
The man at the next table looked up, grey eyes, eyes like Galapagos Tortoises, “They’ve all gone to look for America?”
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I won the Short Story Reader’s Choice ALL TIME contest category with That Dress.
I won the Spring is in the Air, and then the Bow Wow contest. I later sold that story to a print magazine. Then the Summer Love contest was announced. The asshat who claimed he had won both contests (even though he didn't enter) I won was determined his online girlfriend should win.
There were 37 reviews of That Dress. Of that number, 36 were individuals. One person reviewed it twice.
There were 41 reviews of the other entry. Of that number, 32 were individuals, 7 (top reviewers) "reviewed" it twice, and Asshat "reviewed" it three times.
If the weight were even, the playing field level, and the players fair, I would have won. They've repeatedly accused me of ratcheting up my stories by reposting them so the same group of MY friends can rereview them. I view this as projection.
I won the Spring is in the Air, and then the Bow Wow contest. I later sold that story to a print magazine. Then the Summer Love contest was announced. The asshat who claimed he had won both contests (even though he didn't enter) I won was determined his online girlfriend should win.
There were 37 reviews of That Dress. Of that number, 36 were individuals. One person reviewed it twice.
There were 41 reviews of the other entry. Of that number, 32 were individuals, 7 (top reviewers) "reviewed" it twice, and Asshat "reviewed" it three times.
If the weight were even, the playing field level, and the players fair, I would have won. They've repeatedly accused me of ratcheting up my stories by reposting them so the same group of MY friends can rereview them. I view this as projection.
Bread and Circuses
In a perfect world, an entry-level exam would be given to each member who wanted to join the writing community, if that community were to not decay to the point of the lowest common denominator.
That is what has transpired in the site where I currently post my work. Rank amateurs banded together into rogue lynch mobs intent upon dragging down all that they envy.
The puppetmaster continues to toss out bread and circuses, while he attends to the important work of the counting house.
The puppets dance around the stage, in a freefall, unchoreographed, disjointed, group mental masturbation.
In a perfect world, an entry-level exam would be given to each member who wanted to join the writing community, if that community were to not decay to the point of the lowest common denominator.
That is what has transpired in the site where I currently post my work. Rank amateurs banded together into rogue lynch mobs intent upon dragging down all that they envy.
The puppetmaster continues to toss out bread and circuses, while he attends to the important work of the counting house.
The puppets dance around the stage, in a freefall, unchoreographed, disjointed, group mental masturbation.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bound and Gagged
Recently one of the Sycophants, in response to a statement I made about not being ashamed to be viewed in a competitive light, launched into a tirade about how he had 'really' been the winner of the last two contests in which I had been named the official winner. By his own admission, he had not entered the contests, nor abided by the rules.
I suppose he had that little faith in his own work that he wanted an insurance policy. If he ranked higher, because he got the popular vote, then he could claim (albiet falsely) victory. If he didn't get the popular vote, he could claim it didn't matter anyway, he was just doing it for 'fun'.
I was extremely hurt and pissed off about his allegations. His statements fell short of slander by the width of an eyelash. He alluded to me cheating, due to not abiding by rules of his making, unofficial rules that only he knows.
I learned my lesson about some of the people who witnessed this bully's performance. They don't mind him abusing others. In fact, they enjoyed it. I could tell when some of them popped in with some side remark just so I would be aware they were there.
So my lesson is that there is a real and present danger to my spirit if I should think for a minute that my payment entitles me to participate just like anyone else.
Recently one of the Sycophants, in response to a statement I made about not being ashamed to be viewed in a competitive light, launched into a tirade about how he had 'really' been the winner of the last two contests in which I had been named the official winner. By his own admission, he had not entered the contests, nor abided by the rules.
I suppose he had that little faith in his own work that he wanted an insurance policy. If he ranked higher, because he got the popular vote, then he could claim (albiet falsely) victory. If he didn't get the popular vote, he could claim it didn't matter anyway, he was just doing it for 'fun'.
I was extremely hurt and pissed off about his allegations. His statements fell short of slander by the width of an eyelash. He alluded to me cheating, due to not abiding by rules of his making, unofficial rules that only he knows.
I learned my lesson about some of the people who witnessed this bully's performance. They don't mind him abusing others. In fact, they enjoyed it. I could tell when some of them popped in with some side remark just so I would be aware they were there.
So my lesson is that there is a real and present danger to my spirit if I should think for a minute that my payment entitles me to participate just like anyone else.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
My Newest Asshat
Quote - Gee, Soontobepublished writer, did someone write a caricature about you? ENDQUOTE
No, arsehat. They did a pathetic change of names to protect the self indulgent and then had the temerity to call it a short story.
By the way, anyone ever tell you ARSEHAT, that you come off sounding like a pompous, self aggrandizing bitch? I thought so. That is why I have emailed you, you art sucker, and requested that you never review my work.
Quote - Gee, Soontobepublished writer, did someone write a caricature about you? ENDQUOTE
No, arsehat. They did a pathetic change of names to protect the self indulgent and then had the temerity to call it a short story.
By the way, anyone ever tell you ARSEHAT, that you come off sounding like a pompous, self aggrandizing bitch? I thought so. That is why I have emailed you, you art sucker, and requested that you never review my work.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Leaving the EFF OFF but that he would.
A recent newcomer to the scene is one David H. Fears (as in go Eff yourself) Ears (or fears as is depicted in his POD melodrama Dark Blonde.) I prefer to leave the EFF OFF in hopes that he does too.
A most self-aggrandizing, sexist, gaping flaming rectum as I have had the displeasure of encountering since that unfortunate encounter with the IRS in 1986. One might only hope that the 'So You Think You Can Write' website to which I belong will be another in a long list of his endless litanies of Writesites that did not meet his standards.
In the meantime, 'Professor', and I use the term loosely, I am reminded of an old quote. If one person tells you that you are a horse....no big thing...shrug it off if you have a pretty good feeling that you're not a horse.
If two people tell you that you are a horse, then maybe you'd better check.
If three people tell you that you are a horse then you'd better go buy a saddle!
David H. Ears.... stop in at the saddlemakers.
A recent newcomer to the scene is one David H. Fears (as in go Eff yourself) Ears (or fears as is depicted in his POD melodrama Dark Blonde.) I prefer to leave the EFF OFF in hopes that he does too.
A most self-aggrandizing, sexist, gaping flaming rectum as I have had the displeasure of encountering since that unfortunate encounter with the IRS in 1986. One might only hope that the 'So You Think You Can Write' website to which I belong will be another in a long list of his endless litanies of Writesites that did not meet his standards.
In the meantime, 'Professor', and I use the term loosely, I am reminded of an old quote. If one person tells you that you are a horse....no big thing...shrug it off if you have a pretty good feeling that you're not a horse.
If two people tell you that you are a horse, then maybe you'd better check.
If three people tell you that you are a horse then you'd better go buy a saddle!
David H. Ears.... stop in at the saddlemakers.
Sucking Art Dry
This blog is dedicated to a woman called Marie, who has turned the fine art of encouragement into an exercise in defeating creativity.
After reading one of her ‘reviews’ of a really good short story, I am strongly motivated to write a science fiction short story of my own about a woman who enters an art gallery, or museum, and systematically perambulated through the halls viewing and critiquing the art. Except as she passes each piece, she inhales sharply and all the color, detail, and individuality drain out the bottom and are sucked into the black abyss of her lifeless, thin lips.
Left behind are frames with paint-by-numbers America's Most Wanted images, all alike, all in a row. Stay within the lines.
This blog is dedicated to a woman called Marie, who has turned the fine art of encouragement into an exercise in defeating creativity.
After reading one of her ‘reviews’ of a really good short story, I am strongly motivated to write a science fiction short story of my own about a woman who enters an art gallery, or museum, and systematically perambulated through the halls viewing and critiquing the art. Except as she passes each piece, she inhales sharply and all the color, detail, and individuality drain out the bottom and are sucked into the black abyss of her lifeless, thin lips.
Left behind are frames with paint-by-numbers America's Most Wanted images, all alike, all in a row. Stay within the lines.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Have a GRATE Summer! See You NEXT YEAR! 8th GRADE!
So today's saga chronicles a portion of a chapter I wrote yesterday in my new project Tallulah and Posomotor. I got the impression what another person wrote about exposing too much skin of another 'writer' might refer to my references to Sumac, an evil witch bitch who lies, betrays, and otherwise causes trouble for my protagonist and her little dog too.
It was, not all about me. Go figure.
So today's saga chronicles a portion of a chapter I wrote yesterday in my new project Tallulah and Posomotor. I got the impression what another person wrote about exposing too much skin of another 'writer' might refer to my references to Sumac, an evil witch bitch who lies, betrays, and otherwise causes trouble for my protagonist and her little dog too.
It was, not all about me. Go figure.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
SUBMISSION ACCEPTED!
Recently I wrote a story for a contest (and won) and then started looking around for possible places to submit the story to. I printed out the MS and sent it off with a hope and a prayer to Field Trial magazine. Today I received notice that my story, Honoring Other's Points has been accepted for publication in the fall issue.
Thank you Cubby, Mr. Hall, and most of all Booker, for providing inspiration for this story. Thank you Lesley C. Weston for telling me it was worthy. Thank you Moe, Lt. McCann, and Kai for believing in me.
Recently I wrote a story for a contest (and won) and then started looking around for possible places to submit the story to. I printed out the MS and sent it off with a hope and a prayer to Field Trial magazine. Today I received notice that my story, Honoring Other's Points has been accepted for publication in the fall issue.
Thank you Cubby, Mr. Hall, and most of all Booker, for providing inspiration for this story. Thank you Lesley C. Weston for telling me it was worthy. Thank you Moe, Lt. McCann, and Kai for believing in me.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Tallulah and Posomotor, The Familiar
My current project is called Tallulah and Posomotor, The Familiar. It began as a writing prompt given to me by my dear friend, Lesley C. Weston. She conjured up a list of words and challenged me to use them in a short story. I took on the challenge. Unlike The Fictioneer, I don't lie, make statements that competitions make me 'uncomfortable' and then enter them. I make no bones about it. I am competitive.
So The Familiar, as it was first dubbed, was a fun write. It has subsequently taken off, gathering itself up and launching into full flight heading toward novella.
The character Posomotor is a black standard poodle, a witch's familiar. Here is a photo of Posomotor.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Bookseller Chick
I discovered this extraordinary blog by its connection to Pub Rants, another equally splendid blog while attempting to identify the proper word count for the genre of my latest novel - as if it isn't all too complicated already what with it being a romance yet involving witches and their familiars, spells, potions, cooking and a road trip.
Stay tuned as I discover just where it fits in on the Bookseller Chick's shelf.
I discovered this extraordinary blog by its connection to Pub Rants, another equally splendid blog while attempting to identify the proper word count for the genre of my latest novel - as if it isn't all too complicated already what with it being a romance yet involving witches and their familiars, spells, potions, cooking and a road trip.
Stay tuned as I discover just where it fits in on the Bookseller Chick's shelf.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
The Fictioneer – The Saga Continues on and on and on and on and on….. ad nauseum
So the latest is that the Fictioneer has written THIRTY SIX novels. Assuming she started when she was fifteen or so, that means more than a novel a year. Pumping out that many words in that short a time span provides conclusive evidence that quantity is more important to her than quality.
She’s stated that she’s never attempted to find an agent nor get anything published. So what exactly IS the point? Beyond bragging about the staggering amount of paper wasted by this formulaic, irresponsible drivel to make others feel inadequate, what exactly is the motivation? Oh, wait, I think I answered my own question.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
HEM - Liberty Mutual Insurance Company Commercial
As usual, I have been watching the Food Channel and have been 'haunted' (pun intended) by a song played during the Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial. The song, I discovered, is called Half Acre and is on an album called Rabbit Songs by a group (new to me) called Hem. http://home.earthlink.net/~allabouthem/mean.htm
Now, I have to have that CD. Have to.
As usual, I have been watching the Food Channel and have been 'haunted' (pun intended) by a song played during the Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial. The song, I discovered, is called Half Acre and is on an album called Rabbit Songs by a group (new to me) called Hem. http://home.earthlink.net/~allabouthem/mean.htm
Now, I have to have that CD. Have to.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Summer Love Unrequited Love
I wrote a short story for a contest about Summer Love. It's a semi-true story (I am worried about calling anything a memoir after the Frey Fracas.)
It's about my mother and the boy she loved all of her life. It is a whole lot easier to love from afar, when you don't have to deal with all of their bad habits, though, isn't it.
If she had married him instead of my father, maybe my father would be the one she pined after. Was it the boy? Or was it the unrequited love she was after?
I wrote a short story for a contest about Summer Love. It's a semi-true story (I am worried about calling anything a memoir after the Frey Fracas.)
It's about my mother and the boy she loved all of her life. It is a whole lot easier to love from afar, when you don't have to deal with all of their bad habits, though, isn't it.
If she had married him instead of my father, maybe my father would be the one she pined after. Was it the boy? Or was it the unrequited love she was after?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
You’ve got another THINK coming
Recently I wrote in chapter one of Tallulah and Posomotor, the Familiar, ‘you’ve got another thing coming. One of my astute reviewers pointed out that the original phrase was, you think this or that, you’ve got another THINK coming.
I decided to check it out, since I am one of those individuals who is only too happy to learn something new.
I found this blog - John and Belle have a blog where John and Belle address the very issue at hand.
http://examinedlife.typepad.com/johnbelle/2005/03/youve_got_anoth.html
Seems to me- I’ve got another think coming.
© SelahWrites
Writer Shore
This interesting bit of blogdom showed up in the write site I utilize as the website of a new member.
I wonder what it all means.... 'Writers come here and we aggressively promote the best talent to the reading, writing, and publishing communities.'
Is Writer Shore an agent? This inquiring mind would love to know.
This interesting bit of blogdom showed up in the write site I utilize as the website of a new member.
I wonder what it all means.... 'Writers come here and we aggressively promote the best talent to the reading, writing, and publishing communities.'
Is Writer Shore an agent? This inquiring mind would love to know.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Do You Love Me??? Prove It, even though I'll Never Believe You
How many gazillions of times have I seen self deprecating women bowing and scraping at the jackboots of some worthless scumbucket, clamoring for some small token, a word, one less punch in the face under the guise of writing 'poetry'? One time too many, I fear.
Maybe I am just getting more cynical (if THAT were possible) in my old age. Will there ever come a time when these women see Doctor Phil enough, read enough Self-Help books, get enough counseling, a healthy dose of self-esteem, when they lose enough weight, make enough money to support Bubba's deer hunting expenses and beer money that they won't need Bubba to whisper past a Marlboro through Jack Daniels tainted breath those three words they all seem to crave?
Don't they know? No one is going to love them until they love themselves? It's not a cliche'. It's the bottom line.
How many gazillions of times have I seen self deprecating women bowing and scraping at the jackboots of some worthless scumbucket, clamoring for some small token, a word, one less punch in the face under the guise of writing 'poetry'? One time too many, I fear.
Maybe I am just getting more cynical (if THAT were possible) in my old age. Will there ever come a time when these women see Doctor Phil enough, read enough Self-Help books, get enough counseling, a healthy dose of self-esteem, when they lose enough weight, make enough money to support Bubba's deer hunting expenses and beer money that they won't need Bubba to whisper past a Marlboro through Jack Daniels tainted breath those three words they all seem to crave?
Don't they know? No one is going to love them until they love themselves? It's not a cliche'. It's the bottom line.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
donald james simpson / unbalanced
THIS is a blog every single person who has one of those Holier Than Thou - I Support US Troops should be forced to read.
THIS is a blog every single person who has one of those Holier Than Thou - I Support US Troops should be forced to read.
Post An Apology
Hey, who knew! 2006 is the Year of the Apology. Those who have apologized, those who should, and the ASSHATS who don't have a clue!
Hey, who knew! 2006 is the Year of the Apology. Those who have apologized, those who should, and the ASSHATS who don't have a clue!
OH NOW I've Done it!
As a result of my exposing Asshat (trademark pending) for the plagiarizing piece-O-Crap that he was, he apparently has resigned as moderator for all of the forums for which he was responsible. He's still listed as a member, so I would hazard a guess he wants to see what, if anything, I have to say about it.
Here's what I have to say about him - He's an asshat.
I am hoping against hope somehow he found out this blog exists. In which case he will get to read:
Here's what I have to say about him - He's an asshat.
As a result of my exposing Asshat (trademark pending) for the plagiarizing piece-O-Crap that he was, he apparently has resigned as moderator for all of the forums for which he was responsible. He's still listed as a member, so I would hazard a guess he wants to see what, if anything, I have to say about it.
Here's what I have to say about him - He's an asshat.
I am hoping against hope somehow he found out this blog exists. In which case he will get to read:
Here's what I have to say about him - He's an asshat.
Ten Rules For Dating My Daughter copyright W. Bruce Cameron 1998 & How to piss off an Asshat
After a flurry of emails to a variety of individuals in which I attached the hyperlink of Plagiarism Today, the brain trust I refer to as Asshat has decided to delete the entire post in which he flagrantly plagiarized the work of Mr. Cameron.
No apologies, no affirmation that as writers we are entrusted with protecting the work of other writers, nothing that an actual gentleman might do. Nope. Just pull the plug on the post and pretend it never happened.
The good news is that Asshat now is very clear on my stance regarding plagiarism and will, I remain convinced, be reluctant to have his Asshat handed to him again by me, the one he thinks is evil and should be destroyed.
After a flurry of emails to a variety of individuals in which I attached the hyperlink of Plagiarism Today, the brain trust I refer to as Asshat has decided to delete the entire post in which he flagrantly plagiarized the work of Mr. Cameron.
No apologies, no affirmation that as writers we are entrusted with protecting the work of other writers, nothing that an actual gentleman might do. Nope. Just pull the plug on the post and pretend it never happened.
The good news is that Asshat now is very clear on my stance regarding plagiarism and will, I remain convinced, be reluctant to have his Asshat handed to him again by me, the one he thinks is evil and should be destroyed.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The SudaCare Shower Soothers – vaporizing Shower Tablets
http://www.pfizerch.com/product.aspx?id=531 may very well be misnamed. They should be called LifeSavers – no, can’t do that. It’s already been used.
The little blue tablets get plopped on the floor of the shower under the stream of hot water cascading on my cough-wracked form. These nonproductive coughs emanate from somewhere on the other side of the globe. I think I have Bird Flu, or maybe Swine Flu. At any rate, what I have is causing me to be crankier than usual. The shower soothers are helping to keep this corner of the universe safe from my discomfort. I strongly recommend them.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Ten Rules if you Want to Date my Daughter AND you don't want to commit PLAGIARISM
Plagiarism - from Merriam-Webster.com OnLine - transitive senses : to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own : use (another's production) without crediting the source
intransitive senses : to commit literary theft : present as new and original an idea or product derived from an existing source
- pla·gia·riz·er noun
My personal bailiwick - I abhor when someone does a copy and paste bit on some funny spinning around on the Internet and then posts it somewhere and doesn't say - hey, I didn't write this, don't know who did, but if you want to think *I* did, I won't correct you until I am called on it.
This happened recently. One of the Sycophants - as in Poison Ivey and the Sycophants (oooooh! I have ALL their HIT!) In fact, the lead Sycophant frequently posts such drivel. Now, this is a 'man' (forgive me while I flash hash) who is a self-proclaimed 'Author'. In fact, he has claimed to have found an agent for his 'novel'. We wait....... but I digress.
Our lead Sycophant recently posted Ten Rules IF you Want to Date My Daughter. He didn't say it was his writing, but he didn't say - hey, got this in email, thought it was cute, thought you'd like to read it... NOPE.
Now, I have read excerpts from 'the NOVEL' (key in Darth Vadar voiceover) and suffice it to say, my poodle has written better dialogue on the Ligustrum. With a 5 alarm hangover, both halves of my brain tied behind my back, in short, if I were in a coma, I would be able to recognize that there is simply no way this green toothed bottom feeder could have written this piece. To tie a bow on it, the piece was good.
So, 12 nanoseconds later, I had the author's website where his wife wrote about how he had written the 10 rules etc. I emailed . Then, I checked another link.
There, after The Ten Rules If you Want to date my daughter were the words...
Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
I checked back to the first site today when I got an email from him. He'd changed the attribution accordingly and apologized.
Imagine that. Now, chestthumper claims to be a computer savvy kind of guy, so I would have guessed that he would have been able to find a search engine quicker than he could find his ass with both hands. Oh - there's the rub. There I go assuming again.
Here's the kicker! He writes - Okay Selah. That's enough. The email that I received had no copyright notice.
Also, I have never claimed that any of these peices posted here are my own work. If they were my own work, I'd post them on THAT Writesight my wife and I just scammed.
Plagiarism - from Merriam-Webster.com OnLine - transitive senses : to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own : use (another's production) without crediting the source
intransitive senses : to commit literary theft : present as new and original an idea or product derived from an existing source
- pla·gia·riz·er noun
My personal bailiwick - I abhor when someone does a copy and paste bit on some funny spinning around on the Internet and then posts it somewhere and doesn't say - hey, I didn't write this, don't know who did, but if you want to think *I* did, I won't correct you until I am called on it.
This happened recently. One of the Sycophants - as in Poison Ivey and the Sycophants (oooooh! I have ALL their HIT!) In fact, the lead Sycophant frequently posts such drivel. Now, this is a 'man' (forgive me while I flash hash) who is a self-proclaimed 'Author'. In fact, he has claimed to have found an agent for his 'novel'. We wait....... but I digress.
Our lead Sycophant recently posted Ten Rules IF you Want to Date My Daughter. He didn't say it was his writing, but he didn't say - hey, got this in email, thought it was cute, thought you'd like to read it... NOPE.
Now, I have read excerpts from 'the NOVEL' (key in Darth Vadar voiceover) and suffice it to say, my poodle has written better dialogue on the Ligustrum. With a 5 alarm hangover, both halves of my brain tied behind my back, in short, if I were in a coma, I would be able to recognize that there is simply no way this green toothed bottom feeder could have written this piece. To tie a bow on it, the piece was good.
So, 12 nanoseconds later, I had the author's website where his wife wrote about how he had written the 10 rules etc. I emailed . Then, I checked another link.
There, after The Ten Rules If you Want to date my daughter were the words...
Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
I checked back to the first site today when I got an email from him. He'd changed the attribution accordingly and apologized.
Imagine that. Now, chestthumper claims to be a computer savvy kind of guy, so I would have guessed that he would have been able to find a search engine quicker than he could find his ass with both hands. Oh - there's the rub. There I go assuming again.
Here's the kicker! He writes - Okay Selah. That's enough. The email that I received had no copyright notice.
Also, I have never claimed that any of these peices posted here are my own work. If they were my own work, I'd post them on THAT Writesight my wife and I just scammed.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Bringing Us Up to Speed
I'm reading a stellar author, previously recommended by another stellar author. This new guy, Wes Guptil, is scary good. Enjoying his writing immensely.
On other fronts, the revision of Snakehead is underway. The Snakehead Revision Journal has sections for notes about what characteristics the characters have and where to insert actions to show those characteristics.
There is a spot for timeline stuff so I am reminded that I need to develop the relationship between Julie and Claudia to the point that Julie trusts Claudia enough to give her the PC. There is also much more involvement in Claudia's thought process as she tries to figure out what made Larry the pedophile tick and where his fundamental weakness was.
I am also reviewing like a mad woman. It is my experience that the writesite has cleaved into two factions after the 'competition' ended and a 'real winner' was 'crowned'.
Those two factions are at cross purposes. One, headed up by the Empress in her new (albeit drafty) new clothes, and the other, which is significantly closer to a Democracy with no clear cut figurehead at the helm. Let's call that group 'the Better Tennis Partners'.
The Better Tennis Partners, it seems, have continued plugging along, writing and reviewing each others' manuscripts in spite of the nearly constant onslaught of distractions of the manipulations foisted by others. I am grooving on it. Oh, and I have a diabolical plan in the works. Just so you know.
On the personal front, I am motivated to write some horror screenplay about mucuous. What does THAT tell you.
I'm reading a stellar author, previously recommended by another stellar author. This new guy, Wes Guptil, is scary good. Enjoying his writing immensely.
On other fronts, the revision of Snakehead is underway. The Snakehead Revision Journal has sections for notes about what characteristics the characters have and where to insert actions to show those characteristics.
There is a spot for timeline stuff so I am reminded that I need to develop the relationship between Julie and Claudia to the point that Julie trusts Claudia enough to give her the PC. There is also much more involvement in Claudia's thought process as she tries to figure out what made Larry the pedophile tick and where his fundamental weakness was.
I am also reviewing like a mad woman. It is my experience that the writesite has cleaved into two factions after the 'competition' ended and a 'real winner' was 'crowned'.
Those two factions are at cross purposes. One, headed up by the Empress in her new (albeit drafty) new clothes, and the other, which is significantly closer to a Democracy with no clear cut figurehead at the helm. Let's call that group 'the Better Tennis Partners'.
The Better Tennis Partners, it seems, have continued plugging along, writing and reviewing each others' manuscripts in spite of the nearly constant onslaught of distractions of the manipulations foisted by others. I am grooving on it. Oh, and I have a diabolical plan in the works. Just so you know.
On the personal front, I am motivated to write some horror screenplay about mucuous. What does THAT tell you.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Dizzy World, The Tragic Kingdom
I've long suspected in the house of Snow Everyone, 'I wanna win' that the pity card was plied with little to no regard for authenticity. My suspicion-o-meter red lined with the revelation to near strangers of the 'cardiac situation', the impending doom if a motorized Scoot-Your-Ass-About did not magically appear - for FREE!, and the top prize of So You Think You Can Write wasn't delivered forthwith, there might be no more - oh Sandspur! You MUST play 'Baby Blue Balls'. Yeah, that's the ticket!
I have been suspicious in the last few days, albeit delighted with the conspicuous by their absence, of the deliciously deviously dubious duo. Seems they've possibly absconded with the 'winnings' to Dizzy World, The Tragic Kingdom for a maybe needed, mostly coveted vacation with the little spawns of cross dressing, raised by wolves, clearly accidently conceived gutter snipes. So- in the absence I am revelling in the gloriousness that is the absence.
May they return with mouse ear hats, having frittered away the winnings so clearly "won - fair and square" (there may be some copyright on THAT cliche' ) to find that we all, amazing as it may seem, survived without them.
Bon Chance
I've long suspected in the house of Snow Everyone, 'I wanna win' that the pity card was plied with little to no regard for authenticity. My suspicion-o-meter red lined with the revelation to near strangers of the 'cardiac situation', the impending doom if a motorized Scoot-Your-Ass-About did not magically appear - for FREE!, and the top prize of So You Think You Can Write wasn't delivered forthwith, there might be no more - oh Sandspur! You MUST play 'Baby Blue Balls'. Yeah, that's the ticket!
I have been suspicious in the last few days, albeit delighted with the conspicuous by their absence, of the deliciously deviously dubious duo. Seems they've possibly absconded with the 'winnings' to Dizzy World, The Tragic Kingdom for a maybe needed, mostly coveted vacation with the little spawns of cross dressing, raised by wolves, clearly accidently conceived gutter snipes. So- in the absence I am revelling in the gloriousness that is the absence.
May they return with mouse ear hats, having frittered away the winnings so clearly "won - fair and square" (there may be some copyright on THAT cliche' ) to find that we all, amazing as it may seem, survived without them.
Bon Chance
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The Revision Journal
The wonderful advice available on WWW.HollyLisle.com regarding keeping a Revision Journal is coming in very handy. My Revision Journal is a wirebound black thing similar to a Moleskine (but purchased at the clearance table of Borders for a couple bucks).
Step ONE - the big one - many of my contemporaries pointed out I had too many plot lines. I have excised a whole lawsuit, trial, and murder for hire. It was difficult because I really liked writing that murder. I thought the whole 'murder-for-hire' thing was quite clever. Who knows, it may resurface in another novel.
So the excision reduced the word count by about 30K, bringing it in at about 70K total. Lesley C. Weston says that's a fine word count for a first novel. Besides, I have to go back through and fill in some blanks. I am sticking to my theory of about 85K is good. Right there in the middle of the road.
Now, back to the revisions.
The wonderful advice available on WWW.HollyLisle.com regarding keeping a Revision Journal is coming in very handy. My Revision Journal is a wirebound black thing similar to a Moleskine (but purchased at the clearance table of Borders for a couple bucks).
Step ONE - the big one - many of my contemporaries pointed out I had too many plot lines. I have excised a whole lawsuit, trial, and murder for hire. It was difficult because I really liked writing that murder. I thought the whole 'murder-for-hire' thing was quite clever. Who knows, it may resurface in another novel.
So the excision reduced the word count by about 30K, bringing it in at about 70K total. Lesley C. Weston says that's a fine word count for a first novel. Besides, I have to go back through and fill in some blanks. I am sticking to my theory of about 85K is good. Right there in the middle of the road.
Now, back to the revisions.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Free Ride
You are a taxi driver. A person hails you and when you look in the rearview mirror, you think: 1. they are incredibly attractive and you want to get to know them better, or 2. They are incredibly unattractive and your pity runs deep and wide.
In 100 words tell us which number and whether you charged them the fare or gave them a free ride.
You are a taxi driver. A person hails you and when you look in the rearview mirror, you think: 1. they are incredibly attractive and you want to get to know them better, or 2. They are incredibly unattractive and your pity runs deep and wide.
In 100 words tell us which number and whether you charged them the fare or gave them a free ride.
Monday, June 19, 2006
The Familiar
I was watering the garden, getting the potted plants that the sprinkler didn’t reach and had just turned on the spigot when behind me came a voice as cold as death.
“That geranium has Scale. You better spray it with copper or it will migrate to the Pittosporum.”
“I know. Is that why you are here?” I knew it was not. Not by a long shot.
It had only been a few hours before when I had finally made my escape from Gypsy- hysterical screeching Gypsy with her over-the-top dramatic display; all over a dog, a small black dog. Well, maybe a little more than that. A small black dog
“Is that why you named her ‘Tripod’?” I had asked. “Because she only has three legs?” I had asked. “I’d like to buy her. She’s cute.”
“Why – who do you think you are coming in here all young and beautiful and trying to take my Familiars from me!” She had this look in her eyes, like my grandmother Alice, the one with the crazy rat eyes. The one who had caused me to constantly, it seemed, suffer from ‘Foot-In-Mouth Disease. Not just mildly pissing off people whose powers were scary, but significantly pissing them off to the point where I could only imagine spending all eternity with my head on backwards, literally.
“No! You don’t understand! I want to buy her!” I cried out, falling to my knees. Then, as usual, my Crazy Rat Eyed Grandma Alice ‘problem’ surfaced, “Did you fuck up a potion? Use the wrong spell? Is that what caused her leg to fall off? Did you try some fancy-schmancy new age Wiccan business? Some untested, unapproved by the FDPS? The Federal Department of Potions and Spells? Huh? Didja? Is that why your little dog is running around lacking a leg?” The whole time I circled her with my arms out to the sides, as if I could stop her from leaving, escaping my tirade. While internally, my little inner voice was desperately trying to drown out the words that were – apparently- spewing as a result of Crazy Rat Eyed Grandma Alice’s permanent, horrible and un-retractable spell.
The tall one with eyes of amber and that ubiquitous wart on her nose snorted. “You know my position here is to be certain that any witch who resides here is obedient to the Rules and Regulations as handed down through the ages by those whose wisdom gave us magic.” She shoved back her uniform cape and brought out a small book, which, when opened, expanded to nearly envelope the wrought iron table upon which she dropped it.
I waited patiently for her to continue. She ran a finger down a few pages, slowly. Apparently, she’d never taken the Evelyn Wood Speed Reading course. I would have been halfway through the thing by now, using the old fashioned method, not even resorting to a spell.
Meanwhile I tried to focus on anything but the wise tall one. Internally I was doing la-la-la-la’s, hoping against hope she wouldn’t think I was ignoring her. It wouldn’t do to have Crazy Rat-eyed Grandma Alice’s curse rearing it’s horrific head. I’d be tossed out of the coven summarily. They’d probably not let me have time to pack, not that it took so long. I only had a few personal items, my dop kit containing my collection of potions, among which was the one I had developed all by myself. It had gone spinning through approvals by the Federal Department of Potions and Spells in time as thick as an eyelash. I called it ‘The Hare of the Dog What Bitya’, a play on words. I love words. My THoDWB was useful for any number of ailments, but most effectively used as a Morning After potion if you thought you might be carrying a ‘little bun in the coven’. Oh, I slay me, I really do! Sales had been brisk. I had been socking away the proceeds like a miserly old witch…. Much like my Crazy Rat-eyed Grandma Alice. Anyway, I was saving to get myself a fine Familiar. I wasn’t particular about looks, more interested in power, I was.
“Have I been disobedient? I didn’t mean to be,” I said meekly.
“It is customary, when one wishes to obtain a Familiar, to ensure that the Familiar is indeed for sale.”
The thought that Tripod wasn’t for sale never crossed my mind.” I bent to scratch at a mosquito bite. “I made an offer, at a fair price….”
“Please. Don’t try to dodge the issue. It’s not that simple. Tripod is the best Familiar Gypsy ever bred. She comes from a long line of Familiars who have been certified as Better Familiars by the FBA.”
“The FBA?”
“The Federal Breeding Association. They oversee all the Familiars. Not just the dogs, but the cats – and that is no small feat, what with everyone coming to believe all Familiars owned by witches are cats.”
I interrupted, “But everyone knows a witch can have anything from a spider to a horse as a Familiar.”
“Yes, I know. That is not the point and I would appreciate you not interrupting me.”
I struggled to think of pleasant things, puppies, kitties, the last time I got lucky… anything to prevent me from opening my mouth and spewing, well, you know….
“Now she’s in such a state… I don’t know how to get her to stop flittering around the balcony on her broom. That is where she was when I left her, and I tell you, Tallulah, it is no easy feat to speak to her when she is swishing around my head, ten feet off the ground.”
“How do I fix this?”
The tall wise one ranted on, arms waving, wart vibrating with every word, “She doesn’t go around willy-nilly allowing her breeding stock to go to just anyone, you know. She screen…” The tall woman stopped speaking abruptly. A man filled the doorway, with a diminutive female figure dressed all in black peering out from behind him.
“Gypsy would like you to have another Familiar. In the hopes that this ‘incident’ can be put behind us.” He pulled his black cloak back and crossed powerfully built arms across his broad chest.
Gypsy came out, smiling shyly. In her hand she held a leash. There, at her feet was a darling little Familiar, black with white spots, perfectly spaced white spots and a lovely expression.
I knelt down. The little dog came forward and sat before me. She licked my hand. I patted her soft little head. She winked at me, a knowing wink.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you, Gypsy. I’m so sorry I upset you…”
At that moment, I felt it beginning to slip up from deep in my belly, rising into my throat and groaned out loud. “Listen, whatever you do, don’t listen to me. My Crazy Rat-Eyed Grandma Alice cast this awful spell…” I clapped my left hand over my mouth. My right hand scratched, clawed, pulled as hard as it could to get the words trapped inside my mouth into the atmosphere. Left hand had nothing to hang onto.
“Oh go fuck yourself, you impotent bastard! You green toothed bottom feeder! Better yet, why don’t you all go fuck yourselves!”
The Familiar – 1245 words (minimum 1200) using the following list of words. Customary X
Obedient X
Familiar X
Screen X
Migrate X
Gypsy X
Broom X
Spigot X
Balcony X
Scale X
Dodge X
Price X
Simple X
State X
Tripod X
The Yeggman
Lieutenant Claudia McCann’s career with the Major Crime Unit was a result of overcompensating for her father’s moral compass, which spun wildly, as if it were placed directly on a magnet. John Teixara, now long dead, had been a safecracker, a robber, a two-bit thief.
When young, John was an exquisitely handsome man with a thick head of silky black hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. He was tall, slender, elegant, perhaps even regal. He was, like many of the residents of Fall River, of Portuguese descent. His parents and grandparents had been born and died in Terceira Island, the original spelling of their surname.
“You have to find the fundamental weakness, Claudia. Everybody and everything has one,” he said, the last time she saw him.
“What’s yours, Dad? Safes?”
“No.” He flipped open a Zippo lighter and shook a Camel from the pack he kept rolled up in the sleeve of his BVD brand undershirt. “My fundamental weakness, Smartass, was your mother, of blessed memory.” He crossed himself.
“What was her fundamental weakness?”
“Jewelry. She was nuts about it, especially Sapphires, her birthstone. Your mother, of blessed memory,” he said as he again, formed the sign of the cross, “could tell real from cultured pearls from clear across the infield at the Foxboro Harness Track.”
“So you’re telling me you did what you did for Mom.”
“I did what I did, Sweetheart, because I loved your mother more than I can ever express, to you or to her,” he said and blew smoke rings up above the ringlet that hung down his forehead. “I did what I did because I could. Once you understand, regardless of your chosen vocation, that everyone and everything has a fundamental weakness… the sooner you get that straight, the sooner you’ll realize how simple everything really is.”
“Dad,” Claudia said with a touch of tenderness and a smidgen of impatience revealing that she had heard this speech too many times before, “Dad, what has that got to do solving the murder of Jane Doe Number Twelve?”
“Everything. Ask yourself this, Claudia. Ask yourself how it is that I was able to open that safe with both the husband and wife sleeping in a bed not fifteen feet away. How, Claudia, how’d I do it?”
“Because you’re the best Yeggman on the planet.”
“Well, that’s likely true, too. But that’s not how. What is the fundamental weakness of every safe?”
“Fire or burglar?”
“Burglar. Fire don’t count. They are the Yegg’s equivalent to the lock on a teenage girl’s diary.”
“I don’t know Dad. That they can be moved where you have the time to crack them unless they are bolted down?”
“That could happen. The real thing, the real fundamental weakness is that every safe, always has to have, must have accessibility to a locksmith in case the person screws up and forgets the combination.”
Claudia leaned forward. “This is news. You never told me this, Dad. So how do you expose that weakness?”
“A good ear helps. Patience is key. Knowing the combination is best.”
“Did you find the combination on that last job written down somewhere?” Claudia’s voice held a touch of chiding.
“No. I did not.” He sounded righteously indignant. “The fool never changed the Try-Out.”
“What’s that?”
“The factory settings. The factory sets up certain combinations and then the owner is supposed to change the combination. Most of them don’t. All I had to do was figure out what brand of safe he bought, which was no hard trick. He was so busy bragging about it to his son-in-law while I was hanging wallpaper in the master bedroom that I could have been in the kitchen and still would have known.”
“So you managed to get in around his security system, pitter pat into his bedroom and crack his safe while he snored away next to his wife. I’m amazed she didn’t wake up.”
“You know why?”
“Why?”
“You’re right. He snored like a… , never mind. He snored. First time I saw him at the racetrack, I knew he would be a snorer. He’s a big fat guy. Smokes cigars like a chimney.”
“You should talk. That’s about the fourth in an hour.”
“Hey, I’m seventy-five. Been smoking since I was nine. Smoking’s not going to kill me. Having my daughter treat me with such disrespect, now that’s what’ll take me out.”
“Dad.”
“Don’t ‘Dad’ me. Anyway, I knew this A-hole would snore, just by lookin’ at him. So I also figured she’d wear earplugs. Takin’ a look at his decanters of Scotch in the living room and findin’ a couple of bottles of Vodka hidden where you know someone’s secretly sipping clued me in that this couple’s fundamental weakness was booze and a basic hatred they had for each other,” he said. “Hey, you got some more ice tea? Good stuff. Almost as good as your mother, of blessed memory, made.” He crossed himself.
“Sure Dad. I’ll be right back.” Claudia picked up both empty glasses and went to refill them.
“So I’m kind of embarrassed to reveal, after all these years, how easy it was.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Wait a second!” Claudia returned with two glasses of iced tea, lemon slices slipped onto the rim, dripping with condensation and placed one on the dinette table.
“I was sayin’ I’m embarrassed to tell you how easy it was.”
“How easy?”
“Yeah. The lock opened on the first try,” he said as his eyes welled with tears and a strange sound, like a choke, erupted from him.
“Dad, why are you crying?”
“Cause it was so stupid! All those years I got away with tougher jobs and this is the one that screwed me up.”
“How’d you get caught?”
“I let your mother wear this big honkin’ sapphire necklace to the racetrack.”
“And they were there.”
“I told you. Everyone and everything has a fundamental weakness. Mine was” he said as, again, he formed the sign of the cross, “your mother, of blessed memory.”
© SelahWrites 2006
Set Limits and Build A History
Today’s writing prompt brought to you by Naomi Epel, creator of The Observation Deck http://www.writersstore.com//product.php?products_id=322
I use the Observation Deck too irregularly. THAT is about to change.
So for today, I am going to set limits (in this case time – 30 minutes, although the limit might be word count or some other form of limitation) and build a history of a character in my novel Snakehead. In my case, Lieutenant Claudia McCann will get a history even though it will not, in all likelihood, ever appear in the novel.
Naomi explains it in the book that comes with the set (and I strongly recommend the kit) that the author of Sarah, Plain and Tall used this method to build depth to the character of Jacob, the widower. It added layers to a character who may have come off flat and one-dimensional.
I think it’s worth a half hour to explore why Lieutenant McCann chose her career, don’t you?
Ready? Set! Go!
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Saving Face for Hung
The endless struggle to keep an adequate supply of clean diapers was wearing on me. I went back into his room where he sat in bed. The bedside table was a mass of Sudoko books, medications he refused to take, (especially the stool softeners which would have made my life infinitely easier, but I digress), that stupid spaghetti poodle lamp, the one with the shade that used to be Champagne colored but now was nicotine stained. One of the poodle's ears had broken off long ago and needed to be repaired, but who did that sort of work anymore? There was also the overflowing lead crystal ashtray, the contents of which caused me to be nauseous but he seemed not to notice.
“I’m going to have to leave you alone again. I don’t like to. I’m afraid you’ll fall, or need something.”
“Where you going?” He asked, in that singsong Cantonese accent.
“To the Laundromat.” I answered. “I’ve got to wash your ‘pants’.”
He smiled and patted my hand. “Sit with me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “Hung, you know I love you.”
“Yes, Little Flower. I love you too.”
“Then why won’t you let me buy disposables?”
“We must not reveal my secret. No one should know. If they saw you buying them….”
“Who cares?”
“Please, Little Flower. I care. I must save face. You understand? Even though you and I are from different cultures…” He drifted off, his rheumy eyes clouded with cataracts until the black nearly turned blue around the edges.
“I know. We are more alike than one would guess.”
This piece was written at the prompt of Lesley who instructed me to use any of the following words (at least five)
Diaper X
Secret X
Lead X
Accent X
Struggle X
Champagne X
Laundromat X
Lamp X
Repair X
Alike X
Saturday, June 17, 2006
THENextBookWritten ……
Seems as if there has been a hostile overthrow of what used to be my favorite place in the universe. Yes indeedy! We now watch with bated breath (unlike one of Ivory Snowbanks’ reviewers who anxiously awaits each chapter of theNeverEndingStory with
BAITED breath (I am not making this up,) as the ‘author’ of the ‘best’ novel writes the sequel and it, like its predecessor, moves up the ranks (rank being the operative) steadily, stealthily, and nauseatingly.
Our dear Ivory Snowbanks held nothing back in the previous competition. She pulled no punches, hesitated not for one second to play the pity card, nope not for one second. The end result is, as predicted, that no one was willing to tell the Empress her new stretch pants were transparent. While other reviewers reviewed with such lofty ideals in mind such as plot, character development, pacing, and oh, say plot (It IS worthy of repeating here,) Empress Ivory’s reviewers, who proclaimed they neither knew nor cared much for spelling, grammar or punctiashun, and would leave that for the profeshunals, focused on how much they simply loved loved loved Empress Ivory’s work of ‘Literary Fiction’.
As if that were not enough, she ‘supplemented’ the reviewer pool with members of her own genetic pool. It is interesting to read the reviews of the other novels in the top ten. One quickly realizes that the rest of the contenders apparently found the idea of coercing family members to vote, (errrrr review, yeah, that’s the ticket, review) was sort of, (well, exactly like) fishing in a barrel.
Now the competition has ended. The Empress can laugh all the way to the bank. The rest of the novel writers can proudly display their merit badge….. assuming they are not mortally embarrassed to have outsiders think that Empress Ivory’s winning ‘novel’ is the best there is to offer.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Call me 'Irresponsible'! - How do YOU define party? In the latest chapter of my favorite (where is that sarcasm font when I need it) work of literary greatness, the 'author' has a person who is HIV+ deep kissing another. Now, we all know HIV is not spread through casual contact but I looked and lo and behold, deep tongue kissing is not recommended for those who don't wish to spread HIV.
Plan for the day: edit like a hamster in a wheel. Revise my novel taking out the whole plot line of the court case.
Random thoughts: It's been more than a week since I sent an email to a person who had posted pretty insulting stuff on a private site suggesting that perhaps I should give up writing and take up cleaning her horse stalls. Then she publicly proclaimed herself to be an extremely nice person who didn't have a mean bone in her body. So why should I be surprised that she has not bothered to respond to my email?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Lesley C. Weston Rewriting the World
So now I have done it. I have caused one of the greats to launch into a new space. The final frontier. Lesley C. Weston has been known to write entire novels on tiny devices using a toothpick to choose individual letters. She is a-freakin'-mazing.
But that I could write half as well ever.
Please make Lesley welcome.
So now I have done it. I have caused one of the greats to launch into a new space. The final frontier. Lesley C. Weston has been known to write entire novels on tiny devices using a toothpick to choose individual letters. She is a-freakin'-mazing.
But that I could write half as well ever.
Please make Lesley welcome.
The Fictioneer
It began innocently enough, over a number of gin and tonics. Well, I was drinking gin and tonics. Nora, my next-door neighbor, was drinking gin martinis poured from a stainless steel shaker. As was her habit, she stopped by daily to mooch my booze and complain about her life in general. I had yet to figure out a way to turn her away. I had gone to such lengths as putting my car in the garage so she couldn’t tell if I was home. That didn’t work for long. She tricked me, called me on my cell phone and when I lied, said I was at Target looking for a waffle maker, she informed me she was standing outside my garage eyeballing my car.
“I figured out a way to pay for a gastric bypass.” Nora said.
She was splayed over my couch, wearing that stupid Christmas sweatshirt with the candy canes and gingerbread men grinning from the stretched out fabric.
“Doesn’t that thing make you itch?” I asked. I mean, cheese and mice, it was August! In Florida!
“It’s about the only thing left that fits.
“Won’t your insurance cover the surgery?”
“It’s going to be somewhere around 50K. The deductible is five grand. That’s where the Star Author comes in.”
“Star Author?”
“Yeah, Star Author. It’s like Star Search for writers. I write a book and then get lots of people to vote for me and win enough to get my stomach stapled.”
“Nora,” I said, “How can you be so sure you’ll win?”
“It’ll take a single telephone call to my sister Nadine. She’s secretary over at the church and she heads up the prayer committee. If Nadine tells all those fine church-going folks who are praying for me that they should vote for my book, then it is a sure thing.”
I didn’t know how to get around to it, but my curiosity got the best of me. “But Nora, do you know how to write a novel?”
Nora drained the last of her third martini and placed the empty glass on my verdigris marble coffee table, immediately to the left of the coaster I had provided. I winced.
“I’ve already got one nearly finished. It’s a rough draft, but I can polish it up as I go.”
“What’s it about?” I stood up, picked up her glass, looked her straight in her beady little rat-like eyes that reminded me of my grandmother; the crazy grandmother whose decomposing corpse was secreted away beneath the concrete garage floor. “Tell me about your book, Nora.”
I walked into the kitchen and deposited the glass on the countertop.
“It’s about a group of women who have way too many pheromones and hormones running around deliberately spreading sexually transmitted diseases in this wild competition to see who can get the most people sick.”
“Not exactly the great American novel, eh?”
“Does it matter? I need my belly stapled. Nadine can throw her weight - no pun intended - around the church ladies and I get what I need. End of story.”
“Quite the philistine, aren’t you Nora?”
“If I knew what a philistine was, I might agree.”
The previous bit of flash fiction was written at the prompting of a pal who suggested I write a piece using the following words. Which I did. Please note - It IS fiction. My grandmother is totally dead, and will remain so for a very long time. She is not, however, under my garage. She is planted in a cemetary.
verdigris X
candy cane X
philistine X
pheromones X
telephone X
tonic X
stainless X
waffle X
itch X
rough X
© Selah 2006
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