To Tide You Over - What do you think?

A dear friend has just reminded me that I have been completely unsociable since, and I find this hard to believe, JUNE.




I plan to update the blog properly tonight, but for now, here are the tentative/initial covers for my upcoming book-y progeny (expected to hit Amazon officially this Spring)... so really, I do have a really good excuse...well, this time, anyway.  I believe that if you click each picture, it will expand, and you will actually be able to read the words.



SCHRODINGER -- MY VERSION

SCHRODINGER -- MY VERSION
Copyright SEPT 30, 2010
Word count: 70


Let's say reality is Schrodinger's cat,

......intangible, ineffable,

open the box and say it is,

but I stand beyond the box and listen,


my hand on the outside,


fingers rough against ridged cardboard

I cannot see the reality that is so neatly contained,

but,



oh, I can hear it!






Purring through my fingers,
Rubbing hard against the thin barrier of the board,


Crying
Constantly,
Reminding me to


let


it


out.

And More Good News On the Horizon

Been a busy few weeks on my end.  I've just completed the first draft of AGGIE WINKUM AND THE SNOOTAGUS, a rewrite (from memory) of an original (lost) story by my great-grandfather.  Really felt a need to get that down quickly while I could still remember it.  My goal is to get it tight and perfect in as few drafts as possible, so I plan to be on the next draft in two weeks (God willing and the creek don't rise)


This book will be sold individually, but will also be available as the first of the five stand-alone stories in
The Bickerstaff Compendium of Wonderful Things

You can check out the Amazon page here

Next on my list, resorting the shuffled manuscripts of the other four stories (as several pages got mixed together when they fell out of their folder -- every writer needs a helper cat and a small boy to "help" keep things organized), and then a re-type and verbal sanding of The Woon Of Bink. 

Good News On The Horizon

My book, "Hum A Few Bars... : A Collection of Short Stories and Poetry" is inching closer to final approval mode (Jon's still double checking certain tax questions) but it really will be available on Amazon soon (yes, really and truly it IS going to happen!) -- though the finished product may have more pages than are currently listed.



To check out my official Amazon Author page (and get a quick look at the cover), go here:
I'd really appreciate it if you would take the time to preview some of my work in this book, here:


and please help me out by answering the questions you find there -- I'd really appreciate your time and help in this matter.

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Copyright: 2010
Word count:
Written in response to a YCW challenge.  Also a fairly accurate description of our life in the first two years of parenthood.  The good news is that he sleeps quite well now. The bad news is that it's now my allergies that keep me up all night. :P

I want to sleep. I feel the need of it tearing at me like teeth into chicken… There are shreds of me left on the bone. He looks at me with those grey-blue eyes and grins, an invitation, just before he dives headfirst into the playpen, arms outstretched, to do a perfect tuck and roll from the open top of the pen. He bounces, grins, unhurt, his look saying what he can’t :“Aren’t I clever?!”

“Yes, yes.” I mumble, trying to detangle him from the nylon mesh and aluminum. Oh, God, I want sleep.


“Eat. Eat.” He says, and makes exaggerated chomping motions with his teeth.


“Eat. Eat. Got it.” I put him in his highchair, trying to convince the suddenly thrashing, flailing child that, yes, he really does have to sit down .Time is slowing down to watch the scene, rubbernecking ghoulishly as I try to settle my child. Finally his bottom touches down, and with the skill of a surgeon, I assemble the four straps to fasten him in safely. Two clicks. A flip of the remote, and something soothing and bright comes on the screen. A push of a button, and I slave over a hot microwave to bring sustenance for my dear one.


Thirty minutes later, his show is over, and I am picking carrots off of the floor and pulling noodles from his hair. He shifts suddenly, and the bottom pocket of his vinyl bib catches on the tray, spilling soupy remainder all over the third outfit of the day.


“Eat. Eat.” He burbles. I wipe him down with the washcloth, sort of rough and catlike. He grins again, and I grin too. I still want sleep, but he is cute. He’s always been cute. I snuggle him to me, and another magical flip of the remote, and the room is filled with soft chirps and harp music. He settles in, little hands curling and uncurling, kneading at my heart like kitten’s claws.


Those grey-blues slowly close…a wide blink between mile long lashes…and then down. He seems more solid, heavier. All innocence. All sweet. I am waiting for three more songs to make sure he’s completely out…now two…now one, nodding in time to new-age chords, trying to stay awake a little longer.


I dance now, moving slowly from the couch…twirling quietly around three of his largest, loudest,  most motion-sensitive toys…a ginger step over his rocking horse… a scuffle with a doorknob that has taken part of my shirt prisoner…frantic that I almost dropped him trying to get beyond it.


I hold my breath. Now for the trickiest part: Tiptoeing into his bedroom, trying to avoid all of the sarcastic creaking boards…to lower him into the depths of his crib.


Down…


And down….


And safe…


And out.


So tired. I retrace my obstacle course and amble to my room, to catch up on what I missed out on the two nights before. The fan whirs, the cat snuggles into the crook of my right knee. The sheet is cool… and sleep finally comes for me

As the phone rings. Its echoes have barely died away when they are replaced by the emerging wail of the once-downed child.


My stomach becomes a Gordian-knot. I can feel it happening, shifting, swirling and tight. I reach for the phone, listen to the cheerfully recorded female voice, and curse the birth of telemarketers everywhere.

It's a "_MAJOR_ AWARD" !!!

The Award given to those whose

 "Positivity and Creativity Inspire Others".

The Art of Encouragement may be one of the most underrated aspects of writing...or perhaps of anything in life.  How amazing it is to know that someone is thinking of you, believing in you, seeing that spark within you when you feel uncertain in your steps, and the right words simply won't come. The Art of Encouragement is always more a matter of timing, enthusiasm and sincerety than of perfect wording. It is a gift, and when given freely it always returns to you to brighten your heart. 

======================================
The Rules of the Sunshine Award are as follows:

1. Place the Award on your Blog or Within Your Post.
2. Pass the Award on to Twelve (12) Sunny Bloggers -- those whose "Positivity and Creativity Inspire Others!"
3. Link the Nominees in Your Post.
4. Tell the Nominees They've Recieved the award by commenting on their blogs.
5. Share the Love and the Link of the Person from whom you've received the award

Optional Additional Rules (In Honor of St. Patrick's Day)

• Share one lucky fact about yourself.
• List 3 things you do when you need to brighten up your day.

These are the Twelve Sunshine Bloggers
that I nominate for the SUNSHINE AWARD.
Some of them may not immediately seem the most obvious choice, but I always come away with something positive and wonderful from each of these sites.

• Blogden Nash for keeping alive the joy that is Ogden Nash
• Birdykins: fly. crash. repeat   for beautiful lyrical words ( I wish I could write so well)
• An Explorer's View of Life    for endurance
• Basic Joy  for bright pictures and pretty words
• Chase Images for that which is beautiful
• Chicken Counting for making the most of tiny moments
• Chris Guillebeau Page hosting  The Art of Nonconformity Blog  for a fascinating take on everything
• Collecting Raindrops for so many lovely things
• Dad Gone Mad for wit
• Diamonds and Toads
• Doobleh-vay for lovely pictures and much brightness
• Weird Harrogate -- for showing us around Imagination's Home Town

"...and I'd like to thank the Academy... and Rita
for locking the doors to the theater when I went out to the lobby to get popcorn... "
*And I'm played off stage by the "Wrap It Up" music....Kanye doesn't even have a chance to swipe the mike.*

All jokes aside...

Thank you, Rita at Writer's Quest , for brightening my heart by nominating me for this award. Thank you to the YCW crew for letting me lock horns with you, for challenging me with your wit, your experiences and your wonderful, wonderful words. Thanks, also, to my ornery husband...for being supportive of my writing and getting me back into gear. To all of you, who have seen wonders in me that I have not yet seen myself, I am in your debt for believing in me. Thank you as well to all of the bloggers I have nominated, for allowing me to see bits of your lives, your minds, and your hearts.  I find all of you to be inspirations.

Lucky Fact:  I know how the story ends.

3 Things to Brighten My Day:

• I turn up the music and sing (very, very badly).
• I go for a drive when I can.
• I hug my husband and watch my son dance (and he dances sooo much better than I can sing).

UNTITLED

UNTITLED

Copyright: 2009
Word count:
Written in response to a YCW challenge…”That night the snow started falling…”

That night the snow started falling steady and hard…and as I hunched against the thick grey blocks of the school’s wall, I felt the cold tear chunks out of my stomach like a shark gulping down bites of seal. I was sixteen, in a light jacket, a short sleeved shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and no gloves or hat. I had the corner of a Kleenex in my pocket, nestled between a gum wrapper and a leaking pen. I had dressed for the heat, the repressing wall of heat in the auditorium and the glaring stage lights...not this cold. Certainly not for this cold. Sixteen, and God’s personal fool. My dad had dropped me off at the end of the side walk, but had to get the rest of the family to their destination in the next ten minutes. The taillights had blinked, turned, and faded out long before I yanked at the doors to the school, and I only discovered that the doors were locked because I nearly dislocated my wrist and elbow mid-yank.

I cussed and growled and snapped at the wind, and it responded by slashing me with knives of cold. Long machetes digging deep into my gut…the kind of cold where your teeth chatter hard enough to chip, where your torso hits the shriek that is that horrible, horrible cold and your innards pull back up in your body so hard you’d think they’d get whiplash. I circled the building, pulling at frozen handles with fingers I was having trouble feeling. Every single one of them were locked…I stared up at the bricks…they seemed rather smug.

I was in a bad part of town, with the only safe haven I knew in the worst part of the bad part of town. I had no money, no warmth, and no ride home until eleven o’clock that night. I was trapped in a cage of icing air.

Hunching in a sheltered corner of the schools main patio, I stomped and huffed and MADE my teeth stop chattering. By force of will alone, I made my body cease shaking. It didn’t work for long.

As the night dipped down to twenty degrees, I kept myself warmed with the heated joy of plotting my revenge, clenched into a ball and cursing the person responsible for this fiasco between grinding, chattering teeth. I swore to myself that when I got home, or better yet, when I could feel my fingers again, I would choke the living crap out of someone…but the question remained. Who really was responsible for this fiasco? The one who had canceled rehearsal? The one that had garbled the message on the intercom? Or….

I had a sneaking suspicion that once my fingers wrapped around the responsible throat, I’d be the one choking.

FIRST RULE

Copyright: JAN 2010

Word count: 86
It isn’t in my nature to willingly give up on people, but sometimes, even I know I can only do so much. The title of this poem comes from the first rule I learned about rescuing drowning victims: Don't drown yourself in the process.


I am throwing out life preservers
like petals on the water,
bread crumbs of rope and foam,
to save the people I see drowning in my wake.


It is my way of remembering them,
Of letting them know I’ll still pull them in to safety
Of letting them know I still care
That I am still here.


“Stop.” He tells me.
“If they decide not to drown,
they will choose to stand up.
The water isn’t that deep.”


The rope has blistered my hands,
My fingers are numb with strain,
As the faces of those I love drift past me on the waves
I will them, I beg them
to stand…


and I count the bubbles escaping their lips…