Archive for January, 2016

Driving Miss Lazy

WriterMe: You should write.

Me: Yeah, I know.

WriterMe: Anything. Just go write anything.

Me: I will. I have to take care of a couple things first.

WriterMe: Like what?

Me: Like the litter boxes.

WriterMe: They’ll be there later.

Me: They’re overdue. The cats are giving me the stink eye.

WriterMe: They’re cats. That’s what they do.

Me: And there’s litter all over the floor. I hate litter on the floor.

WriterMe: I hate blank pages.

Me: Blank pages don’t smell.

WriterMe: Yes, they do. You just never pay attention to them.

Me: What the hell do blank pages smell like?

WriterMe: Freedom. Adventures. Promises.

Me: Those aren’t smells. Stinky is a smell. Fetid. Rank. Sour. Those are smells.

WriterMe: Made you think.

Me: Bastard! I’m cleaning the cat boxes.



WriterMe: So, writing now?

Me: Not yet.

WriterMe: Lemme guess – still taking care of litter boxes?

Me: Those are done. Have to take care of the toilet now.

WriterMe: Didn’t you just do that?

Me: That was the cat toilet. Now I’m doing the human toilet.

WriterMe: There seems to be a theme here.

Me: Yeah, my life is shit.

WriterMe: You could be writing instead.

Me: That wouldn’t clean the toilet.

WriterMe: You’re the only who uses it. What does it matter?

Me: I’m tired of looking at it.

WriterMe: I’m tired of looking at blank pages.

Me: Just pretend you’re watching a polar bear dancing in a blizzard.

WriterMe: Ooo, there’s that imagination again!

Me: Fuck off. Where’s the toilet brush?


Still later:

WriterMe: The polar bear got tired. Need something else. Writing, maybe?

Me: Not done with chores.

WriterMe: You should write first, chores later. That’s what normal writers do.

Me: I’m not normal.

WriterMe: No shit, Sherlock. All the more reason to be writing.

Me: Need to balance the checkbook.

WriterMe: Why bother? It’s not like there’s money in the account.

Me: It’s more important to stay on top of it when you’re living to the penny.

WriterMe: Planning on buying something? Like more nice writing paper?

Me: Have to pay the phone bill.

WriterMe: Why? You never talk to anyone.

Me: I like keeping my options open.

WriterMe: You want options? I have plenty of room on my nice blank pages.

Me: Consider them a quantum field of dreams.

WriterMe: Nice analogy. Very creative. Like maybe you’re a writer or something.

Me: Nice try. Hand over the checkbook.


Yet even later:

WriterMe: Blank pages! Get your blank pages right here!

Me: I’m working on our taxes.

WriterMe: Seriously? It’s not even the end of January.

Me: We have all the info. Might as well get it out of the way.

WriterMe: You’re failing in the time-honored writerly tradition of procrastination.

Me: Don’t worry. I make up for it in other areas.

WriterMe: Yeah. Like not writing.

Me: I’m already in the middle of this. I’ll write later.

WriterMe: You don’t have anything to write about, do you?

Me: I have plenty of ideas. Just need to focus on math right now.

WriterMe: You’re choosing accounting over adventure?

Me: I’m choosing order over chaos.

WriterMe: That sounds really fascist.

Me: Oh, so now I’m Hitler?

WriterMe: Well, if the mustache fits…

Me: Go play with your blank pages. I need to find the W-2.


So very much later:

WriterMe: *snore*

Me: Hey, wake up. We need to work on the blog.

WriterMe: I’m busy.

Me: You’re snoring.

WriterMe: Snoring is an action. Action means doing something. Hence, busy.

Me: That’s just rationalization for avoiding your job.

WriterMe: What the hell do you think you’ve been doing all day?

Me: …

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It’s not even three weeks into the year and 2016 already sucks big rotten eggs.


Alan Rickman (Severus Snape), David Bowie (rock god), Natalie Cole (R&B goddess), and Glenn Frey (The Eagles), all gone. Not to mention a slew of others from television, film, music, and sports.

Minion Avengers (1)

We warned you…


I’m going to unplug the damn thing and see if it reboots back to the original settings…

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We will all be remembered.

Each of us, in our own unique way. Most of us only by our closest family and friends, and then for maybe two or three generations. Some of us may barely touch another soul or two, for mere moments. A few of us may leave something behind that saves our names for the centuries. Or our name gets lost in time while our mark lives on, mysterious and poignant. The most rare of us become transcendent, touching millions, and leaving a legacy impossible to miss or forget.

David Bowie was one of those so very rare. A visionary well beyond the boundaries of mere music, his death this past weekend leaves a void in the creative world that can never be filled. I can’t admit to being a rabid fan, but I always wanted to hear his work, even when I didn’t really understand it. His “Let’s Dance” album was a large part of my college playlist, while “Space Oddity” is required background music for any science fiction writer worth their words. As I browsed through his catalog on YouTube, I found myself relearning just how large a part he played in music, and how much his work contributes to the soundtrack of my life. His passing takes another irreplaceable piece of me.


It’s weird sometimes how people touch your lives and you don’t really understand the depth of that touch until they are gone. I’ve been very melancholy since I learned the news. I didn’t expect that. Yes, I’m always a little sad when someone passes, especially when it’s from something like cancer. I’ve watched several friends die because of cancer. It’s an insidious, hateful disease that wastes its victims to nothingness in so many ways besides just the physical. Fuck cancer. And the horse it rode in on.

But this is more than just being mad at losing yet another bright spot in our universe to that perversion of cell growth. It’s also another mark of time passing by. It’s another reminder that we are all mortal, doomed to take a final step eventually. Bowie’s steps will one day be the metaphorical equivalent of dinosaur prints – forever embedded for countless generations to experience. The rest of us – well, we’ll just have to make due with the few minutes we get before the waves wash our tracks off the beach.

Some – like Bowie – leave an indelible body of work. We still remember Plato and Mozart and Shakespeare, not because of the individual, but because of the tracks they left. For most of humanity, children are the tracks we leave. Our children are our legacy. It is with them that we pass on our wisdom, our experiences, our stories, our existence. For good or ill, it is the children that will remember. And maybe that’s why I’m feeling a little out of sorts about being reminded – yet again – that I’m not getting any younger. Not having had children, who will remember me? What is my legacy? I want to be more than just the eccentric aunt who collected cats and hid in her house, but time is no longer on my side.

When I was a kid, I fantasized about my awesome future. Once I (literally) grew out of wanting to be a jockey, my world became all about music and writing and movies. I was going to be an Academy Award winning writer/composer/director/producer/actress who played in a rock band on the side. Then it was just the writer/composer/producer part, because I wasn’t thin enough to be an actress and didn’t have the patience to deal with people on a daily basis to be a director, and simply didn’t have the chops to be in a decent band. As I became aware of the problems associated with fame, I decided I’d be okay working as a music teacher during the school year and writing award-winning novels over the summers. At least, until the novels brought me enough money that I didn’t have to teach anymore. Then I become an adult, and had to deal with bills and housing and car payments, and it became about doing anything just to get things paid. Somewhere the dreams derailed and were trampled beneath the minutia of real life, and my creative drive was smothered by my fears and insecurities.

It’s been nearly four years since my husband agreed to let me try my writing fantasy full time. Four years I feel I’ve squandered. I don’t write everyday. In fact, most of the last eighteen months – besieged by the blasted eye problems – all I’ve written is this blog. My submission/query list over that four years is woefully short. And I have nothing but rejections to show for them. I’ve hidden in the dark, watching videos and playing computer games, and letting the depression eat me alive.

Yet, despite that, I HAVE finished a novel and several short stories. And while my query/submission list is less than desirable, I at least have the rejections to show for the trying. I’ve also started a second novel and have half a dozen stories in various states of non-completion. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve actually accomplished more than most. Does it meet my standards? Of course not – and therein lies the problem. I am my own worst critic, crippling myself with bars set too high and goals set too large, and then damning myself when I fail.

And here’s where listening to some of Bowie’s works reminded me of what I need to do:

“I, I will be king

And you, you will be queen

Though nothing, will drive them away

We can beat them, just for one day

We can be heroes, just for one day”


 Thanks for the reminder, David. Rest in peace.


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Year 2016



Minion Avengers (1)

You’d better not suck…

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handwork, writing, life, music, books

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the journey goes on...


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A writer's diary.


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