Wayworm

Musing on Scary Movies

2011-08-19T11:27:00.004-04:00

Somebody asked yesterday, "What is a really scary movie I can watch?" The first answer that came to mind was The Shining because of Jack Nicholson's memorable creepy compelling performance of a loving father and husband going progressively insane while seeking shelter in a place that should have been avoided at all costs and the sense of tension and apprehension set up for the viewer as the film progresses.

Next up was an indie film I saw last year called Frozen that has put me off downhill skiing and ski lifts for life. Maybe several lifetimes. In this film three young twenty something friends are trapped fifty feet in the air in a lift gondola with no food, no extra clothing or survival gear, no cell phones, and no way to get down. They never should have gotten on the gondola "for one more run" just before closing at all. Worse is the fact that the ski resort is closed until the next week end...five days away. And, none of the three has told anybody where they were going. Talk about tension and the sense of impending doom as the three discuss what to do as they become increasingly desperate, then when they do take action, each logical solution turns into worse disaster. You feel their hunger and physical misery, their despair and sense of helplessness. And its, cold, so cold!

Well, thinking about these two films really got me going. I remember being totally freaked out by Jaws the first time I saw it and the first Aliens film. Then, there was Pitch Black. I'm shivering already. In these films the unexpected and the unknown beast, whether alien or mammalian, is the horror. I mean who isn't afraid of being dragged under dark murky water and eaten by a great white shark? Please, please get a bigger boat! Or just stay out of freakin' water more than ankle deep. And uh maybe when you crash land on a planet that used to have a colony that nobody's heard from in a long while, maybe you should concentrate on fixing the craft and getting out of there pronto. But then, you can't, can you? You need parts and supplies, and then there's the dramatic element of human intrigue with the mystery of the missing colonists that leads to...disaster...and death... and hopeful escape. Pity the guys in the red shirts, Captain Kirk, and beam me up Scotty! My recommendation here is if you find yourself in this sort of situation stay very very close to Ripley and Riddick!

Next up, the really terrifying Poltergeist. In that film, every single childhood fear was explored and exorcized in full living color with sound and state of the art special effects and by Industrial Light and magic and the creativity of the masterful Spielberg at his masterful best. My personal favorite moment was the scary clown doll under the bed. I mean who isn't really afraid of looking under the bed, especially in the dark? Who if we are honest isn't secretly afraid of clowns? Might something reach out and grab your ankles if you don't jump into bed quick? And, watch out for closets. Every kid knows they may be dark tunnels leading to alternate worlds full of monsters! And parents, like the parents in the film, are very very slow to figure it out.

Another film that scared the absolute bejesus out of me was the film Omega Man that starred Charleton Heston (which was remade as I Am legend with Will Smith). I had nightmares about that one. In Omega Man, a biological weapon developed by the US military has apparently killed all the humans. All except for Heston who is somehow immune. The dude is lonely and bored and he thinks it is safe to go out during the day 'cause there might be things that go bump in the night but can't deal with daylight. So he drives (a convertible for Christ sakes) into the deserted city where the camera shows you shadowy things scuttling around the deserted buildings and rubble. Why doesn't he drive a tank?! He eaves the car top down outside in the sun and goes in a movie theatre and screens Woodstock for himself, sitting in the dark. You just know this is not a good idea. If his wife wasn't dead she'd be scolding, "What are you thinking of?! Get home right this minute and lock the doors!" Well, Chuck gets absorbed by the movie, stays too long, comes out and its dusk. He looks around and says something like 'oops, better get home, cause THEY'LL be out soon!' OMG. Then they do come out. Color me screaming yellow.

Turns out the things in monk like robes with hoods hiding their deformed faces are former humans turned Zombies all of whom live only to kill poor Chuck. I had nightmares for a long time after that one. Actually slept with a nightlight.

Then, there was The Birds. Hitchcock turned those cute little winged critters into monsters of mass destruction in California town while for a part of the film the hapless citizens forget to look up as disaster builds. And I don't mean bird poop falling from the sky. Yes, Virginia. Sparrows and sea gulls and crows can be scary. And they'll do worse than mess up your hairdo. Hitchcock wasn't dubbed the master of suspense for nothing.

In Jurassic Park, the viewer knows that they should have listened to Jeff Goldblum when he said it wasn't a good idea to recreate living dinosaurs on an island and build a theme part around it. You wouldn't think even the red dogs and blue dogs in Washington DC would be dumb enough to recreate living T-Rexes and Raptors as a money making project. Or would they?

So what do these movies have in common, aside from being well written, well directed, well acted, and well produced? Well, most were based on books to begin with. Omega Man (Based on I Am Legend by Richard Matheson )and Jurassic Park ( Michael Crichton) was as was The Shining (Stephen King). Jaws by Peter Benchley was based on a true incident that occurred in New Jersey and Maryland in 1916.

They depend on characters that may be stock literary characters but who are dimensional and not cardboard. People who could be our neighbors or family who find themselves in scary situations without the training to face the danger or the full knowledge of exactly what it is until it's chasing them. They could be you or me. As a viewer you both identify with the characters and care about their survival, even if they do some pretty dumb things. There is a gradual build up of suspense and impending danger, and excitement. And, it's always dark at some point. Humans are instinctively afraid of the dark and what it may hide. After all, we began if Darwin was right, as little bitty critters hiding in caves or tall grass from bigger predators bent on eating us for supper. Our only defense was seeing them in time and being fast enough to RUN AWAY.

There are lots of other good scary movies. The Track OF The Vampire, Nosferatu, (The first) Halloween, Silence Of The Lambs, Seven, Misery, Carrie, The 13th Warrior, Psycho, The Exorcist come to mind. Some folks are scared by True Blood and Dexter on TV, two really well written and acted series. Some people are freaked by Dracula and Freddy and King Kong and Cujo or the Cloverfield monster, but those sort of things don't frighten me. Ghosts and vampires and were-wolves and big stomping Godzilla things are more interesting than scary.

I once lived in a haunted house and I can tell you that most ghosts are really more annoying than scary. All that moaning and crying and floating about, making crashing noises to get your attention and stuff. Gets old fast. "I mean, get a life! Oh, wait, you can't! You are dead! Well, scat! I'm busy here." Did I just make that up? Well, that's for me to know and you to wonder. I am a writer of fantasy after all...When I was very little, I really was afraid of The Wizard of Oz's witch with her green face and cackling and the talking door knob in Alice In Wonderland, mostly because talking door knobs seemed WRONG somehow. But that's fodder for another blog.

What are your favorite scary movies and why? What makes you eat your popcorn faster and you want to yell out, "No, no, don't open that door! Don't go down there?! Don't listen to him (her)? Danger, danger, Will Robinson! I have a bad feeling about this!"

Live long and prosper. Now, who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?

Road Trip Dreamin' When the Best Laid Plans Go Awry.

2011-08-02T16:05:00.004-04:00

Photo: better days with the Badger on the beach
Well boys and girls if I am going to be honest and I am going to be, I have to say that we were pretty bummed out that we couldn't take our summer vacation trip to Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Yes, sigh, we had to cancel when we discovered on my birthday week end that our RV was not in a drivable state. No RV, no road trip. No trekking around Gettysburg, no Hershey Park, no Chocolate Town, no Almost Heaven, West Virginia. No mountains, no lightning bugs, no cooler elevations. Nada, zip. Not even a weekend trip to the beach. Now, I don 't really expect anyone to actually feel sorry for me. Its not a third world problem. Definitely first world. So, I don't get to take another road trip to discovery in a thirty two foot motor home. So what? I'm not living in a box in the woods. The roof only leaks a little over the kitchen sink and there's food in the fridge. A/C to help cope with the mid nineties temps. A pool to cope with the excessive Florida summer humidity. Could be a hurricane coming, but heck we've felt with those before.

None the less I was bummed out. I wanted to go back to Beckley and the wonderful Tamarack Craft Center, visit a coal camp and go down the mine for 'Charlie's Dog' research. Danny and I wanted to stop at The Greenbrier resort in White Sulpher Springs and tour the secret underground cold war government refuge. I wanted to smell chocolate in the air in Hershey, get Civil War memorabilia and see The Eisenhower farm. Oh well, maybe next year.

It was, in a way, a good thing we couldn't go. The temps up Nawth are as high as in Orlando. No relief from the heat practically anywhere. Might as well stay home, hole up in a movie theatre and get sick on popcorn, which is what we did. Still its always nice to have a change of scenery and a break from the normal stresses of everyday life that everyone has.

The RV is in the shop over in Tampa. No telling how long its going to be out of commission at this point. Right now, we're hoping for a leaf turning trip to NC in the fall.

We're working on the book production in bits and pieces at night and lunch and in between sweat in' buckets on the weekends. That's all for this update.

It's my birthday and I'll say what I want to...celebrating myself!

2011-07-15T12:43:00.010-04:00

Tomorrow is my birthday. That statement always causes me to have a moment of reflection. Several actually. Sometimes I groan. Sometimes I get grumpy. Then, I eat cake. The number of years I have to admit to is always a shock though, because one thing remains true from year to year and decade to decade. No matter how I look in the mirror's reflection or to people around me, no matter that I am actually somebody's GRANDMOTHER, no matter what changes occur in the 364 days that pass from birthday to birthday to the body I wear, the essential being that I am inside remains pretty much the same. Seriously.

What I mean by this is that, although I learn new things with my brain and have new experiences all the time with the body--some positive and some negative on both counts-WHO I am inside and my way of processing things is pretty much the same as when it stopped changing around the age of ten. So, I am essentially the kid I always was and WHOOPPEE.... I always will be.

That is probably why I always get along with children and dogs and why I can write so easily for children. Because I haven forgotten for a second, not for a second, what it's like to be a kid and see like a kid behind my lined adult face.

I confess that Christmas and Halloween are still my favorite holidays. I eagerly read every Harry Potter book and I love Butterbeer. I wear a Hogwarts tShirt on the Forbidden Journey and The Cat and The Hat rides at Universal. I still suspect there may just be fairies and things that go bump in the night. I always 'hear the bells' and if the Polar Express should happen to stop at my door I will hop aboard. And not just for the hot chocolate. I love Wonka bars and I would love to see Oopma Loompas and a bitchy girl turn into a giant blueberry! I'd be game to ride a giant war bear to find the Golden Compass and Harry's cloak of invisibility would suit me up just fine. I actually think I may just have seen Tinker Belle flashing on an off last year in the North Carolina mountains, too. And I know that Wonderland lies on the other side of the rabbit hole in the woods. The door knob told me that a long long time ago, way back in the twentieth century. So there.

I know about it, because I've seen Wonderland, even if only in dreams, and I hope somehow that you have too. If my house blows away during a tornado and lands somewhere else on a pair of legs in striped stockings and ruby slippers I'll have one up on Dorothy though, because I wear an adult body that has had much experience thanks to Madame Time. It knows the striped stockings would be hot and the pointed toed glittery red slippers would hurt my bunions, so I'll pass and keep on wearing my adventure sandals. Oh, and I do I know where the yellow brick road leads to anyway, which is to a city that is painted green but isn't eco friendly. I know that the Munchkins have been huffing something illegal---lollypop league or not. The wizard is just a con man from the midwest who's going to run for national office next year. But I'm gonna sign on with the Tinman and the Scarecrow and the lion and ride in Glinda's bubble anyway if the opportunity arises, 'cause I still know how to have fun! So what if I'm not in Kansas anymore. It's mostly flat anyway.

But, I won't eat green eggs and ham, because my body has learned the consequences of eating food with green stuff on it. That's okay-- I knew better than that at ten!

So, its my birthday. Drink up me hearties and show me the horizon! Here's a toast to the undead monkey and a raspberry to the krakken. Who cares what the mirror and my birth certificate say. Here's to being ten again for another year!

TEN

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

2006

I was ten once long ago.

Ten on the outside I mean.

Inside I'm still ten,

sometimes, ten and a half

which is six moons past July,

or I'm ten minus a half

which I guess, would be five

depending on whether I'm right side up or upside down.

I still see things like a girl of ten, or five:

the way dogs smile, and a caterpillar dancing on a twig,

the way lizards are really dinosaurs, shrunken down to manageable size.

I'm Alice fallen down a rabbit's hole,

or I'm a princess in a castle built of books

dancing in crystal shoes past twelve on nimble feet,

feet that never hurt at all.

I know spiders hold all the evil in the world in their fat, squishy bellies

and fireflies are really golden fairies.

I know I'll live forever, somewhere

maybe on the other side of the universe from here

because I'm ten and I'll never be eleven,

not even when they think I'm eight times ten

in the grown up world other people live in.

Book production and the 'indie' author

2011-07-14T12:53:00.004-04:00

Well, I guess I owe you an apology of sorts, dear readers. I rarely if ever check the blog archives and when I do I realize I repeat myself in small ways at times. I don't post that often and when I do, I tend to forget what I've posted before. So, if you'd read any previous entries you already knew prior to my last post that in the case of my 'dragon book' I wasn't using the illustrations from the artist who, like Harry's 'he who must not be named', shall not be named here. Not because she's an evil wizard of course, I just don't want to give her any publicity. I will repeat myself on purpose this time by reiterating that from lemons come lemonade and as a result of my sour experience with the aforementioned artist I am having a very sweet experience with designing my book.

Thanks to the fact of having to pay way too much for her unusable stuff and being loath to fork out any more $$ for further layout, design services etc we (spouse and I) are boldly going way beyond anything we've done before. Its so exciting to literally be designing the pages of my written work from A to Z and know that what we learn now will be usable in all future projects.

We are the designers, producers, and publishers. We rock!

We know how it works in traditional publishing. You (the hopeful author) write the book proposal and/or the book, shop for an agent, maybe land an agent who in a small number of cases actually sells your book to a publishing house. You have a contract and may or may not have control of the rights to the material but you lose control of the cover design and some of the content which will be reedited. They may give you, as the author, an advance payment prior to publication and you get some royalties from the book sales post publication. Your agent takes a significant cut. The process from beginning to that point can take a decade before you get to see your book in a bookstore for the several months it has to hit it big before it is shelved and discounted. Maybe you get a deal for another book. Maybe you can quit your day job. Maybe.

But that's not where I choose to go. I am happy to be one of those folks who elicit a contemptuous sneer from some editors and agents and well established writers from the old school years: an 'indie' author. The purpose of this post is not to tell you why I choose this route. The purpose is to tell you what goes into producing and independent book.

So, what actually goes into book designing an 'indie' book like mine? I hope you are wondering that by now as you read this.

Here's a few important things for the inside of the book itself. Every word, every line, every paragraph, page and picture has to be correctly formatted. I don't mean put into a Microsoft word file on your computer, spell checked, paginated, and paragraphed with page breaks inserted with Author's biography, book synopsis, and key words list. That's what I always did before and sent to the book designers. And yeah I had to do that with my current book. But since this time, I am also helping to design the book I had to go further.

The person doing layout and formatting (which in this instance is primarily my spouse with me assisting where I am able) has to remove the layers of 'stuff' or code that lie underneath all those things you see on the page on your computer. The corrections, p symbol for paragraphing, line and page breaks and tabs all have underlaying well, I'll call them symbols and marks, in the text and they have to vanish before the finished product goes to the printer. Just because you don't see them in your manuscript doesn't mean they are not there. They are still there, sort of literary dust mites that must be swept away for good.

The book designer has to remove these cussed things and do many other tasks such as: convert the eight and a half by eleven computer screen page to the size template of the actual book ( in our case the popular trade paperback size of 6X9. The actual size is 6.25 by 9.25 or something very close to that.) The book designer has to check each line of the entire text, look for spaces between words that shouldn't be there, properly format the scene and point of view breaks within each chapter, set the margins so that when the print book is bound each verso page has plenty of left margin for line readability, deal with those single lines at the bottom of the verso page and the top of the recto page that are called 'widows and orphans', make sure the text is justified on every page and each line has the proper number of words for readability, set the space between each line of the text (generally 1.5 rather than single or double space), paginate the text but not the title page, table of contents, copyright page, dedication and any blank pages. Whew, is your head spinning yet?

The designer also needs to make sure the title page appears as a recto (right) page with the copyright page on the back of it. He has to label the verso (left) pages at the top of the text with the book title and the recto pages with the chapter headings, decide what font to use on the text for readability (Garramond recomended by most folks), whether each chapter will be a recto chapter with blank verso page opposite or randomly follow the text, the use of chapter headings and negative space in beginning each chapter, set controls so that the table of contents appears correctly referring to each chapter and page number. Pictures and titles must be embedded in the text at the proper places and sized and formatted to match the text.

There are lots of other tasks to add to the list but it is long enough already to give you an idea of just how much work is involved. And that's just the inside of the book. The book designer also has the cover to do. He has to know about 'full bleed' so that the color on the cover goes all the way to the end of the front and back without a telltale white line on the edges. He has to select a different font that that used in the text. He has to know how to physically put the various elements to be used on the cover together. Cover art is a subject in and of itself. Adobe Creative Suite Design Standard and Photoshop are essentials to have as software on your computer. (cost approximately $1200.)

The designer and author need to select images and color, how the title and author's name should read and where both should appear. What goes on the back: plot synopsis, testimonials, author information, etc. Generally in fiction, if the author is famous her or his name are in bigger font than the title. Unknown authors names are less boldly displayed than the title. The title and authors name need to be viewable on the spine when the book is shelved. Since people do indeed judge a book by its cover the cover should catch the eye with the colors used which should also give a clue to its genre and mood. Covers should not be too busy or too simple. Go to a bookstore and look at the covers and you will see definite trends in each genre.

Because many books are now sold through Amazon online and in Kindle format, a cover designer need to consider how the book will appear online to the browsing consumer. Amazon uses a white screen so the book cover should not be predominately white, for example. The image will be small so it need to be eye catching with a clear subject.

The author and the designer must decide what sort of copyright the book will have and secure it, decide and insert other attributions that will appear with the copyright, and the author as publisher must buy the ISBN number. They need to list the book with the 'books in print' folks and make sure it can be sold on Amazon and through major booksellers such as Borders and Barnes and Noble. They need to determine the length of the book, what the printing costs will be, and what the author will charge per copy for the printed book.

There are many other things that have to be done post publication which fall under marketing and will not be addressed here. But I think you get the idea of what we are doing. I used to think book designers read a few instructions, hit a few keys and voila, eet wuz done! Color me clueless before. Now, I know why it took so long. And that's when you don't have to do it in snips and snatches after work. After many hours of tutorials, Adobe training programs, weblogs, and Joel Friedlander's online advice for self publishers I am beginning to understand the process.

If you are an author and don't want to do any of this of course, you can pay a book designer and subsidy publisher to do it for you. You will pay a minimum of seven hundred dollars up to thousands of dollars for the service depending on what you choose. If you choose to publish in hard cover with color illustrations and dust jacket it will cost much more and if you self publish in volume rather than using the POD (print on demand) method it can run you an easy ten thousand dollars and you need a climate controlled warehouse for your unsold books. If you want to make any significant money at this you must promote your book shamelessly and constantly and you must get it on Amazon. But, your books will cost you about four fifty to ten dollars a paper back trade copy to print depending on pages if you use a service like LULU or Create Space and you can sell the book for sixteen to twenty dollars per copy. The printer gets a small cut and you keep the rest. So you get a bigger payoff per book than you would from a traditional publisher. The downside is you have to find ways to sell your book without the big publisher corporations' networks helping.

Your book is not printed until it is pre sold if it is POD, so you have no inventory to store. Some people really do make a lot of money this way.

And the 'indie' stigma is fading with the recent successes of some indie authors who sell large quantities through Amazon and the Kindle delivery format. Print bookstores are going into bankruptcy and so are big name publishers. If the content of your book is good and people know about it and it is priced right it can sell. You don't always need agents and traditional publishers any more. The times, they are a changing. Your options and opportunities are broadening.

So, that was a quick general overview of what I did on my summer vacation. Or part of it, anyway.

Dorothy, put down them ruby slippers and fetch me a glass of lemonade

2011-07-12T11:03:00.005-04:00

(Photo: Judy Garland as Dorothy in 1939 film, The Wizard OF Oz)

Hello ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages. Step right up for some important enlightenment. Pay no attention to the man behind the screen. Today's topic under the Emerald City Blogodome comes straight from that wizardess of words herself, Wayworm, the Wicked Wit of The East. Yessir, folks, that's me and my post is about making literary lemonade from lemons.

I suppose I might subtitle it, "Surviving a ill thought out commission to an illustrator and moving onto loftier heights." If that sounds sort of high-toned or Victorian, excuse me please, for I have just read the fifth gaslight murder mystery of the week. But, I digress. We wicked wit's do that occasionally.

What I really want to address today once the Munchkins calm down, are two topics: (1) what not to do when working with an artist on a book project (that's the lemon) and what happened afterwards (the lemonade).

First, a little backstory. Back in 2008 or 2009 I decided to take a project I'd been working on sporadically since 2000, then called The Dragon Chronicles, and turn it into a children's book in verse with pictures. I hired an artist with a background in animated design who was recommended by a friend to create some character drawings for this book. I didn't check her references or set a time limit for obtaining her designs. Are you already feeling chills up your back? I should have. Maybe I was distracted by the shine of the ruby slippers. In any case, wicked wits aren't always wise.

Now, I knew even back then that if I were to take this book to an agent and was able to get one of the big publishing houses to buy it (highly unlikely, folks) the publisher would toss the pictures I provided and hire an artist from their own stable to do the drawings. But, I wasn't planning to go that route. I was writing the dragon book to read out loud to Toto and as a legacy for my eventual grandchildren.

The artist gave me to understand I could pay for the character designs and stop the project at any time. I should have but I didn't. Flash forward to spring of 2010. By this time we're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. By this time, the picture book in verse had morphed into a full fledged fantasy novel for YA and adults. It didn't really need pictures anymore. I hadn't heard from the artist for the better part of a year. All I had was a rendering of the dragon, which I liked. I had already paid her a considerable sum, more than I should have, and I emailed her that I was finished with my book, it was in final edit and I either wanted the rest of the characters or the project cancelled.

She made all sorts of excuses and strung me along the Yellow Brick Road, but she did finally come up with the rest of the designs...in the spring of 2011! Why did I wait? I suppose because I had already been involved with this project so long and in my mind had paid for the designs so I thought I ought to get them. When the artist finally delivered the designs, she did so in the unexpected form of a computer disc that couldn't even be used without the purchase of a $1200.00 software program and she hit me with a huge and very much unexpected bill as well. Color me shocked and black and blue. Oz could have blown me over with a feather.

When I was finally able to view the illustrations in final form in the black and white format they would be in in the text, they were completely wrong for the book. Still wanting to like the art, I showed the small paintings of the characters she'd done and delivered with the disc to a survey group to a resounding reaction of dead air. Gulp. No cheers from the Quadlings or the Munchkins either. The scarecrow shrugged. The lion didn't even roar once.

I dug out the agreement we'd signed several years before and discovered it promised things that hadn't been done and said absolutely nothing about the stuff on the unusable disc. I asked the artist for a discount prior to final payment, which she refused. She got a lawyer to write me one of those nasty lawyer letters. She eventually offered a discount, although a smaller one that I asked for. Her lawyer informed me she'd copyrighted the designs, which she'd conveniently neglected to inform me. She has promised to transfer the copyright. Lets just say I am not holding my breath on that one but I do have a bucket of water handy.

So, what if I had decided to use her pictures in my published book, assuming that since I'd paid for them they were mine as she had verbally told me? I shudder to imagine what might have come of that.

If you are wondering about the art, I stuck it in one of those empty gift boxes that you always mean to reuse and never remember where you stashed it in time for Glinda's birthday. Then, I shoved the box on a crowded top shelf in a little used tower guest room closet where it will probably remain until a child or grandchild comes across it one future day and tosses it into a garage sale bin.

If you are still with me here is my advice on the lemon:

1. Do not hire an artist to work on your book is you plan to publish traditionally.

2. If you do hire an artist, shop around, check references and qualifications, have a real contract that someone with legal qualifications signs off on before you do.

3. Be very very specific what you want and don't think you have to be overly polite about substandard results so as not to hurt a creative person's tender feelings. Encourage them to move on with the project but be direct. This is business and you should get what you asked for and what you paid for.

4. Have a set time for product delivery detailed in the contract and list the penalties for failing to adhere to that schedule.

5. Have a set payment schedule in writing for each part of the project and make sure all parties adhere to that schedule.

6. No verbal agreements.

7. Don't worry about lawyers saying nasty things about you in their letters. They are hired by their client to say nasty things in an effort to intimidate you. Lawyers say awful things as a part of their daily job (think Jose Baez here). They don't have to be true. Its just part of the law game. After they spew hateful words at witnesses and fellow lawyers they get on the elevator, slap each other on the back and invite each other for golf or drinks. I have personally witnessed this.

8. You have recourse to Small Claims Court for claims of $5000.00 or less. The case will be heard by an impartial judge and not someone hired by your opponent.

As for me, I am like Aunt Em's cat who once sat on a hot stove burner. Not only will I not hop on a red burner, I won't ever sit on a stove again.

Okay, now for the lemonade. It occurs to me that this getting a bit too long, so if I may, I will expound on the lemonade in the next post. But here's a teaser. Having spent money on useless art and sucking up the sour aftertaste, I was reluctant to hire a book designer or book producer, or sign with a subsidy publisher for my indie book. But guess what? That expensive software we bought (which we got cheap through the university thanks to my spouse's staff discount) has everything on it to enable us to become book designers, book producers, and yes, our own publishers. All we have to do is learn how. I thought this would be easy. It is not, although probably easier for my spouse who has a degree in CIT than myself. It is very complicated and involves study and research and practice. But, it is fun as well and once we get the hang of it it will potentially make future book productions as slick as the Tin Man's oilcan and as easy to swallow as Ozma's Emerald City Smoothies.

We've been working with Adobe Creative Suite Design Standard and Photoshop for a month after work and on weekends, have read countless tutorials on the 'how tos'. Joel Friedlander's book, A Self Publisher's Companion and his blog, The Book Designer are GREAT references. So, we're doing this exciting new thing all by our selves. We will produce a well written and well produced book to put in your hands with no middlemen involved. I'll tell you how next time.

Until then dear friends, live long and prosper. And, uh, don't go flying around in one of those hot air balloons without a certified pilot. Watch out for those flying monkeys and the guy or gal behind the screen, too.

Literary changes

2011-06-30T18:55:00.003-04:00

Well, after waiting nearly a whole year to get the pictures for my dragon fantasy book, I have decided not to use them, with the probable exception of the dragon character. I really wanted to like these pictures, I really did. I tried to tell myself that they were adequate if not entirely what I had envisioned to depict my characters as I wrote them. But a little voice inside my head (was it my muse's cousin?) kept whispering that while they might be okay in a young children's version of Tim's story or in a cartoon setting they were not at all right for the YA novel that evolved. SO, here I go pulling the virtual plug. I think this was the right decision for now. When I showed the pictures to the first preview sampling, lets say the reaction was politely lukewarm. Thus, Tim's book will arrive in print with a color cover sans interior illustrations. I wonder how many other authors have been through this scenerio?

At least I do have creative control. Many authors don't and have to endure a cover they hate with characters that don't even vaguely resemble their words. How many times have you picked up a book and read it wondering how the cover artist could depict the hero as a blonde muscle man when the writer clearly says he is of medium build with chocolate hair? Or the dog in the story is a German Shepherd inside and a Labrador on the cover? The lead character is forty but looks twenty on the cover? ARTISTS don't read copy. Mine obviously didn't. I suspect that for her it is all about the money. And lets just say I and my preview audience agree that she has a somewhat inflated idea of what her skill is worth. There's a learning experience here, too. Sometimes, boys and girls, credibility in critical thinking stretches so thin that you can look through it like a window. 'Nuff said.

For now the illustrations you might have seen here on the blog rest on a top shelf of my closet in a box. If they ever do see the light of day from the pages of a book it will be a children's picture book. But don't count on that. They'll have to take a number. I and the muse have a lot of projects lined up already.

I have been working on the YA novel, Charlie's Dog again. Tim's book is in production in the print version. I am as pleased with my words there as ever and prepared to forget the mistake I almost made with the visual images. I am glad to return to the last century, New Bethel WV, a coal camp girl and her cur dog.

Live long and prosper.

Live and learn. No more artist collaboration on my books.

wayworm's photostream

2011-06-09T16:44:00.001-04:00

wayworm's photostream on Flickr.

Update

2011-06-09T15:15:00.003-04:00

Hello bloggers,

As you can see from the photos, my Tim book illustrations have been coming in since I last posted four months ago. I apologize to any of you who might have actually missed my voice in 'blog world'. I can only say that I have been busy with real life as well as writing 156 pages of one novel (Charlie's Dog) as well as finishing up my part of the work on Tim's book (The Adventures Of Mungo Tim). Tim is now in the beginning stages of publication, hopefully being in print and in my hands and ready to fly into yours sometime in the fall. I will also have a Kindle version for those of you who, like me, do most of your pleasure reading on mobile devices. There will be an aiudio version as well.

I have been practicing reading the book from a teleprompter (which is both fun and challenging) while Danny records it outside of the closet that we are turning into a sound booth.

While I have a theatre background in my increasingly distant past, reading and recording an audio (or podio) book by myself is very different from anything I have done before. An actor in a scene on stage or in a radio play takes on the persona or role of one character and responds to the dialogue of the other actors. Reading the dialogue of several characters in one scene who have different accents and vocal inflections is really a challenge. I slip from one character to another almost before I realize it and unfortunately I have a tendency to, uh, employ a few four letter words when it occurs. Cut! Take fourteen. My bloopers are many and I can see that it is going to take a whole lot of practice. But, gosh, it is FUN! There will be a podio/audio version one day, really. I am determined to learn this new skill.

I have been able to do a little traveling during my down time and will post on Nannan and Dandan soon. We have also started a podcast about overnight RV parking. Whew. Not so interesting perhaps is the hours and hours I put into a garage sale. And decluttering my house. I am also on a recessionary 'cut your expenses' track. I now clean my own house. And walk three dogs three tines a day. All fodder for posts in future.

Today, my eyes must recover from the dilation at the eye doc's office. So, I'll sign off. I really do hope you've missed me. Like Arnold, I will be back.

Happy Belated Groundhog Day

2011-02-03T16:23:00.003-05:00

GROUNDHOG

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Consider groundhog, woodchuck, marmot

Not most people's favorite varmit

Yet famed throughout the Keystone State

For weather change prognosticate

The groundhog's dressed in frosted fur

It's hard to tell if he's a her

Like rodents, please do not forget

With aggressive manner not a pet

Some call the critter whistle pig

As ground squirrels go he's sort of big

An herbivore, he dines on grubs

Grasses, snails, and sometimes bugs

The groundhog smiles a toothy grin

As he digs a den and burrows in

Like bears, this marmot hibernates

When shadow's seen and Spring comes late.

TTFN my little Bloggers!

The Old Grey Mare She Ain't What She Used To Be, But So What?

2011-02-02T15:26:00.005-05:00

A few minutes ago I had one of those epiphany moments. I stopped in the parking lot of my local Publix market and marvelled that something so simple had never occurred to me before. Here's my tale of the day, boys and girls:

Lately, well for several years now actually, I've been feeling intermittently sort of sorry for myself for my ever increasing age and outward sags and wrinkles. Realizing that my future decades are numbered now in a probable finite several is admittedly sobering. I've been seeing the sand in the proverbial hour glass emptying out way too fast. That's the back story and maybe the subject of another blog.

Today, being (finally) mostly recovered from an unexpected and nasty twelve day cold, I ventured out in my little red Volvo to rejoin the rest of humanity. While the weather in the rest of the country seems to be viciously cold and icy and snowy, here in Florida it is in the mid seventies and cloudy with a chance of meatballs. I offer no complaints when I don't have to wear a jacket in February. Who would! So, needing some food, off I went to the grocery.

I loaded up my cart till it was overflowing with stuff and sedately moseyed over to the nearest check out line, after spending an inordinate time selecting just the right ice cream and breakfast foods. As the cashier was ringing up my purchases a frowning woman maybe two or even three decades my junior zoomed up behind me with three pieces of fruit. She moved her now empty cart at me like a bulldozer aiming at a sand hill. I had nowhere to move to so I stood fast. The cart stopped. Now, this big imposing sort of woman I will call Pauline, stepped in front of her cart and pushed her body as far over as she could towards the card scanner without actually physically shoving me out of her way as the bag lady loaded up my six cloth bags with various goodies. As I waited for the bagger to fill the last two bags, I moved as far into the aisle as I could get without actually abandoning my things. Still frowning, Pauline leaned closer to me me and twisted her big body into pretzel shape to scan her debit card. This broad was determined to get the hell out of the store asap!

Alas, for the impatient panting woman: It was crowded in the store and poor Pushy Pauline ended up trapped behind me rolling her cart (for three pieces of fruit?) out of the door. I could feel waves of hostility behind my back boiling from her. I could feel the heat of her glare. She was in a hurry, no time to loiter, no time to stroll, no time to smile. She was late, late for a very important...something. Since she was so aggressive, I mulishly refused to move faster or jump out of her way while pretending not to notice her. (I admit to feeling just a moment of irritation at her rudeness.) The microsecond she could get around me she raced to her car, jumped in, left the cart in the lot, and roared away, still frowning.

I shrugged. It was too nice a day to dwell on rudeness.Then, while loading my things in the back of my car, something else struck me. I was in a good mood again because I had no reason to hurry. Pauline did, or at any rate she thought so. Frowning the whole time she was in the store and while driving to her next task, no doubt buzzing like a hornet about to sting something unwary, she was blitzing through life without noticing much outside herself. and her own anxieties.

What was so important to this harried woman I wondered? A job? Two jobs? Cranky kids to pick up at daycare before racing home to mountains of dirty laundry and to make...fruit...for dinner? Maybe she was in grad school with an impossible assignment to complete. Maybe a mean boss or harried spouse just yelled at her. Maybe she was out of work? In any case, this woman in a tearing hurry was obviously not happy. Not speaking to the clerk or the bagger or me or anyone else, she was in a FRENZY. Yes, whatever the cause, this much younger woman was definitely not happy.

And I suddenly realized how lucky I was not to be in a hurry anymore. Not to have to rush anywhere...ever again. Not to have to be accountable to anyone else but me unless I chose to be. I looked around the lot as I took my cart to the cart corral at several older people loading groceries into their cars. They weren't in a hurry either. They looked over and smiled. I remembered what it was to be young and how I was almost always too busy and concerned about responsibility to remember to have much fun. Always looking ahead to the next task or the next problem and the next 'have to'. I probably didn't smile much, either. I don't remember.

"Well," I said aloud as soon as I was in my car and backing out, "I'd like to have my young face back and be able to jump up from a kneeling position as fast as I could at twenty, but there are compensations to age after all." I smiled at my wrinkles in the car's mirror. I winked and if the crows feet stayed in place. I thought, " So what."

Then, I went home and did whatever the hell I pleased, which happened to be having a mid afternoon snack of an English muffin with high sugar English marmalade and blogging. Next I am going to read a little more of the novel I am reading on Kindle and then maybe work a little bit on a new poem before thinking about supper. Or maybe not. There's no deadline after all remember? (Danny doesn't care what I make for supper as long as there is supper and if it should be late it wouldn't bother him much. He'd just take a nap.) This not being young thing is getting better and better.

Yes, I am one lucky person, wrinkles and all.

Here's the rest of my message. Stop, relax those facial muscles, all you 'Paulines' out there. Practice saying, "I am not in your hurry." Laundry can wait. Most other things can, too, for a few minutes, an hour, or a day. A crowded schedule can be simplified. So be good to yourself. Remake that appointment that's stressing you. Tell your boss you'll get it done and do it, but take a break and listen to your favorite music or do some yoga. Hug your cat, your dog, your spouse, your kid. Take a twenty minute walk, listen to the birdsong, feel the sun or the sea breeze on your face. Slow the speed on the treadmill of your life enough to look around. Have some fun along with the work and the 'have to' realities. And buy something more interesting than fruit for Chrissakes. Life is shorter than you think.

Oh, and growing older isn't so bad after all. Trust me, I know.

Happy Groundhog Day.

A Brief Excerpt from The Adventures of Mungo Tim...

2011-01-29T14:07:00.002-05:00

"It's a dragon! A real dragon. There are dragons left in the world!" the rider exclaimed.

A gust of wind knocked the hood of the dark wool cloak back from the rider's head and coppery hair cascaded to slender shoulders. Emerald green eyes met cinnabar red ones above.

"Why, its just a human girl," boomed Tim in a kettle drum voice. "On a horse too scrawny to eat."

"How amazing," said Miranda. "It talks."

"Of course it talks," agreed Tim, coasting to a graceful landing on the road. "It flies and breathes fire and does many more amazing things than just talk."

"It certainly boasts," Miranda declared, steadying her mount as it tried to dance backwards.

"With reason," countered Tim.

The girl laughed. "It is beautiful."

"As is the girl," Tim replied. "With hair like firelight and eyes like spring."

"It is perhaps not a dragon at all but a silver-tongued prince under an enchantment?" asked Miranda, hopefully.

The ground rumbled as the dragon laughed. "No, just a dragon. Aren't you afraid of me, little human girl?"

Miranda shook her head. "No. I admit I was at first but I'm not afraid anymore. Although I probably should be. But you see, encountering a talking beast is...well, the wonder of it seems to have drained the fear out of me. And, in any case, if you are going to kill me there is nothing much I can do about it now. So, I might as well have an interesting conversation first."

Tim nodded. "Indeed. I like your reasoning. And, just between you and me, I have never killed a girl who reasons."

"Have you killed any that don't?"

"I have not. In fact, although I am loath to admit it since it doesn't seem very dragony, I haven't as yet killed any humans. Not on purpose anyway. Furthermore, you are the first human girl I've had a conversation with at all. The others just screamed and ran away."

Miranda giggled. "Well, I can understand that. You are a dragon, after all....."

Musing on memoirs

2011-01-18T13:59:00.005-05:00

I had an interesting discussion with some other writers on, believe it or not, Facebook today. I started a tempest in commenting on aspiring writers who write only in the memoir genre and who join writing workshops, groups, and classes not to learn the craft of writing but to "express their feelings" (generally painful ones involving the negative) . It has been my observation in numerous workshops that these folks seem to be under several illusions: 1. That their individual misery is extremely interesting to other people 2. That their words are pure perfection requiring no editing or learning of story crafting whatsoever.

They have never heard the maxim "show, don't tell". They can't write dialogue and generally say they hate to read dialogue. Their character (s) are usually extremely one dimensional and rarely does anything actually happen in their memoirs before several hundred pages of narrative pass SLOWLY by. In real life, people don't take five pages to walk across the room to answer the phone, folks. Hear me snore, here.

I made the comment that these folks don't seem to want to develop a writer's toolbox and might better be served by getting some counseling than wasting other peoples time in a writing workshop. Yeah, strong stuff. I admit that. I insulted, without intending to, a nationally successful writer who has written and taught memoir writing. Now of course, this writer can write very well and her books don't resemble anything listed above. But, even if she chose not to say so, I'll bet she has had plenty of those not really serious about writing 'memorists' in her classes over the years.

I personally don't care to read memoirs. I don't read non fiction much either, for the most part. I like fantasy, science fiction, mysteries, etc and for me, the story is the thing. Good story can trump bad writing. Words without something happening cause me to close the book. I don't like whiny characters either. I like to read about protagonists with gumption. Since that's what I like to read, that's also what I like to write. So, I am admittedly biased.

I probably couldn't write a memoir myself. Not if I had to stick strictly to the facts. Maybe I could write creative nonfiction like Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil. Many times I have written fictional stories based on fact with imagined dialogue and additional plot twists. I think all writers of fiction do this. I can't speak for memoir writers, but since the mind has a way of playing with time I suspect there is some fact stretching even in memoirs now and again.

In any genre, the write what you know maxim does hold true. If you write about universal human emotions and experiences it will work whether Luke Skywalker is a farm boy on Tatooine wanting to join the Rebel alliance or a Kentucky farm boy during the Civil War or a twenty first century Iowa kid on his way to Iraq. But, remember something has to happen to Luke for the reader to care. And, Luke has to do something about it.

A good writer is a good writer, whatever genre he or she chooses to work in. Writing is a craft, though, as well as a passion. As well as an art. Like any craft, it has to be learned. And must be practiced. That means doing something over and over until you get it write. To paraphrase Mark Twain, the difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Good writers must read a lot, too. Talent counts sure, but hard work is essential. That goes for memoir writers as much as anyone else.

I know a man who works only in the memoir genre whose writing is enthralling even if he is just describing his character walking through a bazaar. His well crafted words make you imagine yourself in his shoes and evoke all the senses. His story reeks of the truth of the human experience in a good way. He is a born storyteller who happens to want to tell his own story. And his story is one that I do want to hear since he's an interesting person. So, really, I don't hate memoirs or hold those who write them in contempt. Even though the writer whose post I commented on probably won't believe it.

At the risk of sounding mean again, I think some aspiring writers just get stuck somewhere between a negative emotion and a bad experience and they just can't stop milking it to boredom. They don't have anything to really show us because they haven't made sense of their experience and taken a longer view. They haven't learned and grown and they just want our sympathy for the therapy they think they will get from writing a memoir. Everybody probably does have a story maybe, but maybe not everybody can (or should) tell it. Memoirs are stories after all (or should be) even if of a different sort. Remember the story arc? Beginning, middle, end? How about who wants what? How are they going to get it? Who wants to stop them?

If your true life experience isn't very interesting to anybody but you maybe you should just journal instead. I am ducking and covering here. But, please, aspiring writer, don't take ten pages to describe yourself as "Sally" taking five minutes to look through her pantry and sip tepid tea and look out the window at the snowdrifts in the yard and ignore the ringing phone in her inertia. I don't care how pretty your words are. That scenerio is boring. I don't care if it really happened that way and you/Sally were sad because your boyfriend or husband beat you every winter a decade ago and forbade you to drink tea and you get mopey every time it snows. Give me instead a neighbor desperately trying to warn Sally that a psychotic serial killer has broken out of prison and disappeared into the blizzard the night before, headed right for Sally's farm. Let me know he's just broken into the cellar. Give me a reason to read on. Make one up if nothing more exciting really happened than electricity going off for two hours from ice snapping the power lines. Most people's daily life just isn't interesting enough to record it. Not for a couple hundred years after they've died, maybe. Then after everything has changed mundane life in the past is interesting. Ouch, maybe, but there you have it. My thoughts, take them or leave them.

I'm off now to take the dog for a massage. There's actually a story there, but I am not going to tell it. So you can breath easy. Live long and prosper.

preview of some characters from my book in living color

2011-01-14T13:02:00.006-05:00

Pictures: Professor Timothy McDuff, Hulda Mitten, Miranda and Will, Tim the dragon

Hey there bloggers,

Here's your first look at some of the characters from the upcoming book, The Adventures Of Mungo Tim by yours truly (that's me). I am waiting for several others to be finished and then Danny is going to format the cover and the text and we're ready to fly away. Soon, I will be turning the story into a Podio book. This project as been going on for so long and I am very excited to be nearing completion.

For those who don't know, the novel is geared towards the YA market as well as adults and is also suitable for the 'Harry Potter' age group. It is a fantasy featuring a dragon, Salamagundus Tim Tim ( aka Tim) who would rather be human and definitely does not want to be a hero, a runaway girl (Miranda O'Mara) who does NOT want to be a princess, a direction challenged deposed prince (Will Von Leonhardt) who has to earn his keep by winning tournaments, an ogre (Hulda Mitten) with an incredible singing voice and a talent for making cupcakes as well as royal policy, and a tricky Pooka (Sean McGarrity) who can shape shift from horse to man. Other characters include a nefarious pair of dragon hunters/robbers, a loathsome Troll warrior with a propensity for stewed cats and destroying kingdoms, a warrior dwarf, a were bear, wizards, spies, elves and fairies, gypsies, pirates, and a mostly misunderstood misanthropic King. Lots of humor, action, battles, time and temporal travel and yes, some romance.

This is how my mind works, folks. I met someone at an art reception not long ago and she asked me if I was and artist. I said, "No, I am a writer." She asked what sort of things I write. When I answered, "Mostly science fiction, ghost tales, and fantasy," there was a pregnant pause. The woman gulped and said, "Oh, and you look so normal, too, my dear."

Ha, fooled her. This is the person, boys and girls, who talked to door knobs as a kid and always kept hoping to meet fairies in the woods. I once lived in a haunted house, too. Really.

At present I am working on a short story about a robot toy in a post apocalyptic world but my next novel will concern a girl and her dog in a 1950s West Virginia coal town.

To answer your unasked question, do I write hoping for fame and fortune? Not really. Reality is a part of my mind set. I know what the odds are. After all, I've already written a short story collection and a poetry collection and remain obscure. I write because I can't not. So there. In upcoming weeks I'll post some excerpts and you can decide if you like my stories and will want to read about Tim. I'm betting you will.

Live long and prosper.

Apologia for my prolonged absence, sort of

2011-01-13T15:53:00.006-05:00

Photo: The undead writer on her RV not working.

Sorry bloggers. I know I've been gone a long time. Any reports of my death are, at least as far as today at four o'clock, premature. I've just been busy editing my book, formatting my book, doing the holidays, traveling, and just frittering away my time. That's all. It is now twelve days into the New year and funnily enough my resolutions are the same as last year's: to clean out my storage room, de clutter my house, exercise more, and get my novel into print. So, far, nada. But friends, the year and the decade are still young. Today for example, I walked the dogs, blogged, accidentally stabbed my hand while chopping vegetables, and made homemade chicken soup after getting the blood stopped. I may get the bed made...or not. Its frakkin' cold here in Florida, but having said that the weather is better (here) than practically anywhere else so I'm not really complaining. And, we've got sunshine.

My biggest rant lately has been over some misguided (at best) or idiot (in probable actuality) professor type deciding to edit the "N" word out of Mark Twain's great masterpiece, Huckleberry Finn. Of all the crack brained and misguided attempts at political correctness I've heard of in this mixed up world we live in, this is one of the dumbest. And condescending. And shortsighted.

Some fool who thinks, just cause he probably graduated college, that he is qualified to judge a genius's work dares to have the arrogance and audacity to tamper with literary perfection. Insert loud raspberry noise here. Whoever this Joe is, I'll bet a catfish to a catamaran that he can't write a lick compared to our Sam. I'll be he isn't nearly as smart or as interesting to talk to, either. After all, like Oscar Wilde, there's almost nothing that Mark Twain ever said that wasn't a quotable statement. I dunno if the man who dares to tamper with Huck is black or white and frankly my dears, I don't give a ...dang.

He claims that black children will be so put off by the use of the "N" word that they will not read the book, so the word must be deleted. Never mind that the offending word was routinely in use during the time of history that the book was written and that part of Twain's point was to show the wrongness of Jim being enslaved at all never mind considered as and treated as 'lesser than' white people by the other characters. If Twain was alive, the tamperer with his work would be sued and Twain would win. The professor would lose his job and credibility. Twain would issue a brilliant quotable quote that would turn the hapless hacker into the humbug I suspect he might be. But, its easy to pick on a dead man. So the professor pushes the delete button on the "N" word and substitutes whatever he likes.

It probably doesn't occur to him either that he is insulting the intelligence and capability of all children, black white or otherwise, by assuming that they can't understand and appreciate Twain's writing after seeing one potentially offensive term. Too many adults underestimate children and that offends ME.

Its too easy to rewrite history. Literary or otherwise. (Dangerous in so many ways to rewrite history, but that's another story) I can just hear Professor Humbug now: "Let's forget, why don't we, that anyone was ever treated badly or called names that offend. It will make it all so much more comfortably readable."

What's next, Prof? Outlaw the word 'Nazi' in literature? Just say why don't you that Hitler and his goons were rude people? Maybe forget the Holocaust ever happened? There are some offensive words in the Bible, no doubt. In Shakespeare too, mayhap. Why don't we just remove any words that anybody anywhere doesn't feel comfortable with? Make it a real pretty world? Like a fairy tale. Without witches, of course.

But wait, somebody tell Professor Humbug that rap artists routinely use the "N" word in their music. That seems to be okay with the professor. He's seemingly not worried about children being put off by that. Is it okay because that is black people insulting other black people? Or is it 'cause the rap artists aren't dead and will sue his, uh butt?

Whatever. See me shrug. I'm just going to give the word changing professor my 'Pampas Ass of the week' award. And speaking as a writer who's not dead yet: don't presume to know my intentions or correct my words. If you don't like them, don't read my books. Now or in future. Like Twain, I don't suffer fools. Edit that: foolishness in the name of fun, yes. But self important serious fools, no.

What's all that stuff about tomorrow anyway, Annie?

2010-09-28T11:17:00.003-04:00

"The sun will came out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow they'll be sun. Just thinking about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow 'till there's none..." Oh really, Annie?

It's Tuesday morning and Washington official speak according to the news media is that the national recession is almost over. But perusing the local paper I note that unemployment in Florida continues to hover at around 12%, the real estate market is continuing to struggle with close to seven out of ten sales being either short sales or bank owned homes. The median price has dropped from about $250,000 when the recession began to just under $100,000. Construction starts are few and far between, as you might suppose. People are leaving the state not moving in since the job market is so poor. Technology jobs are practically non existent and the government is all but killing NASA. As far as I know, we have not seen any of the federal stimulus money here. Oh, the banks are fine; they're just not lending. So, maybe you should just stuff it, little redheaded chick.

Here, tourism took a hit from the BP oil spill. It seems that all we've got going for us now is our alluring weather. But, wait a minute, its still in the nineties in late September. Scratch that thought. At least we still have Harry Potter at Universal. Without Harry, the hotels would be hurting cause Shamu and Tinker Belle can't cut it alone these days. Especially at Disney's prices.

Looking beyond the local, things aren't so rosy either. People who have been around a long time, like former President Carter (84 years young), say that they don't remember a time when our country was so bitterly divided. Nobody in DC can agree to work together on anything. Global warming is upon us whether we like the weather or not. Can't even buy an egg without risking death. We're morally compromised, fiscally piled high an deep, and still spending big bucks losing the mideast to Al Quaida and the mullahs. And Iran, who is itching to roll over Iraq says we did 9-11 to ourselves. Some folks probably actually believe that too, more's the pity. Best to put the paper down and avoid Fox and CNN, too. I can only feel worse.

So, I'll just go back to working on my dragon book, walking the dogs, and doing yoga as much as I can. Hit the beach as many times in the RV as possible. Live today for tomorrow may be worse. Or with luck, it may get better. There's nothing I can do about it anyway. Meanwhile, I'll just stick earplugs in when the kid is belting out her show stopping number and wait it out.

Like Scarlett, I'll think about tomorrow tomorrow. Today, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

Wishes

2010-09-27T14:31:00.004-04:00

Well boys and girls, life is interesting isn't it? I love the changes that come from being open to new experiences. Recently, I have reflected about how our needs and preferences, interests, likes and dislikes alter with our age and the various stages (or passages if you prefer) that we go through on our journey through our physical life.

I am now in what is probably the last quarter of my life and I am finding out what my grandparents knew: that material things eventually weigh one down. I am less and less interested in entertaining and in maintaining my home of fifteen years. The house is bigger than I need now with children long gone and small grandchildren that visit only a few times a year. It is overflowing with decades of my own possessions and my mother's things since her death several years ago. I want to de-clutterfy, discard, sell, give away, etc. I want to keep only what serves my current needs and pleasures. I am ready to downsize. Not to move into a condo or apartment since those come with rules and regulations like not having three dogs as well as a lack of the privacy I still crave.

So, I am thinking that I am ready to move on, even though my house is paid for. If the economy would only pick up enough to sell, I would like a smaller place as home base maybe in the country with enough land for the dogs and the capability to keep the motor home on site. With a well and a septic tank and place for a garden. Ya know, a mini homestead. Somewhere in Florida, coastal Georgia, or western NC. I would like to see as much of the country as possible in the RV. With the dogs. And my laptop to write more books as I go. If wishes were horses, that's what I'd do. Danny is drooling at the thought.

I might add another wish that someday we could travel almost full time...but that one has to be on the back burner. Long term wish. Cause, Danny still has to work. So, a job of some sort has to be a part of the near future wish. Done, wish, second part.

It all has to stay theoretical for now thanks to the worst economic situation since my parents were kids in the Great Depression of the past century. But, still its good to have something to wish for. In the meantime, I'm counting my many blessings, enjoying life as it is, and resolved to begin the de-clutterification process...tomorrow.

Update

2010-09-16T09:39:00.004-04:00

Dragons and boy wizards and class A motorhomes, oh my! It's Fall, although you wouldn't really know it by stepping outside. It is still steamy and sultry. I put out the autumn faux pumpkins (real ones die fast in Florida) and the faux sunflower wreath for the front door. Hasn't helped me believe.

We went to Universal's Islands of Adventure last Sunday and walked through Hogsmeade at Harry's Wizarding World but wintery ambience generated by the faux snow covered roofs did not stop us from sweating miserably in the upper 90's heat and humidity. After riding the Flight of Hippogriff and perusing the merchandise at the shops we got in line at Hogwarts Castle for the main ride. And got back out again less than five minutes later. Despite the relatively short 30 minutes posted wait time, we were just too hot and starting to feel sick. So we limped and staggered to the always icy cold Cat In The Hat ride and went home. That's what you do when you have annual passes. No pressure to stay cause you can always come back when the weather's better. If it ever gets better and I am beginning to wonder if summer will ever let go...

Meantime, back in our well air conditioned house, we've been watching all the Harry Potter movies in order and I'd forgotten how good they really are. We are real fans. After all, you are never too old to be a wizard. Look at Dumbledore!

My real time dragon book manuscript is in the capable hands of my editor friend, Lisa. So, I am not worried about Tim until he returns to me for more tweaking.

For no logical reason at all I quite unexpectedly turned my attention to getting a bigger motor home for new and improved vacation adventures. (Have I been bespelled?) See my other Blog, NanNan and Dan Dan for the story. Suffice to say, if all goes as planned, we will sign the papers for the new 31 foot Serrano this weekend. Danny suggested we name it 'The Badger' in honor of his favorite Hogwarts school of wizardry house, Hufflepuff. Since the exterior is badger colored, I like the idea.

We're off to a family wedding at the beach this weekend, too. Probably the last flight of the Parakeet for us before she gets traded in. So, somebody who can, cast a spell and blow any potential hurricanes away from Florida. Live long and prosper.

Dogs, gods of frolic

2010-09-02T15:05:00.009-04:00

Dogs are the gods of frolic. I don't remember who said that, but it is true. They are classic optimists: no matter if they've chased birds and squirrels for years unsuccessfully: each time they spot one or the other in the yard they give chase. "Maybe this time," they seem to grin, "the birds won't have wings. Maybe this time I'll beat the squirrel to the tree." Never mind that they never do. There's always next time.

Of course, this may be because while they hold the memory of smells in their brains for decades, they don't seem to hold much else. They certainly don't hold grudges or pout from injustices. Pat a dog and he will forget that you smacked his nose for robbing the garbage can an hour before.

I don't think they hold guilt either. Or anticipation of consequence of behavior. If they did, would they rob the same garbage can an hour later even after you screamed at them and smacked their noses? Dogs aren't stupid, not at all. it's just that they mostly live in the moment. When a moment is over with it's delightful garbage feast its over. When the screaming session as you clean the kitchen floor is over its over. There's a bird in the yard isn't there? Let's go!!

They do hold patterns in their brains, definitely. That's how they recall what to do when they spot a piece of agility equipment even if several years have past. They have an innate sense of time patterns, too. I don't understand how they know exactly when its time for their feeding bowls to descend to the kitchen floor full of their favorite kibble, or when its time for the school bus to drop off the kids, but they do. Even when daylight savings time changes the hour.

Dogs have a pretty big vocabulary for human words. If there's something of canine interest attached to the word. Such as walk, dinner, biscuit, dog park, car ride, cat, bird, squirrel, etc. They are not as good with words like come, no, bad dog, leave it, but they will learn them eventually after you've worked up a pretty good headache trying to teach them.

Dogs tend to have pretty short attention spans, actually. The 'in the moment thing again' probably. They get bored easily. They need something to do to keep them busy, happy, and out of garbage cans. Unfortunately modern dogs are primarily pets and their original functions denied them. Which accounts for a lot of the garbage cans runs. Or maybe they would make time for those anyway. Who knows.

Dogs do worry, they do form strong attachments to people and other animals. They do grieve. Perhaps this is more that they like patterns than that they are thinking of the missing person or animal. Maybe it is because they are pack animals. I have lived with dogs all my life and I don't really know.

Dogs are heroic. They will give their lives to protect an owner or a pack member. Dogs are infinitely patient. Anyone who has lived with dogs knows this for truth. For these things and for their ability to live in the moment and roll with life's punches without holding grudges, we humans should give thanks and emulate them.

Dogs will not desert you because you make a mistake or lose your job or your house. Just throw the ball for them and they're happy. Dogs don't care if you are young or old or fat or thin, beautiful or ugly. It all smells the same anyway. Just be kind to them and they will be at your side no matter what comes. Can't say that about people mostly.

So, they track in garden dirt, chew the tassels off the oriental rugs, and might have the occasional flea. So you have to give up brocade bedspreads and light colored upholstery. So what. We will not mention overturned garbage cans here... or chewed up shoes either. Dogs will tackle a burglar, warn you of an impending storm, and make you laugh with their clowning around. Their footpads smell like popcorn, they are great to cuddle up to for an afternoon nap and they are always ready for the next adventure.

They are not called man's best friend for nothing.

Busily Being Beige

2010-08-24T11:47:00.002-04:00

Busily Being Beige

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

I'm standing just behind you

busily being beige

hiding all jollity

or slowly simmering rage.

I'm blending into the backdrop

so nobody knows I'm there

wearing a coat of mousy hue

pretending not to care.

But underneath, Crayola bright

A box of fifty-two

ranging sunshine yellow

to richest cobalt blue.

Laughing under the box lid

while hiding, in plain sight

maybe tomorrow, cinnabar red

just busily beige tonight.

August 2010

As Per Request, another excerpt from Tim's book

2010-08-23T19:28:00.002-04:00

Here's some more from The Adventures Of Mungo Tim

For those who wonder, Tim is a young dragon (100 years old) on a fly about, Miranda is a girl on the run from a forced marriage to a not so charming prince, and Will Von Leonhardt is a dis-inerited direction challenged prince, hero, and all around good guy....

The Black Knight

Will crashed through a particularly dry bit of bracken and leaped over a fallen log. Surely the road is just ahead, he thought, emerging into another clearing surrounded by tall trees. Frowning, he scanned the clearing, then sighed as he sat down on the log. He looked down at his boot which was flapping open at the front. Completely done for, he sighed. He looked up, hoping to read the direction of the sun, but the shadows were too deep. “I just don't understand why I keep getting so turned around,” he said aloud.

“Could it be because yer a great stupid oaf who don't know better than to wander the woods without knowing a even a wee bit of woodcraft?” commented a scratchy voice somewhere in the direction of his knee.”

Will looked down, eyes widening in amazement as he beheld a brown skinned man the size of a small child. He was so thin that he looked more like a bundle of sticks tied together than a living man. “Don't know much about taking care of boots either,” added the stick man. He pointed at the ruined boot.“Might as well throw it away, which would be good since you almost stepped on me and I'd rather be stepped on by a barefooted giant than one clad in heavy boots.”

Will pulled off the boot and set it at the base of the log. “I...I...am sorry. I wouldn't have stepped on you. I didn't see you,” said Will.

“Course ye dint, ye big lug. Ye don't see what 's in front of yer face let alone below it. You've nearly trod on a slithy tove and a passel of mome raths and that's just this morning.”

Who are you?” asked Will.

“Now, would I be tellin' that to a giant? Won't tell ye me real name. Just call me Styx.”

“Well, Styx, I am not a giant,” said Will.” Just a rather tall man.” He reached out a hand to the stick man. “I am Wilhelm of Wallesia, a knight errant, sometimes called Wilhelm the Black” he said,” but you can call me Will if you like.”

“What I would like,” answered the little man,” is fer ye to leave the Darkening Wood and stop disturbin' the peace.”

“I'd like nothing better,” answered Will. “That's what I've been trying to do, but I keep getting turned around, somehow. I'm lost. I guess I shouldn't have left the road.”

The little stick man laughed, which sounded like wooden reeds rubbing together. “Don't I just know that. Were bears been following ye as ye stumbled about fer days now. I thought at first they might kill you but I reckon they liked the way ye ran off them scurvy dragon hunters. Appears like they been content just to follow ye ter see what ye're gonna do next.”

“Lucky for me, I suppose,” Will said. “I have no desire to fight were bears. I am a town man not a woodsman, as you have so aptly noted. I'd be obliged if you would tell me where the road is and I'll gladly be on my way out of the forest, for I am hungry and tired and would like to sleep in a bed that isn't made of pine boughs.”

“Road out ain't far,” replied the stick man. He peered upward where a small ball of light bobbed in between the stout oaks which lined the clearing. “Ye wanna take him Dexi, since he has proved himself to be no friend of them dragon hunters?” He winked up at Will. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend thing, eh?”

The small ball of light descended to hover over Will's head. “I'll show him out, Styx, if you like,” said the ball in a sweet piping voice. “I was going that way already so it won't be a bit of trouble.”

Will squinted and beheld a tiny female fairy, her form shimmering with light. “By Odin's black hammer, he exclaimed! “You're beautiful. Like a tiny red gold sun. What are you?”

The fairy smiled and beat iridescent wings, flashing beams of golden light into the air. “I am Dixie Dexi, a pixie,” she said. “Though some call me a will-o-the-wisp. Follow me.”

“I don't know about that, golden one,” Will said. “For, no offense to you, but I have heard that will-o-the-wisps like to lure unwary travelers into bogs and rivers where they drown. Of, course,” he added, “I am probably able to do that on my own with no help from you.”

The will-o-the-wisp bobbed up and down. “Nay, sir, I shall not drown you in a bog but take you all the way to Killarty if you want in return for the compliment you paid me. Most mortals, if they see me as I am at all, do not call me beautiful,” she smiled, revealing tiny pointed teeth. “They fear me for my reputation.” She pointed at Will's sword and scabbard. “You are a knight, yes? There's a tournament at Killarty in one days time.”

Will reached for his boot. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “A tournament is the very thing I've been needing.”

Unconsciously, he patted his pocket with the hidden coin inside. “I guess one more night in the open won't hurt me.” He looked at his boot in amazement. “Its all mended,” he said. “As good as new. How can that be?”

“Yer welcome,” chuckled a brownie in a pointed red hat and green coat, perched on an a oak root that protruded from the ground. “Like most in Darkening Wood, I am no friend of dragon hunters. Go with me blessing, Sir Will. Just have a care not to step on the mome raths on yer way out.”

Will stood up. “I thank you all friends,” he said. “I'll watch my steps more carefully from now on. And if ever I can repay your service, I shall.”

“Let us be off,” then said Dexi. “Ta-ta Styx. Don't take any wooden franken from those were bears.”

“I will not, light of me life,” smiled the stick man, lifting a twig-like arm in farewell.

Will was surprised how quickly the journey to Killarty went with Dexi as a guide. He was in the center of town by full dark. “Thank you, little lady,” he said to the will o the wisp as she bobbed overhead, casting light into the gloom. “I will say good bye here for I must find a place to bunk down. Fare well. I shall not soon forget your kindness.”

“Good fortune be yours,” she answered. “As I think it will, for you have the mark of Lady Luck upon you.”

“If I do,” said Will, “I cannot see it, for I have lost kingdom, and home, and my purse is too often empty.”

“But, that will change soon,” she laughed. “Perhaps, even on the morrow.”

“I hope so, Lady Dexi,” Will replied. “Right now, hope is all I have besides a prodigious hunger and thirst.”

“Then satisfy both at the inn of the Six Swans just down the street on the left. Use the coins hidden in your pocket and see what the new day brings. Farewell,” she added soaring up into the night.

Will reached into his pocket. “I only have one Frankel,” he said into the sky, “which I must use to enter the tournament, although I don't know how you could know that.” He frowned, as he pulled out three franken and a snickel. “How did they get there?” he asked.

The will-o-the wisps voice floated on the breeze. “The world is full surprises isn't it,” she commented, as her fairy light winked out.

My Current Take On a Hot Potato Issue

2010-08-20T11:35:00.004-04:00

Recently there has been a whole lot of press regarding the plans of a Muslim group to build a mosque and recreation center in New York in a building that was damaged by the explosions set by Islamic extremists on September 11. The mosque would be two blocks from Ground Zero itself. There are, from what I've read in print and online and heard on TV, a whole lot of strong feelings across America both pro and con regarding this issue. Perhaps it is impossible to be completely dispassionate on the issue: the words Ground Zero and Muslim put together in the same sentence does push buttons for quite a few as the anniversary of the great tragedy approaches.

No rational person can argue that the attack on September 11 by a foreign Islamic terrorist group on American soil that killed thousands of innocent civilian people was a right action. It was entirely unprovoked by a single person murdered on that terrible day. The attack was immoral. The attack was unjustified. The attack was an atrocity. The attack was evil. It cannot be justified by any human being who wishes to be respected. I have heard that AL Quaida claimed that the attack was in return for Western and especially American interference and injustices throughout the Muslim world in the last half century. Indeed, Muslim hard core extremists still blame Christians for the Crusades thousand years ago. They blame America as well for supporting the establishment of the state of Israel after WWII. They use these as excuses for the un-excusable. It doesn't wash.

Okay, so a group of Muslims don't like us Americans and they harbor grudges. I get that. But not liking us does not in any way justify their actions.

I admit to currently having some negative feelings about Islam (if not individual Muslim people). As a religion Islam advocates the elimination or domination of non Muslims either by religious conversion or killing. Yes, this is in the Koran. I've read it. "If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out." (from the Christian Old testament) Our eye offended the writer (s) of the Koran and the devout Muslim was ordered to pluck it out.

Of course, most Muslims today are likely moderate and most likely don't follow their holy book to the letter any more than most Christians do. But it bothers me that I don't read or hear many Muslims condemn what happened at Ground Zero in any way that could be considered more than lukewarm at best. Sometimes by not taking a stand against something a person appears to approve it.

I am reminded here of the average German in the Weimar republic as Hilter's goons took over and began their unbelievably horrible and inexcusable treatment of the Jewish people. The country was failing and the economy was in tatters and 'Joseph the plumber' was having really hard times. The Germans wanted change. They needed change. Unfortunately, they had the bad fortune of getting a Hitler. Joseph and the other average folks probably did not support the crazy Nazi agenda. What would have happened to the German who stood in the way of the SS? I don't think I have to answer that question. Courage and convictions are easy in books and movies but far harder in real life when it means torture or death.

But that was in Germany, not America. I can understand being quiet when a bully is in charge and you are powerless, but in Peoria or Pennsylvania or Portland you can say what you like. Why then don't more Muslims here strongly denounce Al Qaida, their actions and agenda? I don't have an answer.

Overseas, they perhaps do not speak up since in some Muslim dominated countries there is little if any separation between church and state and their personal freedoms are more limited than ours, thus essentially forcing those who might not agree with the more extreme and fanatical persons in control into being silent for fear of reprisals and harm to themselves and family. Or is it possible that they do not care? Do they agree with the fanatics? Do they really hate us? I do not know.

Some people argue that freedom of religion is the right of any American and that the building of a Muslim religious center anywhere they want to is their right and prerogative. This is true. The law of our land supports it. If they can get the proper permits from the city and have the funds, they can build it. I am going to echo a statement of our President regarding change, out of context and with a different reference, "Yes We Can!" But, should we? Should they?

I do not agree with the conservative talk show hosts and politicians on most points but I did find myself nodding my head when I heard Rush Limbaugh say something to the effect (Or maybe it was Glenn Beck who said it; they blur in my mind before I hit the channel changer) that building a mosque near a site that is in many ways a sacred memorial to an atrocity committed in the name of the religion that the mosque stands for would be like Nazis putting their flags outside the gates of a concentration camp where thousands of innocent Jews were brutally tortured and murdered for the sake of the Nazi agenda.

Of course the mosque can be built near Ground Zero. This is America, after all. She is flawed. Love her or hate her and maybe there are reasons to do both for some people, but she guarantees you the freedom of speech and religion.

But should the mosque be built there? Is it somehow disrespectful to the dead and their living still grieving families? Does its placement there stand for religious tolerance or a slap in the face? Could a compromise be reached and the mosque be built elsewhere in the city? Some argue that we must be more tolerant of Muslim feelings concerning their religion and the life style it demands. Some might argue that Muslims become more tolerant of those who have different ideas and customs themselves. I don't know but I do believe in balance in all things. Give and take. Live and let live.

Tolerance and understanding are always to be desired. Learning to know people who are not like us can be a really positive experience when both sides are open minded and willing to compromise and grow and, yes, change some customs and moderate some beliefs that may no longer apply to life in a world changed since they were formed. Should there be mosques in new York and churches in Bagdad? Sure, why not? We can all change. Yes, we can. We can learn. We can evolve. We can become better. It often takes time and starts in little ways. I know, though, change can't be forced down the throats of those who are not ready for it.

Remember the old saying about not knowing a man until you have walked in his shoes? It makes sense. As a non Muslim, I frankly have a really hard time even wanting to walk in those shoes, especially if walking in them was overseas, but if I had to I sure would rather it be a man's shoes than a woman's. Maybe as a Muslim man I'd have to give up eating and drinking some things that I wouldn't miss anyway and I wouldn't mind not drawing a picture of the prophet since I can't draw anything. I could still go to school, run a business, drive a car, be an athlete if I wanted. Even in Arabia. I could remember to pray a few times a day. But as a woman, ah, forget it. Here's where the impossible disconnect comes. Here's where the instinctive unease of Islam comes for me personally thanks to what I've read about the life of many Muslim women around the world.

My impression is that being a Muslim woman in many Muslim dominated countries would mean I could not go to school unless the religious leaders agreed and then I might not be permitted to study certain things. I could only marry who I was told to. I could be killed for resisting an unwanted marriage. In some places I could be killed for riding in a car with a male not a relative. I could be beaten for offending a man with my words or appearance. I would be wrapped up in clothes that hid my identity whenever in public. I could not go freely where I chose. As a 21st century, 12th generation American woman such things are unthinkable and unimaginable. If Muslim women in other parts of the world choose freely to accept such conditions it is not my business. If my sisters do not like the lack of personal freedom but endure because they cannot choose, my heart aches for them.

I would welcome dialog with Muslim women to get a better sense of what they really think and feel about their role in Muslim society both abroad and in America. I have not had the experience or the opportunity to date to do so.

I am not defending a conservative political or religious point of view. I am not happy with some facets of American culture, although I love my country and would defend her agains all aggressors. Am I offended on some level at the idea of a mosque being built near Ground Zero? I think I wish I wasn't. But, honestly yes I am to some degree offended, on an emotional level if not a logical one. I shrug my shoulders and move on to thinking about something else. For now, for today, that's all I can do.

Another dragon-y bit

2010-08-19T19:15:00.002-04:00

A little more of Tim's adventures:

Dragon's Dilemma

“Yo ho yo ho,” Tim sang in a surprisingly tenor tone, “It's a dragon's life for me. Give me a sheep, a cow from the keep, and a summons from over the sea. Accounts of my demise are falsehoods and lies, told by humbugs, and tinkers, and thieves. Its a dragons life, though its one of strife, its a dragons life for me.”

He soared skyward towards the setting sun, his emerald wings flapping as the breeze caressed his iridescent scales with delicate fingers. He banked, rolled once in a loop de loop on the thermals, then coasted towards the hazy mountain peaks of Hyburnia. Far below him on the edge of a darkening wood, a lone rider looked up in surprise at the sound, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare with a mailed arm. Quickly, he reached down to pull a crossbow from his gear which he loaded with a lethal barbed arrow. As the singing dragon passed, the man raised his bow and fired the arrow which whizzed through the air just to the left of the dragon's scaly cheek.

“Whoops,” said Tim, plucking the arrow from the air with a curved yellow claw. He tossed it aside where it sank towards the earth below. “Missed me. Big mistake.” He circled back towards the forest, sucked in a mighty gulp of already overheated Indian summer air, turned his muzzle downward, and blew it out accompanied by a searing jet of crimson flame.

“Yikes,” screamed the man as his horse bolted off the side of the trail.

“Yo ho ho,” Tim sang, it's a dragon's life for me. Give me a horse kabob, a roasted knight, and a merrily burning tree.” Sucking in a another throat full of air, he torched a spruce tree on the edge of the forest. Peering toward the direction in which the rider had fled, he cocked his head at the barely audible sound of shod hooves breaking bracken and fallen limbs as the horse and rider galloped back into the wood.

“Missed you, you bugger” he sighed. “Fair enough I suppose though, since you missed me.” Turning away, the he shrugged and gulped another fireball back into his throat. Belching smoke as he flew, he resumed his flight to Hyburnia. “Your pardon,” he said to no one in particular. “Very rude burping without even a meal to account for it.”

Somewhere, faintly, he could hear a sound that reminded him of a fist knocking on a wooden door. He looked below. “No house down there,” he mused. “Thus, no doors. No doors, no knocking. No knocking, no more people. He nodded his mighty head, smiling with wicked looking serrated teeth. “Twas probably just a woodpecker on a rotten tree.” He began the third verse of his song.“Yo ho, yo ho, a dragons life is fun. Give me a fight, a roar and a light. The silly men will run.”

There was a whistling ping followed by a whoosh, and the dragon lurched suddenly to the left. “Ouch,” he said turning to look at an arrow lodged deep in his flank. Another ping brought another arrow, this one in the wing, and he overbalanced and began to fall. “Oh no,” he said, “there was more than one hunter. I should have looked both ways.”

Flapping his uninjured wing, the dragon tried to level out and ascend, but the drag of the wounded wing pulled him sideways towards the hard ground coming ever closer. “It's no use,” he said, wincing in pain. “I can't fly with one wing. “I'm done for.” Mayday, mayday he broadcast in dragon thought. Anyone who can hear this: dragon down at the edge of the darkening wood just over the southeast Hyburnian border. Help requested. Over and out. He closed his eyes, hoping for the best, closed his wings and let himself fall.

“Ouch!” He exclaimed a few long moments later as the branches of a stout oak broke his fall. “I'm glad I didn't torch this tree,” he said to himself. With a loud crack, the branches began to snap. “Oh oh,” he said as he fell to the ground, dislodging a woodpecker unlucky enough to be in a smaller tree too close to the oak, and nearly landing on the two hunters now dismounted and standing below.

“Got him,” said the first hunter jumping quickly out of the way as the woodpecker, squawking indignantly, flew away.

“Good shot, Magnus,” replied the second hunter, dodging to the left. “We'll feast well tonight I reckon.”

The first man nodded. “Save the head,” he said. “Larry the Mad has placed a bounty on all dragons. We'll drop by his place on the way home and collect that much, at least. Even if we didn't find the runaway girl.”

The second hunter pulled a sword from its scabbard. “Can I have the honor of stabbing him in his heart seeing as how the first arrow was mine?”

Magnus smiled, drawing his own weapon. “Let's finish him off together, George.”

Weak from blood loss, Tim softly sang a death song. “My soul will fly beyond the sun, but dragon's luck is gone. In blood and pain my life must end, the sands of time drift on.” He closed his eyes and waited for the pain, which he very much hoped would be brief.

“Drop the swords!” growled a deep voice nearby. The wounded dragon opened his eyes in time to see both hunters step back and lower their weapons. At the edge of the forest stood three figures: a shaggy haired man of bear-like proportions dressed all in brown and carrying a longbow, a burly dwarf hefting a war hammer decorated in carved silver runes, and a slender girl with reddish hair, carrying a staff and wearing forester's green.

“It's a fair kill,” the man called Magnus said. “Its none of your business, friends. We don't look for trouble from you. How 'bout we carve him up, take the head, and then George and me will be on our way? You can have the major part of the meat. Maybe just give us a steak or two.”

“I think not,” growled the bear-like man.

“But, we was the ones that brought the beast down. We should get sumthin' fer our trouble,” said George.

The bear man shook his shaggy head. “You will leave the dragon as he is and high tail it out of our territory. Or forfeit your own lives.” As he spoke, the man began to grow shaggier and his teeth elongated, becoming canine. He growled as more and more hair suddenly sprouted from his body. His shoulders bent over and his arms became more muscular. By now he was almost completely covered in fur. He dropped the bow, having no more need of it as long curved claws protruded from his paws. He went to all fours, turned his head and roared.

The dragon hunters stepped back.

“You heard my pal, Groof,” said the dwarf. “Dragons are welcome here. Dragon hunters are not. This is the only warning you will get, friends.”

Magnus's face paled under his helmet. “It has red eyes. It's a were bear,” he whispered to his fellow dragon hunter. “We must have strayed into Hyburnia.”

The second man gulped. “The dragon is yours, Mister bear,” he said. “We don't want him, do we Magnus.”

“No George,” Magnus replied. “We don't want him at all. Not at all.” he looked at the dwarf. “Tell him we're sorry fer any local rules we broke even if we didn't know what they was.”

“We're leaving now.” declared George, backing further towards the woods. “We don't want no trouble. You folks keep the meat and everything.”

“See that you are out of Hyburnian territory by sundown,” chuckled the dwarf, moving forward to stand next to the fallen dragon. “And don't come back, or you will feel the weight of my hammer in your skull. If me pal Groof here doesn't eat you first, that is.”

Why I Heart Asheville

2010-08-16T10:48:00.008-04:00

Images top to bottom: Street scene, Pac Square, Skyscraper, Thomas Wolfe house, Grove Park Resort, Groveland folk art gallery and sculptures

A Dozen Reasons Why I Really Like Asheville, North Carolina:

1. Smallish city easy to navigate by car or foot

2. Beautiful setting in Blue Ridge Mountains

3. extensive arts and crafts galleries and several shows

4. really good restaurants

5. proximity to Blue Ridge Parkway

6. very dog friendly city

7. friendly people

8. Biltmore

9. plants and terrain similar to Western Pennsylvania where I was from

10. history of area similar to my own Scots Irish history

11. walking and recreation areas next to French Broad River

12. seasonal change

But this kind of says it all: We were taking a Sunday afternoon walking tour of the downtown with Danny's Uncle Phillip when we heard music. We looked up to see a youngish man in a nun's habit on an antique bicycle. As he rode, he was singing along to the song Dominique on an ipod. He looked at us and waved, saying, "God Bless You My Children." He rang the bicycle bell and rode on, his nun's habit flapping in the sultry summer breeze. A thirty something woman walking a brindle pit bull on the opposite sidewalk waved and said to us, "Every time a bell rings and angel gets his wings." (Quote from Its A Wonderful Life film). I thought, this is MY kind of place!

Live long and prosper. More from the dragon's book next time.

A Sampling of Nancy's July Vacation photos

2010-08-13T12:32:00.009-04:00

Here's some favorite recent pictures from our travels around North Carolina and Virginia. Enjoy the scenery.

More from Tim's book

2010-08-13T11:41:00.011-04:00

Under a banana shaped moon, a cloaked rider mounted on a bay horse followed a rutted road eastward. The rider sang snatches of a ballad as the horse plodded along the track. There was a sudden clap like thunder in the sky, making the horse snort and shy. The rider looked up and froze, hands clenched tightly on the reins, as a beast the size of a house soared over the road, huge bat-like wings snapping and flapping. The horse reared, but the rider stayed in the saddle, looking upward, mouth open in a silent scream.

The creature looked to be not one, but many animals, artfully put together. Green scales flashed as the moonlight caressed its lizard-like body. It bent its goat horned head to peer at the terrified pair below with eyes hard and red as rubies. Its spiked crocodile tail trailed behind, curving and lashing sideways as the beast banked and turned for another pass. As it swept overhead for the second time, the rider gulped, noting sharp raptor claws at the end of thickly muscled legs.

The horse's eyes rolled, it foamed at the mouth and it shook its head, but the rider held it steady. “It's a dragon! A real dragon. There are dragons left in the world!” the rider exclaimed.

A gust of wind from the dragon's wing knocked the hood of the dark wool cloak back from the rider's head and coppery hair cascaded to slender shoulders. Emerald green eyes below met cinnabar red ones above. “Why, it's just a girl,” boomed Tim in a kettle drum voice. “ On a horse too scrawny to eat.”

“It talks,” said Miranda. “How amazing.”

“Of course it talks,” agreed Tim, coasting to a graceful landing on the road. “It flies and breaths fire and does many more amazing things than just talk.”

“It certainly boasts,” Miranda declared, steadying her mount as it tried to dance backwards.

“With reason,” countered Tim.

The girl laughed. “It is beautiful.”

“As is the girl,” Tim replied. “With hair like firelight and eyes as green as spring.”

“It is perhaps not a dragon at all but a silver tongued prince under some enchantment?” asked Miranda, hopefully.

The ground rumbled as the dragon laughed. “No, just a dragon. Aren't you afraid of me, little human girl?”

Miranda shook her head. “No, I admit I was at first but I'm not afraid anymore, although I probably should be. But, you see, encountering a talking beast is...well the wonder of it seems to have drained the fear out of me. And, in any case, if you are going to kill me there is nothing much I can do about it, now. So, I might as well have an interesting conversation first.”

Tim nodded. “Indeed. I like your reasoning. And, just between you and me, I have never killed a girl who reasons.”

“Have you killed any who don't?”

“I have not. In fact, although I am loath to admit it since it doesn't seem very dragony, I haven't as yet killed any humans. Not on purpose, anyway. Furthermore, you are the first human girl I've had a conversation with at all. The others just screamed and ran away.”

Miranda giggled. “Well, I can understand that, I suppose. You are a dragon, after all. And, in all honesty, dragons have a fearsome reputation.”

“We do. And justly earned. We are fierce and we can be truly terrible. Its the way we are made, you see. It is our nature.”

“Well, I don't know about that. But, you are as well spoken as any Micklesian courtier. You seem most civilized to me. Indeed, although you are sporting excessively large claws and teeth and are making my poor horse very nervous you are definitely charming and a lovely color, too. Like the sea.”

The dragon blinked his ruby eyes. “I shall savor that compliment, lady.”

“Where do you go, magnificent dragon? And, please excuse me, for calling you an it before. That was rude of me. ”

Tim laughed again and Miranda braced herself as the ground rumbled and her horse fought the reins. “You are forgiven. And where I am going is a thing I cannot tell you since I do not know as yet. I am adventuring into the unknown. Following the wind and my exceptionally keen nose. That is all I can say. But where do you go, human girl? I did not think well brought up human girls wandered about lonely roadways under dragon moons without the protection of a loathsome knight or two.”

Miranda harrumphed. “I am... adventuring as you are. I can take care of myself as well as most men can. I've had training in weaponry from an expert soldier, you see.”

Tim nodded. “I might believe it, judging from your confidence and composure. Even the sudden appearance of a dragon didn't rattle you overmuch.”

Miranda smiled. “You give me too much credit. As I said, it was the wonder of this encounter that made me so bold.” She pointed upward. “But, sir dragon, if I may ask, why do you call the moon overhead a dragon moon?”

“Because it is shaped like a dragon's smile,” he replied. He grinned. “See?”

“Oh,” she said, comparing Tim's mouth to the shape of the moon. “I always thought the quarter moons looked like a yellow fruit my father once imported from the south lands.”

“Bananas,” the dragon said, after thinking a moment. “They are called bananas.”

“Yes, that's the name. But, now that I've seen a dragon's smile I would agree that the moon is shaped very much like it. Except for the teeth of course. ” She looked into the sky again. “Or it could be said to resemble a dragon's claw or even his curled tail.”

“Well, see in it whatever you like. But, to me, it's a dragon moon and a dragon moon is a rarity,” said Tim. “It only happens once a month.”

“Once a month isn't that much of a rarity in my opinion. But meeting a smiling dragon underneath a dragon moon is a rarity.”

“I think you must be a rarity, too,” mused the dragon. “Few humans see any wonder in a meeting with my kind.”

“Then they are quite blind,” Miranda replied. “Or at least stupid.” The dragon considered her reply in silence, which began to stretch uncomfortably.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” said Tim. “You said something right. But, you appeared to be in a bit of a hurry when I spotted you. I have no doubt delayed you long enough. Are you sure you will be all right though, out here alone on a mostly deserted part of the King's road?”

“Well,” Miranda replied, “I can only hope so. I have a good map and a fast horse and I have no choice but to travel this road. So, I guess I better be about it.”

The dragon nodded. “Very well. I wish you good fortune and good speed wherever you are bound.” With a crack, he flapped his wings and began to rise upward. The horse whinnied and tossed its head, straining at the bit in its desire to flee from the dragon. “Stay alert though, exceptional girl,” he warned. “You never know what sort of other fearsome beasts you may meet along the way.”

“I have met a dragon on this road,” called Miranda. “Where a dragon travels other beasts will not wish to be. Or so, I hope,” she added, to herself. She sat, astride her horse and watched as the great dragon flew skyward and disappeared before pulling up the hood of her cloak and continuing her journey. This time, however, she did not sing.

The Return of The Absent Author

2010-08-12T13:18:00.004-04:00

As the man once said, reports of my death are premature. Got your attention yet? Sorry to be gone so long. Time lately is a tricky slippery silvery flashy thing which seems to zip past like Mercury on atomic powered rollerblades, late for a mission to parallel worlds unknown. But I digress.

Here's the excuse and its a good one. I've been very very focused on finishing my novel: The Adventures of Mungo Tim. No energy left for blogging, my friends.

I finished the rough draft of the mostly complete story Easter weekend and have been slogging through the rewrites most every day since. In any case, Tim's book is finally finished after much writing, rewriting, elation, discouragement, and frustration. And more rewriting. How many times do you have to rewrite a sentence before it satisfies the gods of creation? I am still not sure.

But, I am declaring that the book is done after little more than a year since I actually started the writing. It goes now to a 'real' editor for suggestions regarding content and line errors (spelling, punctuation, etc). Then back to me for the necessary corrections. What happens next? Creative discussions regarding layout, cover design, pictures, etc. After that? To several test readers. Then, infinity and beyond. Its anybody's guess.

Aside from growing Tim to his present forty feet from dragon's egg, I've taken some interesting trips in the real world in the Winnebago with Danny and dogs, which I will tell you about soon, complete with some dandy pictures I took of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But that's for another post. This one is just to tell those of you who still drop by that I am still around and to share a bit of Tim's manuscript. If I posted any of this part before, pardon me, I've done several dozen edits since and haven't the foggiest idea what parts I've shared.

TTFN

Here Be Dragons

Even sleeping, the dragon would have been an impressive sight had anyone with eyes been there to see. As it was, his only observer was a sun-bleached human skull perched precariously on a granite ledge above the snoring beast's head. The dragon was dreaming. He twitched and drooled a little, yipping like an excited dog. His mouth opened, exposing wicked looking fangs the size of a knight's broadsword before his jaws snapped shut again. His back feet moved as if he was chasing something almost certain to be tasty. He growled. His wing tips twitched and he snorted, dislodging a small puff of smoke from his nostrils, before becoming still again.

Somewhere between thirty and forty feet long from nose to tail, the beast was covered in iridescent green and blue scales. His jaws and head resembled a crocodile on the body of a legendary Tyrannosaurus Rex. The dragon's powerful spiked tail could immobilize the largest of cave bears with a single sweep and his muscled back legs, which were somewhat longer than his front ones, had claws that could easily rip steel. His leathery bat-like wings enabled him to fly with ease and he could breathe fire. He was intelligent, with learning the equal of any scholar on his home world of Terra. His true name, unknown to anyone but himself and the skull on the wall, was Salamagundus Ap Tim Tim. And as far as he knew, he was the last living dragon in West Mickle.

“What's that,” said the dragon, momentarily jolted from sleep by the rumble of his own snoring. “Is anyone there?” He raised his head and glanced around his sleeping chamber with eyes glowing like coals. Seeing nothing amiss, he lowered his head again, closed his eyes, and was soon back asleep. Sunlight crept through a ventilation hole in the ancient cave wall and danced teasingly across his face. Feeling the sudden and unexpected warmth, the dragon opened his eyes again. He stretched his lizardy frame and yawned widely, curling and uncurling his talons before running his long tongue across his fangs.

“What's this?” he asked aloud. “Could it be a sunny day? In August? In West Mickle? Extraordinary.” Rising up on all fours, he lumbered over to the ventilation hole in the stone wall and peered outside. “Well, well,” he observed. “It is a balmy day at that. I thought I was only dreaming of the sun.”

He grinned, remembering that in his recently interrupted dream he was flying high above the far off Kirkudshire desert, the fine grained sand below glistening white in the orange-yellow glare from above. In the dream, herds of fat grayish-brown wazzles and horned tick tocks ran through scrubby black-green vegetation, fleeing from a pair of striped taggers. He could almost hear the squealing wazzles and the thundering hooves of the frightened tick tocks as the taggers roared their hunting challenge. He shook the dream away.

He turned and addressed the skull across the gloomy room. “Not a rain cloud in sight out there,” he said. “What do you think, Fred? Might it be a good day for flying?” There was no answer from the skull.

The dragon shrugged. He yawned again. “Or not. Perhaps another nap in the sunlight, outside on one of the ledges for a change. It has been days since I could venture outdoors.”

His stomach rumbled reminding him that his last meal was paltry and also several days ago. “Alternatively,” he said, “I could see if any tasty mountain sheep might be gamboling about enjoying the lovely weather.”

His mouth watered at the thought and hot saliva trickled down his scaly chin. “Yes, I think I might go and scout out a meal first and then have a nap on a ledge afterwards. What do you think?” He cocked his head, but there was no answer from the skull to this question either.

“Well,” said the dragon. “I see you are as talkative as ever. No matter. I'm off. See you later, Fred.”

Leaving his sleeping chamber, the dragon made his way through several corridors, eventually emerging from the cave. Flapping his emerald wings, he sprung aloft, iridescent scales glistening in the sunlight as he rode the thermals over the peaks of Dragon's Crag.

On accomplishing more and less

2010-04-26T13:05:00.006-04:00

Recently, I realized that in several weeks it will be three years since my mother died, which was a defining period in my life for a number of reasons.

1. I realized that chronology had caught up with me and I was officially the eldest member of my family. Me, the matriarch. One who is expected to be wise and mature both in years and behavior. (Do not laugh here). One who is, well, old. Having a birthday two months later and adding up the numbers made me reflect that the majority of my life on earth was indeed behind me. None of these thoughts, to be honest, was a happy one.

2. My number two daughter discovered a week after my mother's passing that she was pregnant, making me not only a matriarch but a grandmother to be. Wow, talk about passages! Loss, pain, joy and hope all rolled into one package.

3. Losing the last parent suddenly and unexpectedly (despite my mother's advanced age) made me realize again just how fragile life is and regret the things begrudged, undone, unsaid, unasked, unknown. I wished then and wish now that I had listened better. Now that questions cannot be asked or answered, especially.

4. At the time of my mothers death, I was trying to sell my house as a means to provide more monthly income and downsize my lifestyle but like many in our area in 2007 couldn't find a buyer. My mother's passing made the move unnecessary and eased my immediate financial worries during a time of deep Recession in our country. I wish it had happened another way, but what, is is and I am thankful to my parents for their parting gift.

I have reflected recently more than I would like, usually in the early morning hours when I should be falling asleep but can't, that in the past several years since Mother's death I seem to have achieved very little. My daily routine doesn't change much. Hours merge into days into weeks into months with a similar pattern: I wake, read the paper, sip coffee, breakfast and check email then spend ninety minutes walking the dogs. By that time its lunch time. I eat, straighten up the house (ignoring dust and actual cleaning), do laundry or go grocery shopping, write a while and then its time to get dinner, walk dogs again, catch little TV, and go back to bed to read for an hour or two on Kindle. Boring, eh? Sounds like it as I write it. I have flayed myself emotionally for this. But, what was I supposed to be doing really? I have no real good answer to this question.

But wait: In that same time frame, I cleaned out her house (which was an enormous task for one little matriarch), organized all her financial records and went through forty years of haphazardly piled up papers, found her missing stocks, updated and staged her house, sold her house, reinvested my inheritance, settled her estate, and hand carried her ashes to the little mountain cemetery in Pennsylvania where her family has been buried since 1805.

I supervised the extensive updating and some renovating of my own house and perhaps most importantly I wrote three books. A collection of short stories and a poetry anthology. The first two are published and the third, my first novel, is in edits.

So, maybe I have accomplished a few things after all. On the non accomplishing but life enriching side, I spent the last non committed to something useful funds from my inheritance for a Winnebago. In which Danny and I have taken frequent weekend and day trips and two long trips in the past year. Traveling on the roads with a bathroom and kitchen in the back is educational as well as fun. Dogs can come, too.

So, I will say tonight, "Shut up little annoying in the dark voice. I am not idle and anyone who can be a matriarch and write science fiction is decidedly not ordinary or boring. And dust bunnies contain a multi verse of life even if we can't see it. Leaving them under the chairs and in the corners and over door jams is perfectly all right. So there."

POSTSCRIPT:

Still, as some clever fellow once said, even if you are on the right track you'll get run over if you stand still. While walking one of my three dogs this morning, I found myself thinking about that and wondering if I am indeed on the right track or standing still as regards my writing. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I am dragging my editing heels on the dragon book.

I am doing this, I think, because once done I have to decide what to do with this one. And folks keep telling me I should use it to seek fame and fortune. So, are they right? Do I seek an agent, seek traditional publishing and have to do the ghastly in person book promotions if it does get almost miraculously published? Aren't most of the big box booksellers teetering on financial collapse? Aren't a lot of book buyers like me, rapidly changing their habits and buying most of their books off Amazon and or on Kindle? Would the brief emotional high of seeing my book at Borders or B & N and the approval of those folks who only respect conventionally published writers worth the lengthy emotional cost of getting Tim's book there and the physical misery of promotion? I have to answer, no.

I don't fly commercially or drive self more than an hour away from home unless it is life or death. I hate sleeping in hotels. I hate being started at. I can't do cold call phone calls and early morning meetings. Doing readings, signings, and speeches whatever the time of day would give me migraines, stomach disorders and probably bring back my long vanished Panic Disorder. No quality of life here. I know many people would enjoy all if those things. To me, it would all be purgatory if not Hell.

So, I ask myself: Why did I decide to write the book in the first place? Easy answer. For my grandchildren (and I have three now), children, extended family, and any friends who would enjoy it. If the rest of the world wants to read it, super. So, I think my conclusion is just to finish the project, not worry about the agent and submission thing. Small press it or POD. Put it out as a Kindle book and as an Audio and/or Podio Book. Let the words fall where they may. On fertile ground or parched earth.

To those who see this as a cop out or as less legitimate, I will wave good bye from the window of the Winnebago as I ride off to enjoy the dusty road wherever it may be leading. As a matriarch, my years have earned me the right and excuse to do whatever I want to. Or not do what I don't.

Right now, before the day is over I'd better get to a few edits. Live long and prosper.

April update and musings

2010-04-16T15:08:00.003-04:00

April update:

Still sneezing: the pollen continues to drop. Enjoyed Easter Sunday with a visit to Preacher Tom's church, an egg hunt in the front yard with all three grandkids, and dinner with the entire family for a change. Finished the first draft of my first actual novel. Took Laura and her little family to Flagler Beach.

Now, am struggling to edit the novel. That is not as much fun as writing it was and it is impossible to predict how long it is going to take. Think of pulling teeth. Yeah, it is like that without the Novocaine.

I think part of my problem is not knowing what to do with the novel when I do get it in finished form. So, procrastination is nipping at me. I am taking a lot of naps instead of working. Getting headaches. Will I look for a publisher, agent? Self publish? Or just take another nap? Huuummm...

Here's the facts: I hate selling myself or anything else. I hate public speaking and hate commercial airline travel. Hate staying in hotels and calling strangers. Book signings would give me a stomach ache. So, that little voice inside me is whispering that the book is bad, so I can avoid working on it, avoid finishing, avoid decisions, avoid looking for commercial publication. Obscurity is easy. Success would not be.

Am I cursed or blessed? Is it the journey or the destination? Does one bite off the head or butt of a chocolate rabbit first?

I am off for a nap.

2010-03-28T21:14:00.005-04:00

Here's some recent pictures from my life from Santa Rosa Beach at Topsail State Park and my sweet grand baby Bailey Brown's first birthday.

Long time no write. I've been busy with:

1.The 51st annual Winter Park Sidewalk Art Festival

2.Being abjectly miserable from Spring allergy season....achoo, scratch, scratch...arrggh, congestion!

3.Working for hours every day on the rough draft of my YA novel. I am at page 283 and have two more chapters to write. Then, the fun begins with the content edits. I consider the next phase as polishing a diamond from the rough until it sparkles from many facets. Hopefully.

Live long and prosper. I'll blog again soon. I promise. Ta.

2010-03-18T12:43:00.003-04:00

I had a health scare this morning. I woke up with packed sinuses, searing pain in my left eye, and neck pain that radiated down my left side. Being the super allergic humanoid I am, I shrugged and got up. I am used to morning headaches. I cope. So, I got up, grabbed my ever necessary iPhone from the nightstand and made my way to the kitchen where I poured myself my usual mug of coffee, swallowed two decongestants, unrolled the newspaper and sat in my habitual morning paper reading chair in the family room. I looked down at the paper and blinked. My eyes wouldn't focus. I couldn't read. There seemed to be a black hole in my vision. I clicked on my phone and tried to read my facebook page. I couldn't see the words. Then, my left eye felt as if it was exploding with fireworks of light. An arc shaped like the Arabic sickle wiggled and arched.

I made my way to the closest bathroom and peered into the mirror. My pupils were pinpoints and would not dilate. By now, I was feeling a little panicky. What was happening? Was I having a stroke? Was I going blind due to pressure on the optic nerve or something dire?

I grabbed a bottle of eye drops and put some in each eye, swallowed some Ibuprofen with the rest of my coffee, picked up my phone and went back to bed. Tried some calming Yoga breaths. The flashing continued. If it doesn't stop in 30 minutes, I thought, I will have to call for help, have somebody drive me to the hospital. What if I die? What if I go blind?

Two more thoughts zipped past: I haven't had a bath yet and my hair is dirty and if I die I won't be able to finish my book! Then, I thought, If I just go blind I can dictate the book and somebody else can type it. I admit to saying a prayer at that point.

My angel must have been listening as five minutes later everything normalized. Eye fireworks stopped. I could focus my vision. Eyes began to dilate again. Nothing remained but a dull headache. I checked the internet and the symptoms corresponded closest to the aura some people get before a migraine begins. I've had plenty of migraines, but no auras before, although my mother had plenty. So, it was good that I didn't go to the emergency room as I would have been fine by the tine I got there. Guess the caffeine and decongestants and pain medicine did the trick in the nick of time.

The funny part of the story was my concern, not of death or disability but of not finishing my novel. I guess that means I truly am a writer at heart. FOI: I have 250 pages of the rough draft done. Maybe another 30 or 40 to go. So, TTFN, I better get writing. Live long and prosper.

Puppy Snaps

2010-03-09T10:05:00.006-05:00

Chilidog, I was looking at your baby pictures today. Couldn't help but smile. Especially at the first.

In this one, you are a roly-poly two months. Your coat, grey and white and black tipped eiderdown. Fluffy as an spring time chick. Your stocky little tan legs appear too short for your black masked head and upright charcoal ears, which alertly point to the deep azure sky above the jungly spiky grass that you hunker down in. Your purple collar is too big for your neck and hangs slightly askew. I can't see it, but I suspect that your favorite red rubber ball is somewhere nearby. Your head is slightly cocked and your coca cola eyes shine with the mischief that I've come to know all too well in the five years since we made each other's acquaintance. In fact you are too cute for the poor description I've written.

If I had been made aware of the puppy finding expedition and had been coerced into riding shotgun, even I might have succumbed to your incredible cuteness, just like your first owned human did, even knowing better as I certainly would have known with my dog breed familiarity. For, you do not buy an Australian Cattle Dog puppy, not unless you have nothing else to do with your days and nights but train. You do not buy a no rules just right, one speed fits all at warp four, boldly going where no one has ever gone to before sort of puppy. A puppy that micro naps but never deeply sleeps. A puppy that defeats crates and pulls the eyelids of sleeping pit bulls with her sharp little milk teeth instead of just letting bully boys lie wherever they want to. A puppy that fears nothing, who leaps forward to catch misfiring bottle rockets on the 4^th of July as they whiz down the street straight at her instead of flying upward into the sky. You do not buy an Australian Cattle Dog puppy when you work full time and go to college at night and already have a cat and two pit bulls and four birds and a rat and a snake or four. Especially a puppy whose kennel name is Big trouble in Little China. There's danger there, Will Robinson.

Well, anyway , Chili dog, you were really as cute as an Easter bunny. The picture proves it. That's how you came into your first owned human's life and then ultimately into mine a few months later. After you'd broken your hip wrestling with the 100 pound pit bull. After you'd eaten her carpet and terrorized the cat. Was it really you that sent Hurricanes Charley, Frances, and Jeanne packing? Or did it just seem so? In any case, I didn't regret taking you in. Well, not for the first ten minutes anyway, until you hopped against the front door and locked me outside. “How long is she staying?” Danny asked for the first three days. But then, something funny happened. Danny fell in love with you. It only took him a week. It took me awhile longer, and, dingo spawn, don't tell anyone, but I fell in love with you, too. Even after all the trash can robbing and the eating of roach baits and the ruined Oriental rugs.

In fact, we both missed you last weekend on our trip to the Panhandle. And, It didn't feel right without your forty four pounds pinning my legs to the mattress last night. No one barked me awake for biscuits this morning, since the other card carrying members of The Mutley Crew are more polite than you. But, I missed you. The house was too orderly and too clean this morning. Nobody rolled in the sand pit outside and then came inside to shake off the dirt all over the floor. There were no fluffy tumbleweeds of fur rolling around the baseboards. I'm nuts, that's why I drove halfway across God's green Orlando earth to fetch you home from the doggie pet resort with the bone shaped salt water pool and the canine play groups and pricy pet grooming as soon as I'd had my coffee. Even though you knocked my car out of gear in front of a policeman, lowered the automatic windows three times with your busy little paw, got your head in the dog food bag, jumped over the back seat at least forty times in forty minutes and turned off the radio and a/c just when I needed to watch for my turn.

Busy and bad to the bone, that's you, little Chilidog. You Tasmanian devil dog, you. Oh cleverest of canines, she who bring chaos in her wake wherever she trots. She who had dingos in her family clan, scratching pesky Australian fleas under widow-making Eucalyptus trees not so long ago as the Kookaburra flies. Welcome home, little blue heeler.

PS: Abby missed you, too. Ginny, I am not so sure about.

This post was written in a Woodstream Writing Workshop in response to a prompt that started "In this one"...

Dame Nancy and The Ides of Farch

2010-03-02T09:25:00.004-05:00

Hello bloggers,

Short week for me as I am leaving town on Thursday to make the long boring drive to the edges of Alabama to join the Templars at their upcoming convent and investiture. Yes, the Knights Templar are still around and have been since the late 1100's. These days they leave the "Crusades" to the army and mostly raise money for charities around the world. Did ja know they created the modern banking system in the 1200's? And they accept females these days and I don't gotta join a nunnery either. Of course they call us Dames instead of Chevaliers. But, what's in a name? There is nothing like a dame, eh? So after this week you can officially call me Dame Nancy if you want. Just not to my face.

Actually, my own family has a history with the Templars in the bad old days. One of my great greats on me Mum's side a literal millennium ago was a Count of Anjou who became King of Jerusalem in Outremer. Sounds romantic doesn't it? Fulk of Anjou was also the ancestor of Richard the Lion and Bad old King John of Robin Hood times who was my own nefarious ancestor. Personally, I like being descended from the King who was, as Jack Sparrow would have said,"A really bad egg." Anyway, Chevalier Daniel and I and two of the Mutley Crew will be off on the Parakeet along Florida's scrub pine and swampy version of the yellow brick road for another week end adventure. I'd hope for good weather, but, alas, it is Farch, so I count on nothing.

Speaking of Farch, here's a little poem from Between The Lines:

The Ides Of Farch

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Is it February or is it March?

In Florida, it's hard to tell.

Neither Spring nor Winter

a time between Jingle Bells and colored eggs

mind scape of scarlet hearts and roses

morphing into shamrocks and green beer.

Mother nature misbehaving again

such an indecisive coy calendar girl,

changing her agenda from one day to the next

here and there, her azaleas blushing in pink profusion

where brittle branched oaks shiver in the wind.

My lawn is clothed in coco and verdant green

Old Sol playing peek a boo with steely clouds

scowling gray at patch worked earth below.

Have the robins come and gone unnoticed

before drifting yellow pollen blankets all in sight?

Cocooned with book and candle

I wait to be an April fool

longing for steamy sultry days and golden sunsets

my bare toes digging into damp beachy sand

the raucous calling of gulls filling azure sky above.

Live long and prosper. Resistance is futile, anyway.

On Doctors and the great health care scam

2010-02-24T09:03:00.002-05:00

The weather is changing again from springlike back to wintery. The pressure is changing too and a storm front is coming. I knew even without checking the paper this morning or turning on the weather channel 'cause I woke up with sinus pressure and pain and clenched neck muscles. I had to take full sinus/decongestant medicine and painkillers for the headache even though I know it will adversely affect my stomach. Sigh. But, what's a person to do. Worse than the weather, I feel a rant coming on. So, duck and cover, friends.

The state of medical care in America is a farce: I suppose everyone knows that. Forget about Congress and the Senate and the President arguing endlessly about passing a health care bill. What they're proposing isn't going to fix what ails us, even if and when it passes. Premiums will continue to rise. The fat cats at the drug companies and HMO's will laugh all the way to their third vacation homes and yachts. Doctors will continue to push through their one size fits all agendas on the hapless patients who wait hours for their five minutes of being talked down to on the patient assembly line, questions unanswered, before being pushed put the door to pay for a visit that doesn't solve anything. Before the hapless patient know it, he or she is now seeing three more 'specialists' for conditions he or she may or may not have now or in the future. Money makes the world go round, world go round, world go round...here's another drug your insurance won't cover to add to the pile you are already taking, too. Feeling nervous about it? Well, there's an expensive drug for that too.

Everybody must have a bone scan, chloresterol check, invasive screening procedures colonostopy, etc. once you reach middle age...blah blah blah...even if you have no symptoms of disease. Because you might be precancerous or pre something else dire and if you are they have a surgical procedure for that that may or may not fix you. You may live into old age even if you only have some of your parts and you will spend a whole lot of time visiting the doctors for all kinds of new ailments. But, it will keep the doctors and the HMOs and the drug companies in business. And keep the moola flowing from your bank account too, insured or not, cause you must be pre approved for even part of the cost for any visit, treatment or procedure or drug!

Now, I've been lucky most of my life. I have been pretty healthy. I don't like going to doctors and generally don't have to. However, I have developed acid reflux disorder and have been seeing doctors off and on for it now for nearly five months. It isnt getting much worse, but it isn't going away either, so I reluctantly saw a gastro specialist yesterday. I waited forty minutes past my appointment time in the gynormous waiting room of his gynormous building before being taken into the august presence of the doctor. He started out our brief visit by being what he must have supposed was entertainingly condescending of my past jobs and present vocation of writing. He informed me that he too was a teacher and was going to explain how my body worked, after snorting in my direction and asking, "Are you here because you actually expect total improvement!?" That unexpected statement caused normally verbal me to shut down in shock.

He then told me to continue my present medication and watch my diet before saying that they "always" do a test on their patients at his office with a camera down the esophagus that requires anesthesia to determine possible cancer or pre-cancer growths and if they find any they do surgery in the hospital (which he did not explain the prognosis of). Then he said since I was going to "be out" anyway he'd do a colonoscopy since all women my age should have one. He pointed out that 1 out of 100 women are at risk for colon cancer "if they are black or non Caucasion , smoke, drink, have a family history of colon cancer or are overweight." Uh, hello, I fit none of those categories...but one size fits all here, he is in business to do those costly routine tests which are not covered by my insurance since I never meet my threshold deductable.

I then brok into the monologue by saying, "What if I decide to just have the camera esophagus test at the present time and forgo the other?" After all, acid reflux is my only symptom.

He quickly stood, picked up my folder and replied coldly, "Well, you could do that but you would be extremely foolish." He then said curtly, "I will see you at the procedures," turned on his heel and left before I could say anything else. A minute later a woman came in with a bundle of consent papers for me to sign for both procedures. I refused to sign or schedule anything and left. Nobody discussed what these procedures might cost me at any time during my visit.

I drove home, simmering with anger. "That guy won't be touching this White, non drinking, non smoking, non overweight, no family history of cancer woman fore or aft," I vowed.. No how, no way.

Oh, I almost forgot. At the beginning of our brief visit, I told him I was being treated for a sinus infection with antibiotics after going to an urgent care facility. He said "No urgent care doctor is capable of diagnosing a sinus infection. You must go to an ENT specialist immediately!!" Then he recommended a friend. "He's my ENT doctor, too," he declared, as if that was a good recommendation.

Yes, America is having a health care crisis. Most Americans have bad living habits. We don't eat right, sleep well, we smoke, we drink, we don't exercise. We expect doctors to fix us because we are taught to regard them as godlike beings and we are willing to pay through the nose for it if we're able to and suffer through the medical system as it exists like lambs to the shearing pens.

Rant over! My white, non smoking, no drinking, no family history of cancer, acid refluxing body is going to go walk my three dogs.

2010-02-23T11:29:00.004-05:00

New material from The Adventures of Mungo Tim manuscript:

(2-22-10 by Nancy Wayman Deutsch)

FROM THE BATTLE OF WOOTEN FOSSLEY

With the rising sun, the Trolls advanced across the Wooten Fossley Plain, in a solid line of brown that stretched farther than the several hundred men looking wide eyed down from the city's makeshift defensive walls could see. The invaders' trudging feet thundered across the dry earth, raising a column of dust as they marched. From somewhere within the ranks, the sound of sing song chanting in an alien tongue drifted upward and seemed to tickle the ears of the defenders. Along the city's wall at regular intervals and over the city gates, older women and boys too young to fight but too old to hide stood next to firepots full of hot oil and pitch. Below in the courtyard, other women and old men rolled bandages. The drawbridge over the shallow moat below the wall was shut and across the river behind the newly fortified city waited the hastily built barges, guarded by a company of armed men.

“What I wouldn't give for some tactical training and a cannon or two, “ Will muttered to himself. “Steady on," he called up to the row of archers thinly spread along the top of the walls encircling the city. “Don't fire until they are securely in range, Raf. We haven't arrows to spare.”

“Aye, sir,” the archer's captain agreed. “We'll wait for your signal.”

“We're as ready as we'll ever be,” Tim commented. “And in the nick of time too, it seems.”

Will nodded. “Ragnar's dwarves are already by the side gate and my men are ready as well. Let the trolls come.”

“From the sound of things, they are,” Tim replied. “I will go aloft in a moment.”

“Good luck to you today, Tim.”

“And to you as well, lad,” Tim answered.

“Have you seen Miranda?” Will asked. “I wanted to tell her something but I couldn't find her this morning.”

Tim coughed and looked over Will's head before answering.“She's gone off to a safe place. Don't worry.”

“Good. I just hope she stays there.”

“I do, too,” said Tim, flapping his wings.

“If anything happens to me, Tim, make sure she stays safe,” Will shouted, shielding his face from the wind generated by the force of dragon's wings.

“I will, lad," Tim promised as he caught an air current and ascended high above Wooten on The Foss. “Never fear.”

Tim circled the massed invaders on a reconnaissance flight, eyes narrowing at the sight of a purplish black cloud which hovered over the center of the marching column. “That's a wizard cloud,” he said to himself. He shook his head.“That's not good. Not good at all.” His nose wrinkled at the sour smell that reached him even as high as he was above the marchers. “Dragon memory tells me that it is the signature of a dark wizard from Altarr. Zendan, I believe. Humph.” As the rhythm of chanting reached his keen ears, he listed slightly to one side. “Sound makes me feel sleepy,” he said blinking his ruby eyes.” He flew higher above the cloud, swiveling his ears tightly to his skull and dropping his second eyelid against the sun's glare. “That's definitely not good. That's magic of a high sort. If I was on the ground below that cloud instead of above it, I might drop where I stood and fall into a trance.” He quickly banked and reversed direction back to the city.

A mist began to form, curling tendrils across the ground between the advancing trolls and the city as the chanting continued. The sun's glare began to dim. Men in the courtyard shivered despite the warmth of the day. On the walls above them, men began to look over the ramparts in fear. “It's hopeless,” said one townsman to his fellow beside him. “There are too many for us to fight. We don't really know what we're doing. We are all going to die.”

“I'm never going to see my little son again,” replied the man, wiping his eye.

“Are you crying, Mick?” asked the first. “For, I feel as if I would like to cry myself.”

“No!” declared the second defender. “A man doesn't cry! I've just got dust in my eye or something.”

“No shame in it, if ye are crying, lad. I'm scared, too. I'd cry if I could. Cry for my bairns and my beautiful Molly, for I can't save them this day. I'm no soldier. I'm just a tailor.”

“And I am a farmer, or I was,” said Mick.

“What's the point of trying to hold this position?” asked a third man. “We're all townsmen, not soldiers. We're done for.”

“We should just open the gates and surrender,” said a fourth man. “Beg mercy.”

“From trolls,” snorted an archer. “Whats' the matter with you fussbudgets? Are ye daft? Trolls would just eat you.”

“We should open the back gate and run for the river, “ said Mick. “Even a farmer might outrun a troll.”

“I'm getting out of here,” declared a fifth defender, throwing down his bow. “Let the dragon and the prince save the town themselves, if they're stupid enough to try. I'll swim across the Foss if I have to. Maybe trolls can't swim. Who's with me?” he turned his head and slumped to the floor as the men around him dropped like stones.

The archers on the walls dropped their bows and slumped down as if asleep.

“What is happening up here?” frowned Will from the top of the wooden staircase that led to the battlements.

“It's black magic,” called Tim, landing in the courtyard. “ Cover your nose and mouth and hold on, I can fix that.” He began to chant in ancient dragon. A moment or two later, the purple/black tendrils withdrew back towards the invaders and the men blinked their eyes as if awakening from a bad dream.

“What was I saying?” asked Mick to his friend.

“I think I must have dozed off,” said the tailor, standing up. “How did I do that?”

“They're almost at the earthworks,” cried Will, peering over the wall.“They're in range,” he yelled, swinging his silver sword over his head. “Fire!” He scrambled down the steps and raced to where one of his men was waiting with the reins of a large white horse arrayed for battle, wearing the Von Hollenstine colours.

As the dwarven company and Will's men slipped from the side gate, the archers launched a flight of arrows skyward which fell upon the invaders like stinging silver rain. A few trolls fell and were trampled into the dust by their fellows. “Again,” shouted the archer's captain. Another volley dropped more trolls, but not enough. The archers launched a third volley. The trolls kept coming.They beat their chests and ran forward roaring open mouthed, showing rows of gleaming yellow teeth sharpened like knives. “Sholto, Sholto,” they chanted as they ran. They threw themselves without outward fear against the sharpened pikes that protruded from the earthworks in front of the town.

Men wielding whatever weapons they had learned to use under Will and Ragnar and Groof's tutelage leaped up from the other side of the earthen works as more trolls launched themselves upon the first line of defense. Those trolls fell upon the sharp pikes, but the press of more trolls behind them carried the invaders over the earthen walls. The men retreated and regrouped. Howling, Ragnar's company of dwarves raced past them to engage the enemy in hand to hand combat. Groof's company quickly formed a shield wall behind the dwarves in front of the city, sending trolls who survived the pikes and the axe men's reckless charge to their deaths.

Groof' skewered a troll on his sword and braced to meet the the charge of another. A second troll knocked both shield and sword from his hands, hitting him hard enough to split his skull, had he not ducked aside in time. The man next to him knifed the troll in the gut but not before taking a fatal blow to his own. He fell writhing to the ground as the troll ran past, shoving Groof to the side. Groof stood over the fallen body of his still living comrade, teeth bared and snarling, to rip at an advancing troll warrior with his formidable were -claws. The troll snarled a challenge and swung his heavy club, bristling with rusty iron nails at Groof.

“For Dwarvenhelm,” shrieked Ragnar from behind the troll, swinging his axe in an arc. Groof ducked and dodged as the troll toppled and fell forward, nearly sliced in half in the exact spot where the were bear had been standing a moment before.

“Thanks, mate,” he said to Ragnar, who was already turning to engage another troll. Groof picked up his dented shield and sword and fell back in the shield wall beside another defender. By now, the fighting was hand to hand or claw to claw and blood of defender and invader alike arced and spattered all around the field. The ground shook with the force of falling bodies, screams, and running feet. The sound of sword striking sword and axe splitting bone was everywhere.

A trumpet blared from another part of the field and Groof peered over the shield wall to see a line of pikemen advance in from the east side of the city to come in behind another company of trolls, who turned to meet the new foe. Behind the pikemen, Will's small force waited atop battle chargers for their chance at the enemy.

Tim flew above the battlefield. As far as he could tell, the battle in front of the main gates was not going well for the defenders despite their determined defense. The trolls threw themselves against the shield wall without regard to the death that awaited. Those that fell where quickly replaced by those behind.Tim soared over the plain spewing bolts of fire downward upon the advancing trolls where ever he could but he could not do much for the men massed between the earthen works and the city gates since the press of bodies was too close. He could not risk burning his own men. Finally, the shield wall broke completely apart and trolls raced towards the main gates. The few shield wall defenders left alive regrouped with the fighting dwarves or ran for their lives in whatever direction they could. He threw several more fire bolts and returned to the city.

The city walls shook as wave after wave of trolls battered against the heavy gates. Some screamed as boiling oil poured down on them from above. A few maddened by the pain of their crisping hides broke and ran. Arrows whistled down from the walls. Trolls fell but others crawled over the bodies of their fallen comrades to throw their shoulders against the wooden gates.

“The gates are not going to hold much longer,” once of the defenders called from the wall to Tim who was taking a water break in the courtyard. Tim swallowed one last gulp of water and sprang back into the air.

“I'll give you a clear field as long as I can,” Tim said. He spewed rivers of fire over the heads of the trolls massing in front of the gate. Shrieking, they fell back for a few moments until other trolls took their place. Town folk poured more boiling oil over the walls upon the heads of the trolls who pounded upon the gates.

Although the trolls were tall as trees, the smaller but burly dwarves darted in and out of the crowd slashing massive thighs and torsos. More trolls fell in bloody piles before the gates. Gnomes bearing sharp knives followed the dwarves and joined the chaos in front of the city. On the other side of the earthen works, trolls threw themselves upon Will's small calvary as they engaged them from behind. Archers fired volley after volley from the walls. Arrows now struck friend or foe alike. It became a melee of hand to hand combat. Dwarves, gnomes, and men fell, slashing and skewering troll after troll. But still the trolls kept coming. There were just too many.

Tim swept back and forth over the battle hurling fireballs at the trolls. From the center of the invading force lightning bolts went skyward, popping all around Tim as he zigged and zagged. He avoided most but not all. Blood dripped from emerald scales and he could smell burning flesh beneath.One of his wings was smoking. He ignored the pain and continued to spit fireballs, sweeping over the battle. Below him, he saw Will unhorsed and alone with a group of trolls advancing to his position. “No!” he bellowed spewing fire in front of him as he swept over the field. The trolls drew back and Tim landed heavily in front of Will. “Get up on my back,” he said, hunkering down. He snapped his teeth and snarled at the trolls running towards them and the trolls stopped in their tracks. The knight grabbed his harness and swung himself on Tim's back. “You've got to call a retreat,” Tim yelled. “Now, or we're going to lose everyone.

Will nodded. “Retreat!” he shouted again and again as the dragon swept over the field back towards the city. “Retreat! To me!”

Men began to retreat with the fierce dwarves and the shield wall veterans in the front of the defenders, giving them as much cover as they could. Tim dropped Will on the wall and swept back over their hard pressed forces. “Hurry up,” he called, spewing more flames earthward at the trolls who broke and ran from him, “I am almost out of fire.” The archers, Tim, and the town folk dropping boiling oil were able to clear the way long enough for the defenders to reenter the city. As soon as everyone was inside, Tim landed panting in the courtyard. “I'm spent,” he said to Will who clambered down from the wall to his side. “I hope you have some brilliant thing up your sleeve or we are lost.”

“Are you badly hurt?” Will asked, frowning “You're bleeding and your scales are smoking here and there.”

Tim shook his head. “I'm okay but I need to recharge my fire.” he looked up and frowned. His neck stretched out an his eyes seemed to spin like crimson tops. “Wizard cloud drifting over the walls.” he screamed. “Everybody seek cover.”

With surprising speed. for there was no breeze, the large purplish cloud oozed over the walls. Men guarding the walls dropped to the ground. Two men in the gatehouse walked to the gates as if in a trance and pushed the bars away before falling over. The gates swung open. “Close the gates,” Tim shouted in vain as everywhere the damp cloud touched them, defenders dropped to their knees and fell over in a stupor. Trolls poured through the gates into the undefended city. Tim coughed and roared and moved forward to stand between the trolls and the now helpless folk of Wooten On The Foss.

Unaffected by the magical smoke, Ragnar, and Groof rushed to his side. “I can hardly see anything through this cursed purple fog,” Ragnar groused.

“Will's passed out just like most everyone else,” Groof growled. “Do something quick, dragon, or the battle is lost.” Tim shook his head and his eyes cleared. He began to chant loudly in ancient dragon. The wizard cloud began to dissipate and men regained their feet, grabbing whatever weapons were at hand and howling desperate defiance at the trolls. Hand to hand combat resumed in the fortified part of the city. Somewhere in the city proper, women screamed. Tim tried not to think about what the screams might mean.There was no time for thought. Battle was now raging in multiple places inside Wooten on The Foss.

“I'm here,” Will said suddenly at Tim's left. He swung his sword, stabbing a troll with as Tim stretched out his neck and bit another troll in half. Ragnar cut off a trolls leg at the knee and it came crashing to the ground where a gnome in a chef's smock ran up out of the thinning fog and stabbed it efficiently through the heart with a butcher knife before running on. Groof ripped the arm off another troll and clubbed it to death with its own weapon.

“Get out of my way everyone,” Tim commanded, as his tail lashed to the side, knocking three big trolls to the ground. Ragnar cut off the head of one and as Groof ripped another almost in half. A troll tried to jump on Tim's head but was skewered by Will's sword in mid leap. “Get the people who can't fight into the guild hall and bar the doors,” Tim ordered a townsman in a scholar's robe, carrying a rake and running up to join the defense.

Push Comes To Shove In The Time of Cholera

2010-02-20T16:17:00.004-05:00

Hello fellow bloggers,

Haven't posted this week, 'cause I've been a bit under the weather. Got vertigo, then major headache, swollen glands, sore throat, and to top it all off six (that's right six) nosebleeds. You know I hate going to doctors, right? Well, when blood came pouring down from my nose at dinner on Thursday for absolutely no reason, ruining my appetite for finishing my Potatoes Strogonoff (made with low fat milk and turkey instead of meat), I reluctantly gave in to Danny's suggestion that he drive me to an urgent care center. I am glad I went. Can you guess what was wrong with me?

Major sinus infection. My turbinates are a wreck, my dears. I am now taking Augmentin tablets that are the size of burritos (well almost) and am feeling a whole lot better. And coincidentally or not, since I've been on the antibiotics, my acid reflux is a whole lot better. I've been testing it or teasing it or torturing it, you decide. Tortellini with pesto and chicken, chocolate popcorn, three cups of coffee, a naked chicken burrito with sour cream, beans, salsa, guacamole, and corn, chips and queso...and I am hardly having any reflux at all. Makes me wonder if an infection wasn't a contributing cause of it all all along.

Well, since I am somewhat focused on illness these days here is a somewhat relevant poem. Live long and prosper.

PUSH COMES TO SHOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA

If one bug doesn’t get you

Another one sure will.

Don’t wait until your fever’s high,

Until you’re really ill.

Just get out your insurance card.

Avoid a grim surprise.

Then hasten to a doctor.

Make sure you’re immunized.

There’s lots of possibilities

To catch a deadly germ.

There could be microbes in the air

That render you infirm.

It might be plague or Asian flu,

A chicken pox or worse.

So hurry now and get your keys,

if your co pay’s in your purse.

Watch out, be careful what you eat,

don't swallow an amoeba.

E coli might be in the meat,

or maybe Salmonella.

Keep your shoes upon your feet.

Look around you everywhere.

A rusty nail is in the grass,

A spider’s on the stair.

A rattle snake might bite you,

A tree fall on your head,

There’s endless opportunity,

For fate to strike you dead.

I’m not telling you to worry,

Just do everything you can.

Make sure your premiums are paid,

You’ve got the best health plan.

Make sure your heart is ticking right,

Your arteries are clear,

Do check your bones aren’t thinning.

You must have those tests, it’s clear!

They’ll poke you and they’ll prod you

They’ll stick things up your rear

Take your temp and drain some blood,

They’re thorough, never fear.

Although those tests are nasty,

You’ve got to pay the price.

Disease is all around you,

And dying isn’t nice.

You’ve got to change your habits,

And exercise a lot.

Keep stresses at a minimum,

Or rest in family plot!

Nancy Wayman Deutsch

from Between The Lines

Excerpt from What happens In Vegas

2010-02-11T15:35:00.003-05:00

Another prompt and continuation of a story:

Jessie paused in the open elevator door, glancing carefully in both directions before entering the hallway. The 13^th floor corridor was deserted. She looked at her watch. The silver hands pointed to three. I guess I was down stairs watching the demon longer than I meant to be, she thought as she walked to her suite. But this is Vegas, after all. Its early for the corridor to be so quiet. She shrugged. It was not a mystery needing to be solved at the moment. She stopped in front of her hotel room door and looked over her shoulder once more before opening it with the white plastic card Mai-i had given her earlier.

Inside the suite, Jessie smiled.The soft strumming of a six string guitar sweetened the air. If Mai is playing hillybilly music he is more confident than I am of the outcome of this assignment, she thought. Mai's confidence was always a good sign. She recognized the tune as one her daddy used to play on his guitar. She hummed along, the lyrics flowing through her head. “You ain't nuthin but a hound dog, howling all the time. You ain't nuthin but a hound dog howlin all the time. You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine.” She crossed the suite's common area, following the musical notes to the balcony where Mai sat with an Elvis impersonater dressed in a black leather jacket studded in silver, designer jeans, and obviously expensive cowboy boots.

Mai stopped picking and nodded at Jessie. “Sit down, girl,” he said, indicating a wrought iron chair to his right. “This here's my buddy Aaron Elvis Pressley. He's givin' me a few pointers on my playing. Not that I need them, of course from a youngster like him.”He winked and strummed a couple more cords. “No suh. This old dog don't need new tricks from no hillbilly.”

“Well, that's as may be and that picking wasn't half bad,” the Elvis impersonater said, “but that last chord was a little off, old dog. You ain't been practicing much of late, have you, son?”

“Well, son,” Mai-i replied. “I been a mite busy with saving the world of late. Don't leave much time for guitar practice.”

The Elvis sighed. “Don't I just know it,” he agreed. He turned to Jessie. “Old dog here hasn't introduced us,” he said.”He's forgotten his manners again.”

“He does that,” Jessie laughed, “frequently.” She held out her hand. “Anyway, I'm Jessie McNeill. His, um, student.”

The man whistled. “Not the little lady who snatched TinkerBelle from the spider bitch. Pleased to meet you.”

Jessie frowned. “I'm surprised you heard about that. I didnt' think...”

“That a second rate Vegas performer would be up on the latest news?” the man interrupted, raising his right arm to expose a blueish-black Celtic tattoo spiriling around his wrist. “I'm not just an entertainer. I'm a Watchman, little darlin'. We're expected to know those things. Just like I know that your friends Glinnie and Tania are downstairs in the bar keeping track of Morrigan and Glory O'Toole. And just like I know the the demon Azer Roth and his vampire ally are watching your fairy friends.”

Jessie frowned. “Oh, and do you also know the magician who apparently isn't really a magician and who is clearly up to something that might interfere with our mission, Aaron?” She turned to Mai. “I don't trust Gabriel man and I don't care what or who Glinnie says he is. He makes the hair stand up on my arms.”

“Who is she talking about?” Elvis/Aaron asked turning to Mai-i.

“ Gabriel Vann,” Mai-i replied. “He's performing here at the hotel.”

The Watchman nodded. “That so? Been awhile since I've seen him but its good to know he's up to his old...tricks...again.” He scratched one long coal black sideburn. “Don't worry, little darlin', Gabe is okay. He's on the side of light. Just like we are.”

“Well, Jessie shrugged, “Did you know that Glinnie swears he's a vampire hunter who should have been dead two hundred years ago? Not that I believe that, of course.”

“What don't you believe?” Mai-i asked, putting his guitar into a long battered black leather case beside him on the tiled terrace floor. “That Gabriel is a magician or a vampire hunter or that he's a couple hundred years old?”

“He doesn't look a day over forty,” Jessie declared, “No matter what Glinie says. Humans don't live that long. Especially vampire hunters.”

Mai-i laughed. “True enough in most cases, Jess. But Gabriel has been working for the Vatican for centuries. His skills are legendary and many. He may no longer be completely human as you would define it, but he was born one just like you.”

Jessie shrugged.“Well, I just don't know that I buy all the hype about Gabriel Vann. I guess it doesn't matter much in the scheme of things though, whether I believe it or not.” She reached into her pocket and removed an tiny object that looked very much like a single grain of rice. “I brought the device back up here just like you wanted. I sat near enough to Asher and the count to record enough to tell us that we're on the right track as to their agenda at the convention.”

“What is that thing?” asked Aaron?

“Its a digital mini micro- recording stick, “ Jessie replied. “Tink gave it to me before she and Gai left for the Disney world gig.”

“Humph,” Aaron said. “Comin' up with new stuff every day, aren't they? Make you feel like a female oo7, little lady?”

“Except that I almost swallowed it in my sushi,” laughed Jessie. “Bond wouldn't have done that.” Her eyes widened. “Please don't tell me he was real too!”

Aaron chuckled. “Nope, strictly fictional. But, Van Helsing is real and you'll be lucky if he agrees to help you out with the Azer Roth problem.”

“Not buying it. I watched his last show and he isn't even a very good magician. No threat to David Copperfield.”

Mai-i chucked, turning to Aaron. “Notice that she accepted your Watchman status right away,” he said. “She's seen me turn into a coyote and Gai morph into a rabbit without blinking twice, has battled a spider goddess on the astral plane for a pixie she acknowledges as Tinker Belle, and works with a deposed fairy Queen and a witch from Oz. But she doesnt believe Gabriel Vann is a story book hero and a Vatican secret agent. I wonder if those tingles I suspect she feels when he's around aren't something besides dislike, eh? Gabriel was always a...uh...what do they say now....a chick magnet, wasn't he?”

“Oh yes, women love battle scars,” Aaron agreed.

“Oh stop it you two,” Jessie said. “I don't buy the Van Helsing story. If he's human how can he really be hundreds of years old and look sort of like Hugh Jackman?”

“Jessie,” Mai-i said, “you know that the bite of a vampire can kill or turn a human, right?” She nodded.

“Well, the freely given blood of a vampire can bestow the gifts of super healing and a much longer life than you'd imagine.”

“But why would a vampire do that? Give blood to one of their greatest enemies?”

“Because all vampires aren't evil, that's why. Didn't you watch that Buffy show a few years back on Fox?”

“I remember Angel, the vampire with a soul. He was pretty hot. But that's just television fiction that Joss Wedon made up.”

“Stories and legends are based on fact, Jess. Most people don't want to accept that there are things that would shake up the foundations of their hard won beliefs, so they just discount them. But magic is real. So are dragons and fairies and all manner of things that go bump in the night You know that.”

Jessie shrugged. “Okay I'll accept Gabe Vann as Gabriel Van Helsing if you really want me too. But don't tell me Angel was real and he gave Van Helsing his blood.”

“No, not Angel. He was a fictional character as was Buffy although there is a Hell mouth in California. Wedon got that much right. It was Mina Stoker who gave Van Helsing his gift of longevity. He is mortal but with luck will still look middle aged when your grandchildren are old.”

“But he's not a magician.”

Aaron laughed. “Let's say it is more of a hobby with him. But he's good enough. After all, Harry taught him a trick or two, ain't that right Mai-i?”

“Harry Blackstone?”

“No, of course not. Harry Houdini.”

Jessie groaned. “Of course, I should have known. Houdini." She pointed at Aaron. "And of course, you are the real Elvis Pressley and you didn't die and you don't age, either. And Gai is really the Easter bunny.” She ran her fingers through her tangled red hair. “I have a headache.If you two gentlemen don't mind I think I am going to bed before the sun comes up and its time to save the world again.”

“Well, little darlin',” the man in black drawled in a soft Mississippi accent. “Igai Gai is definitely not the easter bunny. Don't ever let her hear you say that. And like Van Helsing, I reckon I have a few skills besides singing and making stupid movies. You ever heard about hiding in plain sight?”

Jessie sighed. “If I am lucky this is all a dream and I'll wake up.”

“Sleep tight,” said the man in black, turning to look out a the distant mountains in the faint pre dawn light. “But, be sure to close the closet door. All the way.”

Ma-i's chuckle followed her into the common room. “It's a full moon tonight but I'll do my best not to howl too much,” he called. “Breakfast meeting at ten o'clock sharp. Be there.”

Jessie glanced at her digital watch which read five am. There's no place like home she thought. What I wouldn't give for a pair of ruby slippers right about now.

file:///Users/nancydeutsch/Desktop/What%20happens%20In%20vegas,%20part%202.odt

Excerpt from Johnny Lobo story

2010-02-10T12:38:00.002-05:00

This is part of a writing workshop exercise: a prompt to make a character or characters have animal characteristics and act on a compulsion or obsession:

It was early afternoon, on a Wednesday, and I had no real excuse to go to the Straw House for a beer. Its not like I didn't have beer in the fridge and didn't know I was acting outside of my pattern and comfort zone. But, it was one of those really awful Farch days where the sky looks like its made out of dull grey lead that's about to fall on you at any minute and crush you flatter than a chipmunk under an alphas' paw. It was cold and there was the usual winter wetness in the air which normally doesn't bother me since I had a particularly warm and thick coat. But that day, even inside, in my snug den, it seemed to leach right into my bones themselves. I'd spent the better or the worst part of the morning housecleaning, which I'd neglected for way too long, being as I was in the middle of a project. After sneezing a few dozen times and wading through dust bunnies all the way to my unshaven whiskers, I decided I'd had enough of the domestic stuff and that I'd might as well take a little jog into town and see what was doing at the Straw House. So, I put on my coat and my boots and followed the dirt road that lead from my clearing through the forest and into town.

When I got to the bar it was pretty empty being still fairly early. The mines hadn't let out yet for the afternoon shifts so most of the of the regulars weren't there. I noticed a couple of cute under aged chicks sitting in the booth closest to the door, chirping to an odd duck out who looked like he was uncomfortable being there in the middle of the day on a Wednesday instead of somewhere else. Maybe home with his wife or in front of a classroom. It was none of my business. I slid into my favorite booth with the faux leather seat on the other side of the room and nodded at the barmaid, Flossie, who was squeezed in behind the bar, wiping a beer glass with a white cloth. Her people were German too, like Fritz's mama, from Holstein I think. Anyway, she drew me a beer in a tall glass and brought it to me, patting my arm and winking before returning to her duties at the bar. As I sipped the beer I looked around. An old salty dog sat in front of Flossie nursing a lager and talking trash to a doll I'd never seen in there before whose hair was so light as to be almost silver. She was drinking something girly, a daiquiri or something like that. I remember thinking that she was as cute a kitten as I'd ever seen in our little burg. All decked out in a white mohair sweater, she looked as soft and fluffy as a cloud. I debated slinking up to the bar in an effort at engaging her in witty conversation, but lost my nerve when the door slammed open and the three O'Reilly brothers pushed their way into the room.

The Salty dog turned his attention from the kitten and looked into the mirror. He swiveled in his chair. “Look at that,” he said to the room at large. “You boys are back in town already. Thought you wuz gone at least until spring. Who let you out of the pokey early, mates?”

`“Aw shut up, Sparky,” snorted Pinky, the eldest O'Reilly. “We wuzunt guilty, anyway. We wuz framed and you know it.”

“Yeah, said Oscar. “We got time served. When the judge saw all the evidence our lawyer had, he realized we wuz honest businessmen only trying to bring home the bacon. We didnt do nuthin' wrong. We wuz co-erced into sumthin' we din't understand by that sneaky Foxy Renard.”

Sparky nodded. “Yeah, he's a fox all right. You boys mebbe know better than to listen to him next time.”

Oscar eased his considerable bulk in to the nearest booth and winked his eye at the barmaid. How ya doin' babe? He said. How bout bringin' old Oscar here a bottle of yer best.”

Flossie put her beefy hands on her ample hips and frowned across the bar at Oscar. Ya got cash, fatty?” she mooed, rolling her liquid brown eyes. “Boss man says OReileys credit ain't good here no more. Old MacDonald says he sure ain't runnin' a tab for you swine, uh uh..Not after what you done to bust up the place on yer last binge.”

I leaned back into the booth. I could smell trouble coming and I didn't want to deal with the O'Reillys after what had happened on our last encounter. I tried to make myself as small as I could but when you are my size its hard to fade into the wall. I remember thinking that no matter what they did to provoke me this time, I wasn't going to lose my cool. Landing back in jail again and having to deal with Red's disgust afterwards, even if she heard about it somewhere and decided to come see me wasn't worth it. No matter what those pigs did or said, about me or Red or what happened with her grandmother, either. “No,” I remember thinking, '”I will not lose my temper again. I've done anger management. I can handle myself now. I will not blow it.”
No matter what I had to put up with from the damn O'Reilly pigs, it wasn't worth risking all that that I'd had to work so hard to regain.That's what I thought at the time. Not worth losing what was left of the respect of my neighbors and anyway I was still on probation. I didn't want to go before the judge again. Old Peter Lapin's punishments were harsh unless you had a snake of a lawyer like the O'Reilly's man, who it was rumored, worked for the mob.

So, even though I wanted to howl, knowing what was probably coming, I sat there and tried hard to be quiet. Not interfere. Pull back in my shell like Doc Turtle would. Flossie was on her own. That old cow could just take care of herself. I wasn't in the mood to be anybody's champion. I was done with trying to be the hero. After all, that's what made Red finally give up on me and run away with the deer hunter. It was my screwed up heroics that got me sent to jail the first time.. You probably don't believe that. But its true. It wasn't what happened with her grandmother. No matter what you've heard, that one wasn't my fault. I wasn't even there. It was blowing down the Irish pigs' house that was the final straw, although the dirty lies the pigs spread about me and the incident with Red's grandma probably didn't help.

Even if people didn't want to admit it publicly, Red's grandma was one hot number, a real cougar if the truth be known. So, nobody except maybe Red herself would have blamed me much even if it had been true, although it wasn't. It was my brother, Jack, that was responsible. Sure, he looks a whole lot like me, but anybody who knows us both knows he was always creating trouble trying to work his way up in status and take down his older sib. I guess if you'd seen him running away from the place that night in Grandma Lola's nightgown with the bloody ax you might have thought it was me, but it wasn't. For a long time I thought that if I ever caught up to him I'd roll him and put my teeth to his throat, anger management counseling be dammed, and make him admit to what he did. For now though, I'm just gonna say it was a pack of lies, what they say I did to Red's Grandma, and leave it at that. Anyway, there was no real evidence and it ended in a mistrial. They never found a body, you know. So Jack got away with it, whatever he did and for all I know he and Lola are laughing into their rum and colas somewhere next to a pounding surf on the insurance money. Red's family are tough, the lot of them. Birds of a feather. Pioneer stock from Rhode Island. They don't kill easy.

I think a few people believed in my innocence until the crack house incident. It was me being at the house when it blew up that finally made them give up on me, turned them against me and sent me to prison. Being behind bars gives me nightmares and maybe always will. It made me a lone wolf and I don't trust anybody.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “But you don't care about that, do you? You're just here for the story.”

“I don't know what to say,” Mina admitted.

“Doesn't matter. Anyway, the thing was, I never should have gone into the Straw House on a Wednesday afternoon. I was tempting fate and fate is never on my side. For, Oscar spotted me.

“Well, he leered, “look it who's skulking in the corner, boys. If it ain't the guy who tries to hide in sheep's clothing and seduces his girl's grandma before he cuts off her head.”

“Yeah, the guy who pretends he's all that, huffing and puffing illegal sub-stant-ces,” said Pinky. “Walks around stoned half the time an thinks he's tough just cause he can get away with murder and blow down innocent business men's houses.”

“Yeah, we got a brick house now. You ain't gonna blow it up with your stinkin' drug lab like you done to our wooden one,” put in Meyer.

“The sheep outfit was for Halloween, I didn't seduce Lola, and I didn't blow up your damn wooden house,” I said. “You know its all lies and slander. The explosion was an accident.

“Yeah, Oscar replied. “That's what you told the judge and he din't believe you neither.”

“Next you are gonna say you didn't blow up our barn, either,”Pinky sneered.

“Yeah, damn gypsy Lobos always lie, “ avowed Meyer.

“It didn't blow it up, it burned along with the house. And I didn't blow anything or burn anything, not on purpose, although you seem to have convinced your insurance guy that I did.”

“ Mebbe you think folks will believe we done it ourselves. That we knew when we rented the house it was a drug lab.”

“Why not? Could be it was your drug lab not mine and you were trying to hook Red on meth. Maybe I just wanted to scare you off her.” I shrugged. “Business was off, the law was getting close to sniffing you out and you wanted the insurance money. Maybe it was all rigged to blow up. Maybe I was completely innocent and you tricked me into being there and fingered me for the job.”

“Oh sure,” Oscar snorted, his piggy little eyes growing narrow and mean. “That's what they all say in the joint. They're all innocent. Well, Johnny, I'm no arsonist or drug-crazed bomber and I think I've taken all I am gonna take from a lying cheatin' son of a bitch like you.”

I felt my hackles rise and my entire body went stiff.

“ Johnny Lobo,” Flossie mooed from the bar. “Don't loose your cool, liebchen. Don't listen to them pigs. They're just trying to get you in trouble again, ja they are, and you know the cost ain't worth giving into your anger.”

“I am not going to give into anything,” I growled. I stood and threw five bucks on the table. “I'm going to walk out of here now and go home and I don't want any trouble. What's over is over. Believe what you want. I've served my time and I'm done with it.”

But then, Pinky laughed again and Oscar snorted and Meyer said, “ Looks like Johnny Lobo turned into a prissy little pussy cat while he was away. Are you Johnny or Jeanette now, sweetie? Prison a bitch, huh?”

I opened my mouth to frame some clever reply but heard myself snarl instead. I saw something red before my eyes, but it wasn't my long lost love. Then I sort of blacked out. Maybe you saw heard what happened next on the eleven o' clock news or read it in the paper. If so, then you know more than I can remember. Oh, I saw Pinky and Oscar in court at the trial and I heard all the testimony. From the O'Reilys and Flossie and The Salty Dog. The pictures of what was left of Meyer were pretty graphic. I'd like to forget those, but I can't. I'm sorry for what they say happened. I'd take it all back if I could. Even though those Irish pigs were real bastards. But I don't remember doing what they claim I did to Meyer. I only know for sure and certain is that I shouldn't have gone into the bar on a Wednesday afternoon. Not even with the anger management counseling I'd done. I know that for a fact. And another thing, I'll never eat pork chops again, not as long as I live. I can promise you that.”

Fritz stood up, folded the motorcycle magazine and stuffed it into the pocket of his white uniform. “Some promises are easy to make wolf man,” he said. “As long as you are in here.When you know we're in a recession and the funding for this place is cut back to nuthin'. You ain't gonna get the other white meat in here, not as bacon or pork chops, for a long time, if ever.”

Johnny laughed. “Well, since I'm certified crazy and I'm not getting out, I'll deal with that.”

Fritz looked at the clock on the wall over the table. “Time's up,” he said. “It's time for afternoon meds. You gotta leave now, Miss Maus. I hope you got what you wanted out of him.”

Mina blinked and reached forward, shutting off the recorder. Johnny Lobo ground out his last cigarette on the top of the scarred oak table instead of in the tin ashtray. “Come back again,” he said, winking at her and smiling his sharp toothed smile. “If you want to visit some more. Maybe I haven't told you everything yet. But do me a favor next time. Don't wear anything red.”

The return of the jabberwok or when you wish avan a tar

2010-02-04T12:26:00.006-05:00

Hey there boys and girls in Blogland,

The photo above is not, of course, me. She is a German born actress with an Irish last name, probably recognizable to most of you from TV. The reason for her photo will be revealed a few paragraphs down. Patience, please.

Are you still out there? I promised myself yesterday ('cause who else cares, really) that I would blog today since it has been so long since I last posted. Last year, to be exact. Well, boys and girls I didn't fall down the rabbit hole and while I haven't exactly been painting the roses red, I have been busy. After taking most of the month of December off to fight the annual Christmas wars and traveling through Georgia for nine days post Christmas into the new year and decade, I've been reading novel after novel and writing scene after scene in my dragon book. Why read so much?

Oh ho, you are saying, I see where this is going. Its going to be a blog about books, maybe leading into one of her writing discussions. Yup. So, if you want the latest news about my silly or serious activities, family or dogs, or pet peeves and political rants, check facebook for the post of the hour. Flickr for photos. If blogs about writing and books bore you, go knock on somebody else's cyber door.

Okay, now back to readin' n writin' for the rest of you. I'll try not to ramble too much and trip over any mome raths. But, you know how my mind works, so read on if you dare. If you have any pink cakes or caterpillars who are willing to give you a puff on their hookahs, go ahead and indulge. This will take awhile. Ready. Here we go.

I've read a couple dozen books since I last posted because:

1.It's been too friggin' cold this winter, even in Florida, to want to be outside much.

2. I just plain like to read, especially lying down under a blanket and late into the night and while eating and in the car...oh never mind, you get the idea.

3. I very much agree with Stephen King when he advises that to be a good writer, you must read what others write. At least an hour. Every day.

4. Everything I've learned of any importance in my life that I didn't learn from my dog I learned by reading books of my own choosing.

If you come to my house you will see thirty feet of floor to ceiling bookshelves filled to bursting with books and yes, Virginia, I've read most of them. Admittedly, most are dusty on top from lack of recent thumbing through and my lack of interest in housecleaning. Indeed, I suspect that in the dust mite multiverse, I am a goddess, having provided billions and billions of the little fellas with a generally undisturbed habitats. Lately I've been buying a whole lot less paperbacked and hard backed books, uploading them via Amazon's Kindle books to my iPhone. I am saving trees by doing this as well as bookshelf space and I can read a page or two spontaneously anytime anyplace anytime. Even better, I don't skip to the end of the book and ruin it for myself. I am reading books that turn out to be VERY long since I have no idea of length when I order them, books I probably wouldn't buy if I saw their heft and gi-normous page content at B and N. These books are both entertainment and research. I gain not just facts but tips on story crafting from the reading experience. Thank you Stephen.

Now, the segue into writing:

Somebody asked me the other day, "Who do you write for?" I gave my standard answer. "I don't write for anyone in particular, although I'd be glad for the entire world to read my stories and poems. I don't write for myself, either. I write because I can't not. The characters and their stories keeps dancing through my poor cluttered head and they want out! They want, need, and insist on existing in print. Once that's done, they leave me in peace. They seem to know that that's the best I can do for them: giving literary birth. I don't mind the conception, gestation, labor, or birth process. But, once they're hatched, they're on their own. Like Mama Sea Turtle, I'm off, flapping my flippers through the depths on a new adventure.

I don't write to become rich which is good since I have made very little money with my first two books. I'd like to have some more money, you understand, not to be filthy rich. Just enough to be secure. But, while I immodestly believe that I am a good writer (or write good), I also know that I am unwilling and perhaps even unable to make promotion of my works my full time day job, which is what it would take to sell them in any significant way. The people who have read them seemed to like them, its just that most people don't know they exist. Or so I tell myself.

I am not going to beat the weeds and bushes for agents, publishers, and editors willing to take a look at my stuff. I am not good at begging favors or networking for the sake of self promotion. I hate public speaking, and as my mother would say, "Pushing myself forward". Not that there is anything wrong with those things. That's the way the business works. I was trained as an actress. I can fake it, act if out. But I don't want to. The role of self promoter gives me insomnia, panic attacks, migraines, IBS, acid reflux, sweaty palms, and a desire to jump off the end of the world.

"What would I do with fame anyway?", I ask myself. Couldn't walk the Mutley Crew down the road with me wearing mismatched clothes and no make up without worrying about somebody bothering me, right?

What I would like, though, is to be taken a little more seriously by acquaintances and friends as a writer. For, I am a writer, a serious one, even if I don't continually blow my own trumpet in peoples' ears about it. I write a lot. I work hard at learning the craft. At not just continuing to do the things that come easy but stretching to learn those that don't. In doing a thing over and over until I get it write. (Having pun?) As Mark Twain said, "The difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug."

I don't know how long it is going to take me to finish my current project: my first full length novel, which is a fantasy for young adults and adults. I've got 220 pages on paper in the first draft thus far, and it will take as long as it takes to tell Tim's story. As long as it takes to edit, edit, edit. I dunno what I am going to do with it when it is finally done; self publish, small press publish, or actually send it out to some mythological publishing guru who might actually read it somewhere out there in the great beyond if I can figure out where and whom that might be. The publishing industry is changing so much so quickly that it is hard to project anything right now. Indeed, the old ways may be going extinct, like the dodo did did, and be gone tomorrow. The big box bookstores may no longer be available to sell traditional books much longer, either.

I do know that I am going to utilize Kindle and Podiobooks or whatever updated version exists. And yesterday I heard about a really interesting new idea: people utilizing avatars to attend business meetings in their place. Now, this I could do!! U betcha. Sit at my computer in my dusty library/home office in my jammies or sweats, writing the script while my amazing avatar negotiates my contracts, does my promotions, and my witty brilliant speeches for me. I even have an idea for my avatar.

Think Gerri Ryan, the big eyed blond pictured at blog top, "Seven of Nine", on Star trek Voyager and currently seen as Tara Cole on the terrific show Leverge. Tall, blond, and beautiful (Ja) with miles of leg and tiny waist, terrific in body suits. Positively assertive. Just like my inner wanna be self. Pay no attention to the little scruffy woman behind the screen ladies and gentlemen, just listen to Nancy's avatar, buy the book, you'll love it and anyway, resistance is futile....

But for now, (insert sigh) blog over. I stepped on a mome rath and I have to clean it up before the floor gets too sticky or one of the dogs eats it. So TTFN, Live Long and prosper.

Have Yourself A merry Little Christmas

2009-12-24T14:38:00.002-05:00

Hello dear Bloggers,

I hope your Christmas is merry and bright, you have lots of Who hash and roast beast, you get to rock around the Christmas tree, you don't shoot your eye out kid and cousin Eddie doesn't come and make your sewer explode. Here are two poems I wrote about Christmas a couple years back.

THIS CHRISTMAS

It won't be the same this Christmas

without a small mountain of your gifts

still sporting price tags of black and white.

We'll miss you shaking your head, saying,

“It doesn't seem like I bought enough this year.”

We'll miss the apple cider, cookies, and canine chews

the silly hats, your snowman pins, and Christmas sweaters.

It won't be the same this Christmas,

certainly not the same at all,

not without you repeating things half-heard around the dining table

nodding between bites of turkey and pumpkin pie, saying,

“I didn't just fall off a turnip truck, you know.”

This Christmas, we'll be without your stories

our history, we used to think

we'd maybe heard, just one time, too many

but now would like to hear again,

now that you can't be here to narrate.

“Remember this,” you'd say,

“remember, when I die dead.”

It won't be the same this Christmas

no, not the same at all.

This Christmas, we won't all be together,

not like before, or maybe ever again.

We will be merry and bright, though

unwrapping, feasting, laughing

as the old year slips away toward the new.

Should you look down from a flickering star

don't be fooled, not even for a minute.

We may pretend we don't notice your empty chair,

but we will notice, and remember.

We will miss you this Christmas.

Nancy Wayman Deutsch 2007

Christmas Is

Christ child's coming, bringing hope and grace

Holly and green mistletoe and joy on every face

Reindeer leading Santa's sleigh across a moonlit sky

Icy lanes and frozen ponds with skaters whizzing by

Singing songs and carols around a sparkling tree

Tapers glowing softly on gifts for you and me

Memories of Christmas past with those we wish were near

chuckling at fond anecdotes and brushing back a tear

Angels watching newborn babe and wise men from afar

Smiling in the silent night beneath a golden star.

2009-12-21T19:26:00.003-05:00

Hello Bloggers. Ho, ho, ho, Holly Jolly...Christmas is only a few more days away now. I've had two successful parties: the first a dinner party for 60 Rollins College folks and the second a sit down dinner for twelve for Danny's birthday. The house has been decorated inside and out for several weeks. Mailed all the cards and letters. The gifts are all purchased and wrapped and placed under the too brightly lit tree in the living room bay window. Fa la la.

My food for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners will be purchased tomorrow. Been to Sea World and ridden The Polar Express. Have eaten my way through multiple cartons of Egg Nog and Barnies White Christmas ice cream. La la la la.

Bought new cold weather clothes and laundered the old ones in preparation for our anticipated post Christmas RV trip north. I've stopped the paper for the trip days, alerted the neighbors, and will inform the police tomorrow. Chili's boarding is set. Is there anything I've forgotten? Ah yes, to pay the beginning of the month bills early so they won't be late when I return. My energy and cheer is coming back now that most of my December duties are done. The only hitch is the weather.

We'd planned a Western Georgia and North Carolina trip. Visiting family in Atlanta, then New Years in Asheville and a winter visit to Biltmore. But an unusual blizzard hit NC last weekend dumping 15 to 20 inches of snow and closing some mountain highways. More snow and freezing rain is expected. While I grew up in Western Pa and experienced many cold winters, I never learned to drive until after I moved to Florida. I've never driven on a mountain road in summer or winter. Dunno how to cope with icy road conditions. Ain't gonna learn this year folks.

So, at this point we just plan to go to Atlanta. Unless they get blizzards and ice storms there too. Then, might rethink the days off: south Florida or north Florida or Savannah. Who knows I may end up watching Avatar in an air conditioned theatre instead of running around Stone Mountain. Best laid plans are oft unravelled by Mother Nature. I'll keep ya posted. Meantime, have a Merry Christmas.

2009-12-10T08:36:00.003-05:00

Pictured: Rollins Theater students: JG Lantigua, Emily Killian, and Shannon Lynch

Okay, okay, I know I haven't been here for awhile. What have I been doing with my time, you might ask, since I haven't been writing? Hello! It's DECEMBER, right? As usual, I've been organizing my personal equivalent of the invasion of Normandy or Hannibal's trek over the Alps to annoy Rome. Christmas prep for me is really like a general fighting a war. Takes me a week to decorate the house including a super cleaning frenzy (I typically ignore dust during the rest of the year since it comes back, anyway). Then, I usually do a couple of big parties. Spend three days in uber-shopping. Wrap the gifts haphazardly but put them under the main tree in artistic perfection. Send cards, newsletters, and pictures to all the folks I should have kept in better touch with during the year. Then, I fight off a cold. By this time, it is, uh around December tenth...just like today. So, know you know. But, that isn't exactly the main subject of this Blog. So, here goes: the subject is the theater, my dears, and what I learned about life from being a part of it.

This week, a couple of things happened that got me thinking about the past. My past. My college past. In the theater. First, I hosted a home dinner party on December 7th for Theta Alpha Phi (National Theater Honor Society) at Rollins College. Early December is when the new inductees are, well inducted, and the Annie Russell Theatre Guild sponsors a dinner in their honor, attended by students, professors and ART staff, and Guild members. About sixty gathered around my pool. This event is always a whole lotta work but the theater and the students are close to my heart. Danny and I always attend the plays at Rollins and as each year passes are more and more impressed with the caliber of performances and production. The students are intelligent, sophisticated, and always a joy to have around. And, as a former Rollins Player, I know first hand how committed they are to the Arts and how hard they work at perfecting their craft.

I well remember taking classes all day and rehearsing pretty much every night. Then performing the play and starting the process all over again. I missed a lot of sorority meetings and beach days and got to most of the frat parties late. But, I loved pretty much every moment in the theater and wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.

I had a long ago letter (written by me to a friend) given to me early this week which was the second thing that made me reflect on my college past. The letter reminded me that I actually started my college years at Eckerd in St Petersburg, majoring in English Literature with a general idea of becoming a drama critic like one of my grandfathers. I got bitten by the theater bug the summer of my freshman year and decided pretty much on the spur of a July moment to transfer to Rollins and shift my major to Theater Arts. I ended up getting my first degree in English, but that's another dull story you are not going to have to read here.

My practical mother said, "Its nice that you are studying theater dear, but maybe you should take some education courses too, so you can actually get a job after." Turned out she was right since I didn't go off to New York post graduation to earn my Tony's and fame if not fortune. Why didn't I? I don't know. I wasn't the most or the least talented of my group but I was talented enough to make it legit and in those days good looking enough for stardom as well. The kid could sing, too. I will say, since I need to come up with some answer that is at least partially plausible, that I lacked the ambition and the compulsion. Maybe, okay, I am a little on the lazy side, too. I like short term projects as opposed to long ones which tax my concentration. I probably lacked the guts to 'starve in a garret' as well. In any case, I ended up working for a bank for awhile which was pretty boring, went to grad school, got married, and became a teacher. Used the education courses, thank you Mom. Later I was a psychometrist, a museum docent, and a volunteer and fundraiser for the arts. Finally, a writer but never an actor.

A couple of years ago now I ran into a theater professor from my Rollins days at an Art festival event and asked him if he remembered me. He did. He remembered my pre-married name and ticked off about five parts I played at the Annie in about a minute and a half. This was, I thought, pretty impressive memory skill since my college days are long long ago in a galaxy far far away. He asked me, "How have your used your theater training?" I told him I am a writer not an actor but that I have used what I learned in every single thing I have ever done since I left my student days behind.

So, here's the crux of the Blog. Wake up! Take notes. Here's what the theater gave me. First, confidence. Confidence to take on new things and risk making a total fool of myself. Confidence to laugh when I slip and fall and pick myself up and actually make it look like I meant to slip in the first place. Confidence to shrug my shoulder and go on. Confidence to go for the laugh and not get it. Confidence to look critics in the eye and smile or thumb my nose if I want. Confidence to give a speech for a hundred folks or so without reading a single note card.

Second, I learned to pretend well. Pretend I happy when I am not. Pretend to feel well with a migraine. Pretend to know what I am doing when I don't have the first clue. That happens almost daily. In my long life, I have pretended to be so many things. I learned in the theater to observe how people convey or hide things via body language, talk, use technical terminology, etc so I could pretend to be a teacher, PR person, confident hostess, or whatever was necessary. Pretend while I actually learned on the job as it were. To paraphrase Willy S, All the world's a stage and men and women merely players. Improvisation kinda goes along with this. And I actually had classes in it. When stuff goes wrong in real life and it does a lot, the ability to improvise is actually a survival skill.

I learned physical skills too. Good posture, how to move gracefully despite my really huge feet, how to speak so that my voice would bounce off the back walls of the room if necessary. I still know how to walk through a crowded room and get the attention of everyone in it without a word, time my first remark, enunciate, and take control of a meeting with eye control. Thank you, theater.These skills saved my bacon many times. What I didn't learn too well, is how to fade into the background. I just can't stay quiet long enough. (Insert laugh here) Fortunately, a career in espionage was not a desired or necessary option.

Speaking the speech as it was pronounced to me (Hamlet) taught me to appreciate the spoken language which I feel helped me write poetry. I am usually complimented on my adept use of dialogue and dialect in my short stories and novels which I think was a benefit of theater training and study. My writing is heavy on scene which is no doubt a by product of theater study as well. When I write a scene, I actually visualize the characters acting it out in my mind which helps me insert the little bits of physical business and description. And then there is plot. Ain't no story without plot, which has to have a story arc (Beginning, middle, end). Who wants what, who gets in the way, how does the hero get around the antagonist are essential elements in story craft. And, don't forget to kill some of your darlings. That's drama. That's entertainment. I studied Shakespeare, boys and girls. 'Nuff said.

So that's it for now. Some of what I learned in the theater. Mommy and Daddy didn't waste their money. These days, I watch, enjoy a good performance, and applaud. Yesterday, as a Guild member, I 'adopted' the three talented, smart, and charming students pictured above. I am not really sure what the adoption means as I haven't been given any direction on it. Will have to improvise, I guess. TTFN Live long and prosper.

The Ox is Slow But the Earth is Patient

2009-11-24T23:13:00.002-05:00

I heard that line in a movie somewhere, sometime: it wasn't one of mine. I snorted at the time I first heard it I think, but I never forgot it. Forgot the movie though. The line sorta kinda describes my state of writing being right now. Slow, slow, slow. Dragon book is stuck in the muck of my not so creative mind these days and it seems I will seize upon any and every excuse not to write. "I have to do laundry. My acid reflux is too much. I need a nap. I have to look over the Christmas decorations and see what is usable." Blah, blah, blah. I do hope the earth really is patient. Just call me OX.

So here's some other great lines from movies that resonate with my un-a-mused state and stagnating manuscript:

"Game over, man. Game over! What the f-k are we gonna do now, man?" (Aliens)

"Ask yourself, Do I feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?" (Dirty Harry)

"You'll shoot your eye out kid." (A Christmas Story)

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (Gone With The Wind)

"I have a bad feeling about this." (Star Wars)

We'll always have Paris." (Casablanca)

"I'll have what she's having." (When Harry Met Sally)

"Come with me if you want to live." (Terminator)

"Show me the money." (Jerry Maguire)

"I'll make him an offer he can't refuse." (The Godfather)

I am imagining a scene with my muse as we sit across a battered table from each other looking over my sad 180 pages. It is late at night and raining.

MUSE: (shaking his head) That's it? That's all ya got, kid?"

ME: )pointing at the manuscript) I have a bad feeling about this. Its going nowhere. Maybe I should just try to write vampire books with silly shallow teenagers and one dimensional characters and no real action.

MUSE: (nodding) Don't forget the bad dialogue and too much narration. Like that nice Myer girl. Made a zillion bucks last year I hear. Everybody loves Edward it seems.

ME: Yeah, I'll have what she's having. Show me the money. I wish. But, I can't write that sort of stuff. So, I guess its just game over, game over, man. What the f-k am I gonna do now, man?

MUSE: Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. I'm going to Disneyworld to hang out with Tinker Belle.

ME: No, don't leave me. How will I write without you?

MUSE: (shrugging) Well, we'll always have Paris.

ME: What does that mean? We've never been to Paris. We'll always have rewrites, though. If you just don't give up on me.

MUSE: (Pointing to my desk and laptop.) Oh okay, come with me if you want to write. Sit down there at your desk and ask yourself, do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk? Just listen to what I say and you'll write your heart out, kid.

ME: (eagerly)Go ahead, make my day!

MUSE: Okay, kid, I'm gonna make you an offer ya can't refuse.

* * *

I am ready for my close up, Mr DeMille. But, my manuscript isn't. And the damn muse is cavorting with Tinker Belle I think.

Live long and prosper. (Star Trek)

Shut up Whoos, Bah Humbug, and all that gobble gobble...

2009-11-10T12:03:00.004-05:00

Well, my little Bloggers, it looks like the holidays are fast approaching again. Sorry to say, this year the Christmas girl just ain't feelin' the love. Never mind that its still in the 80s two weeks before Thanksgiving which always makes it a stretch to imagine Santa and the reindeer and Frosty et all...right now I just can't summon up the magic no how. I feel like the Grinch nervously drumming his fingers and saying, "I must find a way to stop Christmas from coming!"

Now granted last Christmas wasn't one I remember with fondness. It was just stress stress stress. That could be part of the issue I'm having contemplating a new one coming. Last year, I somehow got committed to hosting two big parties in one week which put me into a mondo decorating frenzy as early as Thanksgiving. By bed time on the evening of the second party I was suffering from a major nosebleed that I feared wouldn't stop, but fortunately did in thirty minutes. Several times in December I had stressful encounters with ex-family that harshened my mellow. And like pretty much everyone last year, I was actively worried about the worsening recession and political atmosphere in our country. Unlike most folks, the promises of change made by President Elect Obama did not fill me with a whole lot of hope, although there was perhaps a tiny spark inside that said, "Well, maybe this time..."

Flash forward a year. Change to the nation has not come. Washington DC is still full of the usual hot air, special interest manipulation, pork, and chaos. Partisanship trumps good sense. I doubt there will be much 'goodwill to men' in the halls of power. Locally, the same folks who were out of work last year at this time still are. The housing market has continued to worsen till the majority of homes with for sale signs are short sales and foreclosures. For those who need or want to sell, drop your asking price several HUNDRED thousand from what it would have been back in 2005...big ouch. We are still at war in Iraq and in Afghanistan and we are not winning. Those of you out there in Blogland who believe that the health care bill passed by the House will pass the Senate and if it does will actually provide better, cheaper, and more available health care for all, raise your hands. I don't see any hands raised from where I sit. And how's your investment portfolio these days? Retirement looking good? Seen any bailout money trickle down to your neighbors, friends, and community? Yes, we can? Uh, maybe not.

So, where's the hope and love we're all supposed to feel at this time of year?

Now, while I am grousing and I know I am, I also count my personal blessings. For now, I have an income. I can keep my home. As far as I know, I have no dread diseases. My kids are happy, healthy, grown up, self sufficient, and have beautiful children of their own to create the Christmas magic for. Publix has egg nog ice cream and peppermint bark is appearing in the stores again. I am looking forward to getting out of town the week between Christmas and New Years and hopeful that the change will jump start my enthusiasm fro 2010.

I'm also gonna take it easier over the holidays. Doing the party for Rollins (for the second and last year) but not doing my personal party (only the 3rd time skipping it in 30 years thus far). Not decorating as much as usual inside or out. 'Grinchy Nancy' is not even gonna light the luminarias on the neighborhood light up night this year. That one because I am still angry at my neighbors over the RV left in the driveway overnight gonna turn you into Code Enforcement thing. My neighbors aren't particularly friendly 364 days a year so I've had it with the faky holiday cheer from them. (For those of you who don't live in Florida, unfriendly neighbors are the usual thing in a place traditionally transient.)

So, bah humbug. That's what I'm feeling.Somebody else carve the roast beast this year. I'm tired. Sorry but that's the way it is.

Random Acts of Violence

2009-11-06T16:31:00.003-05:00

2009: We live in violent times, no matter where we live. Every day reports of calculated or random and senseless acts of hatred and violence are reported on the TV news, in the papers, and online. We avidly watch violence acted and re-inacted in teleplays and movies and video games. Husbands kill estranged wives, wives kill estranged husbands. Parents kill their babies. Children are abducted, raped, and murdered. People are tortured and blown up in the name of Allah or because they worship Allah. People kill other people for greed, in displaced anger, and sometimes for no reason that anyone can discern. To some degree, we have become desensitized to violence. We say "What a shame" then shrug and go out to dinner. It doesn't seem quite real. Not until there is some connection that makes it seem real.

Yesterday, a man shot multiple people at Ft. Hood in Texas. I hate to admit this, but I said, "What a shame" and turned the news channel to a show on Home and Garden Network. It didn't hit home. But, today, just before lunch, a forty year old man named Mark Rodriquez entered an office building at the Gateway Center just fifteen minutes from my home near Orlando and opened fire on the workers at an architectural firm, Reynolds, Smith and Hill. Six people were badly injured. One has died thus far. All of a sudden, the senseless violence became very personal. When I saw the news, I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I locked my doors. I suddenly felt unsafe.

I know the area. I know people who work there and live nearby. I drive past that building frequently. My lawyers' office is on the top floor. I wondered if he was a victim. The prep school my daughter attended is within walking distance. Police locked it down. A hotel that many friends have stayed in is across the street. The building where the crime occurred is not in a slum or area generally considered unsafe. I was reminded, as I sat glued to the TV for the next hour and a half, that no place is guaranteed safe anymore.

Here's another recent example. On Halloween night within walking distance of my home a middle aged man finished dinner with a female companion at an upscale restaurant along Park Avenue. As he made his way to his car, two men in Halloween costumes accosted him and attempted a robbery. Apparently the victim resisted and he was repeatedly stabbed with knives. He is still in the hospital and the perps remain at large.

Today's apparent nutcase was identified by an office worker and apprehended after several hours by OPD at his mother's apartment east of the city. He told police he did it because, "They left me to rot." He was referring, as far as I can tell, to having been fired or laid off two years ago by the company. Times are hard. I feel for the folks who have it tough. But that hardly justifies murder. I feel no sympathy for Mark Rodriquez. Whatever his troubles were he made the choice to do evil. His statement shows a lack of personal responsibility. Maybe he's just plain nuts. Nobody knows yet. But, he took at least one life in anger. I hope he gets justice and that the justice is harsh.

As for me, I was lucky not to have an errand at 1000 Legion Place this morning. I was lucky not to be out to dinner on Park Avenue on Halloween. I am grateful that my kids and Danny were safely somewhere else today when Mark Rodriquez made the choice to take out his personal agenda out on innocent people with a smoking gun. We were all lucky. This time. Six other people weren't lucky. Tomorrow, it may be my turn. My family's turn. Or your family's turn. In 2009, we live in violent times.

Here's a weird postscript: About the time the shootings occurred and the perp was racing away in his SUV, I was out walking my Rottweiler/Catahoula dog, Abby. She is the 'sensitive' one in the Mutley Crew. It was a beautiful sunny peaceful day. All of a sudden, she jumped up in the air, looked around, tucked tail and literally dragged me home. She was so upset, I didn't try to stop her. Probably totally coincidental, but from now on I am going to pay attention to her reactions to things much more closely.

That's all for now friends. Orlando's most recent killer is behind bars. The soldier run amok in Texas is behind bars. But, who knows what other snipers and killers, and robbers are lurking in dark corners? In conclusion, as they said on Hill Street Blues, "Be careful out there." Watch your backs. Be alert. Always. Good night, and good luck.

Happy Howl-o-ween

2009-10-31T17:08:00.005-04:00

Trick or treat! Here's some recent photos of the day we met Laura and family at Sea World to celebrate Halloween Under the Sea. It was Bailey's first time there and PJ really enjoyed the Shamu show as well as seeing the cast members dressed up in watery halloween style for the holiday... as well as filling up his bag with chocolate goodies.

Tonight's the big night tho: PJ will cruise his neighborhood dressed as Bumblebee in Transformers and Alex is the Blues Clues dog. Bailey is a baby butterfly. Photos will be posted soon.

We brought in gyros and potato salad from Athena Chicken. We've lit the pumpkins and the spooky candles. Halloween music is playing in the other room. We're watching Dexter on DVD, eating candy, and waiting for the doorbell to ring. Its almost dark. Let the revels begin. Have a fun and safe night. Happy Howl o ween.

October Update

2009-10-09T13:02:00.006-04:00

Hidey Ho, Boys and Girls

I uploaded some recent photos as you can see. The first is my beautiful grand daughter, Miss Bailey Lynne Brown, at six months. After that are scenes of: 1. our favorite new eatery at Flagler Beach, The Flagler Fish House, a small place where you pick out the sort of fresh fish you want from a cooler display, decide the method of cooking and sauce you want, and order it. Table service, dandy seafood dip n homemade chips and killer desserts too. Fish tacos and shrimp grits available as well. Yummy! 2. Danny's mom, Charlotte, on the almost always uncrowded dog friendly beach 3.Danny and Ginny snoozing on the RV sofa after a run down the beach at warp four after seabirds.

Random thoughts:

I was reading this morning in the paper about the latest shenanigans in DC over the health care bills. I shook my head. The lawyers and lawmakers in Washington are so far removed from the 'real' Americans no matter what they say or how hard they try to understand we the people. I venture that not a one of them has lost their job and been unable to find another. They have affordable insurance cause they get government backed insurance and discounts and perks and a healthy salary from politics and whatever other jobs they have or had. They haven't lost their home to a bank or been personally f***ked by a credit card company. Fixed incomes? Not for politicos. So, they say public option then no public option and lets fine people if they don't buy insurance. Sure, lets fine the guy who has no job, no house, and is in credit card debt for the rest of his life. Give him a tax deduction on taxes he isn't paying on income he' not getting or cant pay anyway. Yeah. How many ways can you spell clueless?

I read that they are giving President Obama a Noble prize. Now, I have nothing personally against the President but I have to say for what?!! What has he done? Lets see: we are still in Afghanistan and Iraq and we're still not winning. The economy is still in the crapper. Iran thumbs its nasty nose at us and continues to push their agenda of hate to all non Muslims. Affordable health care is still an improbability. Retirement investments and indeed all investments are still poor. We, as a country, are even more in debt than we have ever been. Chicago didn't even get the friggin' Olympics despite the millions we taxpayers paid to send Obama to Denmark to do an unnecessary speech. Nobel prize to Obama. Cause he looks good in a suit maybe. Cause he said, change is necessary and, ye we can. Talk is cheap even if nothing else is these days and apparently a Nobel prize is as well. If ya wanna give out prizes for good intentions, well, there are plenty around. But, don't results count anymore? Oh well, at least nobody is giving out anything to Mr. Im-a-dinner-jacket. And by the way, doesn't a head of state know about the use of a razor and a tailor to fit his dinner jacket properly? Iran's head dude looks more like Ackmed the taxi driver. At least our President looks presidential!

Why does anyone care about John and Kate? What a waste of time and money. They are less interesting than my neighbors.

How 'bout them Steelers?! 'm drinking my morning coffee in my yellow and black Steelers mug every morning and wishing I was in Pittsburgh where the highs are between 60 and 70 instead of in Florida where the weather is still trying to be July. It is 95 again today. Walking outside is like walking in a bowl of soup right off the burner.

I am writing and it is getting better. Credit Woodstream writers workshops for jump starting my enthusiasm again.

No vet visits this week. Can ya believe that? Last week end Ginny accidentally ripped out her stitches and had to have staples put in. But this week was peaceful.

New sy-fy shows again on Friday nights, thank goodnes. Bout time. Reading a good book, The Whiskey Rebels by David Liss. I recommend it.

TTFN Live long and prosper.

2009-10-01T22:44:00.004-04:00

Hey bloggers,

Someone pointed out that I haven't written a Blog in awhile. So, here's a report. I have been busy climbing the Matterhorn, accepting an Emmy, curing swine flu, and learning to make cupcakes and lump free gravy. Just kidding, but then you knew that. I can't make cupcakes.

I guess I really have been busy, but I am not sure what I have accomplished. Been writing in fits and starts on the dragon book. I'd like to say its going well but I feel like I am going in a circle and not making much progress with the storyline at all. Kinda like James Joyce when a friend asked him how much he'd written that day and Joyce said he'd written seven words. The friend exclaimed, "But that's a lot for you!" and Joyce replied, "Yes, but I don't know in what order the words go in."

I've tried to organize my house a little. I've straightened up bedroom closets, kitchen closet, linen closet, and garage and it doesn't look any different. I am awash on a river of clutter. I just really need to get rid of a ton of stuff I don't use and don't want and the idea seems over whelming. The very thought sucks energy out of me. More fun was going to Michaels and Target and buying some Halloween stuff and decorating the house with it. More stuff! Insert sigh here.

During the week days I've been taking the dogs to the vet. I have been to the vet at lest seven times in the last 30 days. Really. You don't even want to think about my bills. I think I have about seven different kinds of medications I have to give each day, too.

I have been suffering from acid reflux for over a month now and yes, I know I should probably go to a doctor. That doesn't mean I will until it gets a lot worse. I've been slogging liquid antacids, chewing Tums, taking Prilosec, and trying to eat a low fat diet. Unfortunately, I love Mexican, Italian, and Greek cruisine and am addicted to coffee. I dream of chocolate. INsert another sigh here.

We've spent our weekends since I last blogged either going to various beaches or spending time with my kids and grandkids. Pictured in this entry are PJ and Chili, Laura's new puppy (Great Dane) named Clyde, and myself going down the giant slide at PJ's recent birthday party. This week end, we're off to the beach again, this time Flagler, with Danny' mom, Charlotte.

I am getting a little less discontent with Florida as each week passes. Maybe I am just resigned to the realities of the economy and all the improbabilities of a move. The fact that it (the weather) was a little cooler the past several days has helped elevate my mood. I am hoping summer weather is gone for the year...or a least for a week or two.

So, there's the update. That's all, folks. If I had to name it, I would say 'Status Quo'. Hopefully, I can come up with something more exciting soon. Say you don't care if its true or not and I'll get working on it!

Live long and prosper.

2009-09-15T11:54:00.004-04:00

Well, it has been a little over a month since my trip to the north and my longing to not be here in Florida has not decreased a bit or twit. I walk out into the extreme heat and humidity, either stuffed up or dripping from allergies with my head hanging lower than it should, frustrated and longing to go home where the view from my windows is mountains and hills, the pines look like Christmas trees instead of cocktail sticks, where I can breath the air without suffering, and wear a sweater instead of sweat. Enter a sigh here. There's nothing to be done about it and I don't like feeling so powerless. So, color me discontent.

With the economy the way it is, selling my house is not a viable possibility. Yeah, I know. The voice of reason keeps telling me that. Folks aren't moving into Central Florida. They are moving out. 50% of all houses for sale are in foreclosure. At least mine is paid for and at least for now, I can pay the taxes and household expenses without selling my soul to the Devil. I should be grateful even if I am understandably angry that as my house's value goes down the real estate taxes go up. I am grateful. Just restless. My life is tick tick ticking away and I want to enjoy it before it is tick tock gone.

I tell myself that moving to the beach would be a good compromise and it probably would be. I am going to look further into possibilities in North Florida. Close enough to drive back here and see my two daughters and their hubbies and three children whenever I want. Somewhere where the sea air helps my allergies. Somewhere with a different view. Ocean is good. I like sand between my toes. Even if visions of my hilly childhood home place continues to haunt my dreams.

So here's the plan: spruce up the back yard as soon as it is cool enough to work out there. Touch up paint the nicks and scratches inside. Clear out the garage and organize the storage room nearby. Watch the market. Hope that change is on the horizon.

On another tack, I hope to complete my dragon book before another birthday rolls around. I've got a lot to do. So, ttfn. As they say, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Here I go.

Love Thyself And Love Another

2009-09-10T16:35:00.002-04:00

A poem I wrote a long long time go. Not my best effort but some truth none the less. Sadly, the people who really need to pay attention to these things rarely ever do. As the saying goes, don't let the door hit you on the way out...too hard anyway.

LOVE THYSELF, LOVE ANOTHER

Better the riches of the heart than the riches of the world.

Ignorance is no excuse.

We all have the same chance to learn.

Pause a moment, be patient and kind,

or you may get the fate you’ve earned.

You’re not alone on the planet

which doesn’t revolve just for you.

If you think only of yourself

your dreams won't really come true.

The way that you deal with others,

is the way they will deal with you.

Today you may be on top of the world

yet tomorrow, the payment comes due.

For meanness feeds on meanness,

and hatred gives birth to more hate.

Put a smile on somebody’s face

and you’ll alter your own state.

What matter fortune and power

if you find yourself alone?

You're not entitled to condescend

at work, or to family at home.

Ignorance is a poor excuse.

Now is the time to change.

Though the hour is growing late,

your life can be rearranged.

For riches and beauty will fade away.

No one will care at the end.

The truest immortality

is the memory of a friend.

December 2001

Reflections and Musings

2009-09-08T09:34:00.005-04:00

Some recent pictures from my iPhone taken at Cocoa and Vero Beach. We've taken the Parakeet to the beach on the past two Saturdays, partly to escape our ever present inland pollen allergies and partly with an idea of exploring areas for possible relocation in future. Of course, relocation now is highly improbable if not impossible due to the economy and the fact that Danny has a steady job. You don't just give up a job in this economy in hopes of finding another somewhere else.

I was pleased by some of the housing deals possible at the beach, particularly in Vero, but shocked when driving up A1A from Melbourne to Cocoa at the for sale sign on literally every other beach side house. Too much economic desperation there to be a good short term investment, even if my house here would sell. Which it won't. Folks are defaulting on loans and moving out of Florida, not in. Flagler seemed to be a little more stable if you stay away from Palm Coast, but that is only after a superficial study. I've lived at the beach before (in SC) and loved it and could see doing it again, particularly since we have an RV as an escape pod during hurricane evacuations, but am planning some future mountain trips as well for enjoyment and research. For now, I have to be grateful I have a paid off house as a safe haven during a time of recession and privation for so many folks. Thankfully, I also have antihistamines, nose spray, and aspirin. Cause I need em.

We had a fun week end over Labor Day: in addition to the beach trek we had dinner with several friends we don't get to see often enough on Friday. In fact, one, we hadn't seen in nearly three years. He asked, "What's new with you guys?" and I reflected that a lot has happened in the past several years. I had the sorrow of my mother's death, a daughter's marriage, the other daughter's divorce and happy remarriage, the addition of three grandchildren, two books completed and published, paid off the house, renovated the house, bought an RV and took my first real long vacation in fifteen (yes, fifteen) years in it. Danny finished a degree in IT, got a job at UCF, and his stepson has a son. Yeah, as the saying goes, life is what happens while you're waiting for it to happen.

We also got to have dinner with daughter Laura and her happy clan and met Amy and her family at the mall. Baby Bailey wasn't so happy actually, since she was sick again with ear and conjunctivitis infections, but Alex enjoyed playing hide and seek in the mall shops and keeping his parents in constant motion. I am looking forward to seeing all my kids and grandkids at PJ's seventh birthday party next Sunday at one of those bouncy slidy places, too!

I slogged on and finished the 4th and hopefully last book in the Twilight series. Read em all on my iPhone on the Kindle app! The last part of the 4th book was by far the best in the entire four, except that the abrupt maturity change in Bella and Edward was awkward. Instead of acting like spoiled teens they suddenly became mature functioning adults physically and intellectually. More interesting to me, but from a technical writing perspective, too fast and jarring. Liked the almost nonstop action even if the foreshadowed big fight never happened. In my opinion, Stephanie Meyer isn't really a good writer in so many technical ways, but she is a successful one and popular. I really respect that, knowing how hard it is to get published these days.

Well, that's it, folks. Dog agility starts this week and writer's workshop cranks up again next Monday. It may not be Fall on the calendar but as far as I am concerned its here. I can't wait though, until our next trip out of state on the Parakeet, hopefully Christmas week. TTFN

More bits n bytes

2009-09-03T16:43:00.002-04:00

More thoughts on vampires, werewolves, and humans. I am still reading the 4th Twilight book on Kindle and have decided that I like Bella even less than Edward. Technically, the book moves well and reads easy and it is interesting, but I have never really been a fan of spoiled self indulgent adolescent girls or( vampires it seems, either). I was never really sold on the character of Bella but when she really did choose to become a vampire and reject her humanity and mortality she lost me entirely. Her half human half vamp baby girl, Reneesme, totally creeps me out and the name is probably the dumbest one in recent literary history. Thought I had to read these books since that's what the kids are reading these days but frankly my dear, like Rhett, I find I really don't give a damn. I sorta hope somebody stakes Bella Cullen. Dunno if I will make it to the end or not. I just don't like these characters and I don't think I would have had any more patience with them at twenty.

Almost a month has passed since I returned from the Allegheny and Blue Ridge Mountains and I am still very restless and dissatisfied with late summer in Florida. Still sick of the heat and humidity and boring flatness of the landscape. The oak canopy feels claustrophobic to me. The sun feels too hot. I am really annoyed with sweat. I think, dear bloggers, I've just been here way too long. (Uh, most of my life, right?)Really, I do know how nice a place this is. There's no logic to my feelings. But, I wish, how I wish, I could be in the mountains where I could breathe without sneezing or itching or stuffing up. My constant allergies almost disappeared completely there. And now the late summer/fall hurricane season has begun. The lightning strikes have been so severe this week that several houses in the area have burned. A new worry: the summer storms didn't used to be this bad. Global warming again?

Ah, well, it is Labor Day week end, starting tomorrow. I am trying not to think of how pleasant it would be to have days in the low seventies and nights in the low fifties and no dang mosquitoes. I am going to eat barbecue and corn chips con queso and bake the cookies that come in the shape of school buses. TTFN.

BIts n Bytes

2009-09-01T15:05:00.003-04:00

Went to the beach last week end. (Cocoa). I enjoyed it a lot. Beach=good.

I used to have a house on Hilton Head Island in SC right across the street from the beach and I walked on it every single day when there. For at least an hour. When I wasn't swimming laps in my heated pool or riding my bike on the miles and miles of bike paths. I loved the beach. Winter, spring, summer and fall. My favorite walking time was after dinner for the hour before sunset. With my dogs, of course. Akita, Nikki, was particularly fond of chasing the ghost crabs that popped out of their sandy homes at dusk to scramble for the ocean. I probably could happily have lived there forever, but fate ruled otherwise and I've been full time in Central Florida since 1991. If I could sell my inland home and could afford as a nice house on a Florida beach, I could be talked into moving. Alas, beachside housing is no longer affordable for me. Fortunately, it's only an hour drive.

At this stage in my life though, I really would like something really different. Like a mountain home, which would be affordable if I could actually sell my present one, and for more than a dollar ninety eight cents! Will the economic miasma ever end? Sigh.

I am still so sick of the steamy weather, the bugs, and the constant allergies I seem to suffer from here in Central Florida. I even am coming to dislike the tall oaks hanging overhead dripping with Spanish Moss. Seems, after the mountains, creepy. But, it is September. Summer's over and cooler weather is only a month or so away. Hopefully.

I wanted to know what all the fuss was about, so I began to read the Twilight book series. I have actually enjoyed them. Stephanie Meyer may not be a literary giant, but she knows how to keep a reader's interest in stories that have very little if any action. And success like hers must be admired by a writer! I am personally glad when any writer inspires young people to actually read a book cover to cover, but I have to comment that I am a little concerned with the reaction of young women to the characters of Edward and Bella. Young teens who don't have the benefit of experience have been selecting mates since caveman days based on hormones and always will They either hit it lucky or the get divorced/break up. Hopefully, they learn from this and make better choices later in life.

Young women moon and sigh over the 'good' vampire, Edward. And like Bella, seem to equate him with the tragic dark anti hero Heathcliff in the 19th century chick lit novel Wuthering Heights. Which most of the girls haven't and won't read. In Charlotte Bronte's melodramatic but classic book, Heathcliff was a cruel and selfish man, insensitive to the feelings and needs of others and totally obscessed with the equally vapid, mean, and self centered Cathy who dumps him and marries for status and money. They ruined each others lives and the lives of pretty much everyone around them for the sake of their twisted obcession which they mistakenly saw as love. Young girls who love drama and being the center of it, sigh over this, and will probably pass over all too many good guys for their own Edward. Who will, like Edward, turn out to be selfish, controlling, and abusive.

Don't buy the argument? Well, Edward tells Bella who she can and cannot see, call, or visit. He actually has her kidnapped by his sister and held against her will in one book to prevent Bella from seeing his rival freely. He showers her with presents...but always what he thinks she should have not what she expresses a liking for, and is always at her side, day and night, unless he is away briefly 'feeding' on mountain lions and bears. Bella, being totally convinced that he is an 'angel' (her term not mine), desperately fears that he will stop loving her and leave her if she ages so she decides to give up her life and her mortality at eighteen to live forever at his side. Even if she can never grow up, have children, sleep, eat, or feel normal human emotions anymore. Even if she has to give up her family and friends. Forever. This, along with an eternity of blood craving, sounds pretty yucky to me.

Edward is the classic template of the handsome guy who just loves you so darn much he has to be with you every single second and always knows what's best for you. No matter what you say. Cause, he's prettier, smarter, and graceful and has been around the block a few times. Who turns out a few years later to be an emotional or a physical abuser. And young girls, thanks to Twilight, think he's model guy. When a guy who really cared about her would say, "Sure Bels, see whatever pals you want to, drive a truck if you'd rather not have a Mercedes, we don't have to get married if you aren't ready...oh and gosh darn it, I would never ever do anything to hurt you...like turn you into a vampire with a bad temper and insatiable cravings for human blood."

Its a story and as such is fine. But, take it seriously and a whole new crop of twenty somethings will be showing up with bruises on the outside and inside at abused women's shelters before long.

I am reading book number four now and am hoping that Edward will turn out to be a better vampire and man than I think he is being written as. That Bella will grow up enough to realize that her humanity is a blessing not a curse and begin thinking beyond her hormones and romantic dreams of the tortured Heathcliff. I hope the writer has something wise to show young girls after all. I'm rooting thus far for the Werewolf, Jake, who even if he gets a little hairy now and then is a better bet. I mean with Jake, Bella can be herself whatever that turns out to be, still eat chocolates and drink good wine , take a nap in the afternoons, and look forward to a time when she can play with her cute lil grandkids. That's what I want for my own daughters and that's the way I'd write the book.

TTFN

Some further reflections on my latest obsessions

2009-08-28T10:22:00.005-04:00

Photos: Flagler Beach, Florida and Bedford, Pennsylvania

'Lo, Bloggers.

Yesterday, I took Danny to the new urgent care center down the street cause he was suffering from vertigo and fatigue. Since there have been some cases of Swine flu where he works, he was a little concerned. Luckily, he does not have the flu. While I was sitting in the waiting room, I happened to pick up a magazine dedicated to life in the Carolinas and I read all about the various cities and places to move to up there. Last night I checked some real estate listings and pics of homes in Western NC and SC and while I really liked the lower than Florida prices and mountain views and puny real estate taxes, the idea of moving up there did not touch my heart strings like the idea of relocating to Pennsylvania did several weeks ago during my visit. They were just pretty places to me. Pretty as my current town of Winter Park is.

I reflected on it just before I fell asleep last night and realized that I have seen many beautiful places in my life in many states and countries. I learned to love Hilton Head in the half dozen years I lived there part time and appreciated its beauty immediately. In fact, I pretty much like all beach towns. Switzerland and Austria were breathtaking. France was beautiful too. So was West Virginia. Austin, Asheville, Charleston (SC), Savannah, Minneapolis, and San Francisco are some of my favorite American cities with great appeal and quality of lifestyle.

Only two places visited immediately felt like "home" though almost at first sight: places I knew that I could happily move to and where I felt strongly that I "belonged". Those two places were Western Pennsylvania and England. The first probably because I was born there and am a 12th generation Pennsylvanian, although most of my life has been in Florida. I really would fit in there from entitlement if nothing else. (Lol.) The second, no doubt, felt so homey from hearing many many stories from my mother (whose hobby was Genealogy and who traced her English kin to 850 AD) about our long history as a family in England before beginning the process of emigrating to Pennsylvania in the 1680s. Culturally, our family was British, despite the heavy Scotish and German infusion of root stock over many generations in America, and every time I visited England I felt very much at home there both with the terrain and the people. I visited Germany several times and felt no such pull. And Scotland, although I am an admirer of her culture and my own Scottish ancestry, just doesn't have enough forests for my taste. That I feel so much affinity for English history and culture and Pennsylvania's colonial history I attribute to the power of storytelling to children. It certainly also jump started my fascination with history in general.

So, my conclusion is that unless I move to one of those places that tug at my heartstrings, which would be difficult for the first and implausible for the second, ( thanks to the immigration and government policies of the past several decades, England isn't as English as it used to be and I probably wouldn't feel as at home there anymore), Central Florida will do just as well as anyplace else. As long as we can maintain our present quality of life and the ocean doesn't rise and swallow us up.

We do have lots of sunny weather and the beach is only an hour away from my town. Of course, I don't like the hurricanes and mosquitoes (who would?) and the consistent unfriendliness of neighbors here is disappointing, but at least I know how to deal with the weather and bugs and have been ignoring (most of) my mostly transient neighbors for fifteen years just as they ignore me with no real diminishment in the quality of life that really matters. And I do enjoy the theme parks which are close by, yet far enough away, that the tourists don't come to my little oak canopied town. Heck, most of them think junky International Drive near the parks with one chain restaurant after another is Orlando since that's all they usually see. Which is all right with me since it doesn't make it hard to get a dinner reservation in Winter Park.

And of course my family is here and not likely to pull up stakes for other parts. So, with the real estate situation what it is and especially since it would be a major undertaking just to move down the street from my present location, and I am lazy...uh...a personal energy conservationist, I guess I will stay put and count my sunny day blessings. I guess I better stop looking at Pittsburgh real estate listings and hit the beach.

PS: We're going to visit Virginia next summer. My parents and I used to go there pretty much every other year when I was little. I remember I really loved those trips. I may come back wanting to move there too. Who knows? The ox is slow but the earth is patient.