Yesterday, as I was perusing my inbox while shoveling lunch into my face, I noticed an email from the vet. He's a really nice guy and has always been great with my pets.
His office recently started sending out happy birthday emails. Yes, to pets.
I'd received one for my dog. He hasn't mastered the mouse click yet, though he is good at resting his head on my keyboard if I try to use my laptop on the couch. We'll have to work on before next year's card arrives.
Beyond the e-card, however, is the issue of the card I received today. It was addressed to my cat, Suki. That's all well and good, but that cat died twenty-three years ago. Really. I mean, if my would-be twenty-seven year old cat was having a birthday, that would be amazing, and a true testament to awesome veterinary care, but alas, tis not the case.
They may want to reconsider the database they're pulling their pet info from. Just maybe.
I wonder if I'll get birthday emails for my other two cats that have passed on during that time? I don't even remember when their birthdays were so I guess I'll have to wait and find out. At least they could have clicked the mouse.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
Building a House Baby
Yes, building a house is like having a newborn. It's exhausting. I don't sleep much. I haven't had time to write in far too long.
My current house is a mess and I can't tell you the last time I put on clothes that didn't smell like sawdust or have dirt stains on them. It's just not worth the effort of putting on nice clothes because inevitably I'll get a call that requires me to run over to the house and get dirty.
If I don't hear from my subcontractors about the house, I start to worry. Yet, at the same time, I'm wishing there were a few less things that required my attention so I could have a night to relax now and then. When I do get an hour here or there to relax, I just want to sleep. Or do laundry, or one of the countless other things I don't have time for between work, sleep, eat, and house.
I've cleaned up enough sand, sawdust and lumber scraps to equal the fun of changing diapers, but at least the house hasn't pissed on me yet. There's always tomorrow.
Yes, it will all be worth it in the end. I keep telling myself that and dream of my writing room. And then I realize how much work is still ahead of us and the exhaustion kicks back in.
Hopefully, if all goes well (there have been four delays already) this time, insulation will begin next week and then drywall. We're doing some basement ceiling insulation ourselves, but other than that, we get to sit back and supervise for most of those two steps. After running all the electrical and networking, and the security system, supervising for a bit sounds really darn good.
I bought a book today. That was probably overly optimistic of me, but I'd really like to read it. Eventually. When I can keep my eyes open and concentrate on something for more than ten minutes.
Until then, it's house and stalking my submissions tracker. And sleeping. Wonderful sleep. The hours we share are too short.
My current house is a mess and I can't tell you the last time I put on clothes that didn't smell like sawdust or have dirt stains on them. It's just not worth the effort of putting on nice clothes because inevitably I'll get a call that requires me to run over to the house and get dirty.
If I don't hear from my subcontractors about the house, I start to worry. Yet, at the same time, I'm wishing there were a few less things that required my attention so I could have a night to relax now and then. When I do get an hour here or there to relax, I just want to sleep. Or do laundry, or one of the countless other things I don't have time for between work, sleep, eat, and house.
I've cleaned up enough sand, sawdust and lumber scraps to equal the fun of changing diapers, but at least the house hasn't pissed on me yet. There's always tomorrow.
Yes, it will all be worth it in the end. I keep telling myself that and dream of my writing room. And then I realize how much work is still ahead of us and the exhaustion kicks back in.
Hopefully, if all goes well (there have been four delays already) this time, insulation will begin next week and then drywall. We're doing some basement ceiling insulation ourselves, but other than that, we get to sit back and supervise for most of those two steps. After running all the electrical and networking, and the security system, supervising for a bit sounds really darn good.
I bought a book today. That was probably overly optimistic of me, but I'd really like to read it. Eventually. When I can keep my eyes open and concentrate on something for more than ten minutes.
Until then, it's house and stalking my submissions tracker. And sleeping. Wonderful sleep. The hours we share are too short.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
It's Summer, So Let's Talk Shorts
I've always considered myself more of a novelist than a short story writer, but my current publication record begs to differ. It's not that I don't try to publish my novels, they just take much longer to find a home and/or for me to set aside the time and energy to make a home on my own for them.
So what do I do between putting my novels on the query bus and wistfully waving them goodbye? I write short stories. Yes, I work on editing the several other novels I have at various stages too, but editing a novel takes more time, at least for me, than writing the rough draft, and as I've been harping on for well over a year now, time is something I don't have much of at this particular stage of life.
One acceptance away from crossing into double digits of published shorts, I thought I'd take a little blog time to explore my world of short story writing: Where I started, the process, submitting, and juggling.
Let's start at the start, shall we?
My relationship with short stories began back in third grade with a teacher who picked the shyest kid in the class to ship off to the local college where I had to stand up in front of a room full of other students and tell them a couple sentences about the story I'd written. It was about a dog that got lost. I have no idea what I said about it or if words actually made their way out of my mouth when the microphone ended up in my clammy hands. All I remember is that I was terrified and praying my chaperone parent would not forget me there because the place was huge and crammed with people who were much taller than me.
The next year, I slipped stories to my social studies teacher. She was really nice and didn't ask me to answer questions much in class. The whole talking in public thing was a major issue for me as a kid. She would write notes on the stories and hand them back to me the next day after class. We had a really great non-verbal, written encouragement thing going on. The thoughtful few words she shared and the fact that the teacher from the year before had picked my story above all the others, made me want to keep writing.
Over the next several years, I wrote a few stories. I didn't show them to anyone. Not because I thought they were bad at the time (they are, I kept a few), but because I didn't find the right person to share them with again, someone I felt safe with, who wouldn't go at them with a red pen and tell me they sucked and I should go find something else to do.
It wasn't until my junior year in high school that I took a creative writing class and found another teacher to share my work with. She did go at them with a red pen, but she was encouraging too. There were days I loved her and days I hated her. In between those days, I wrote stories and poems for the student writing journals she put together throughout the year. Seeing my work all typed up and in other people's hands was exhilarating.
With her encouragement, I started working on a short story, that grew into a novella, that eventually, countless drafts, nearly twenty years, and numerous total rewrites later, became my first novel. At this point, I was of the belief that the longer the story, the better. No seriously, my novel draft was 320,000 words. Join me in a headdesk, would you?
After finishing one of those major rewrites, I stumbled across a fanfic site for a TV show I'd loved years before. There, I found a writing community that reminded me of that creative writing class and those teachers that had gently prodded me along. I wrote a fanfic novella. Readers liked it. I decided I'd try writing something short. I hadn't done that since high school and it took me a few drafts to remember how to cram a whole story into a couple thousand words.
The first comment I received on that story was that I'd made the reader cry. And no, not because it was a horrible story, though it may well be, I haven't gone back to read it to find out. Then more comments came in saying similar things. I'd made readers feel the emotions I'd felt when I wove the words together. That was pretty damn awesome. And quick to write, so much more so than the monster novel I'd been working on forever or even the novella I'd slaved over for months. I wanted to do it again.
Then I discovered NaNoWriMo. Novels. In a Month. Holy crap. This could happen? They didn't take years? I had to check this out.
Enter the sparkly distraction chicken. I wrote novels. Four of them. Found a real critique group. Learned what I was writing was not good and how to fix it. Dove into fixing it. Rewrote my first novel yet again, but in 200K less words. Made lots of writer friends all around the world. Yes, I danced the tango with the sparkly chicken of distraction for years. Then a writing prompt jogged my memory about wanting to write a short story. Ooooh yeah. That.
I wrote a short story. It wasn't very good. But I liked it. I pondered the responses from those who didn't like it and those who did, weighing what I liked about the story with the things they suggested needed work. This feedback went into the percolator for a good long while. I had no intention of rewriting that story. It was an exercise in learning to write short again.
When the next prompt grabbed my attention, I was ready. Solitude was born.
So what do I do between putting my novels on the query bus and wistfully waving them goodbye? I write short stories. Yes, I work on editing the several other novels I have at various stages too, but editing a novel takes more time, at least for me, than writing the rough draft, and as I've been harping on for well over a year now, time is something I don't have much of at this particular stage of life.
One acceptance away from crossing into double digits of published shorts, I thought I'd take a little blog time to explore my world of short story writing: Where I started, the process, submitting, and juggling.
Let's start at the start, shall we?
My relationship with short stories began back in third grade with a teacher who picked the shyest kid in the class to ship off to the local college where I had to stand up in front of a room full of other students and tell them a couple sentences about the story I'd written. It was about a dog that got lost. I have no idea what I said about it or if words actually made their way out of my mouth when the microphone ended up in my clammy hands. All I remember is that I was terrified and praying my chaperone parent would not forget me there because the place was huge and crammed with people who were much taller than me.
The next year, I slipped stories to my social studies teacher. She was really nice and didn't ask me to answer questions much in class. The whole talking in public thing was a major issue for me as a kid. She would write notes on the stories and hand them back to me the next day after class. We had a really great non-verbal, written encouragement thing going on. The thoughtful few words she shared and the fact that the teacher from the year before had picked my story above all the others, made me want to keep writing.
Over the next several years, I wrote a few stories. I didn't show them to anyone. Not because I thought they were bad at the time (they are, I kept a few), but because I didn't find the right person to share them with again, someone I felt safe with, who wouldn't go at them with a red pen and tell me they sucked and I should go find something else to do.
It wasn't until my junior year in high school that I took a creative writing class and found another teacher to share my work with. She did go at them with a red pen, but she was encouraging too. There were days I loved her and days I hated her. In between those days, I wrote stories and poems for the student writing journals she put together throughout the year. Seeing my work all typed up and in other people's hands was exhilarating.
With her encouragement, I started working on a short story, that grew into a novella, that eventually, countless drafts, nearly twenty years, and numerous total rewrites later, became my first novel. At this point, I was of the belief that the longer the story, the better. No seriously, my novel draft was 320,000 words. Join me in a headdesk, would you?
After finishing one of those major rewrites, I stumbled across a fanfic site for a TV show I'd loved years before. There, I found a writing community that reminded me of that creative writing class and those teachers that had gently prodded me along. I wrote a fanfic novella. Readers liked it. I decided I'd try writing something short. I hadn't done that since high school and it took me a few drafts to remember how to cram a whole story into a couple thousand words.
The first comment I received on that story was that I'd made the reader cry. And no, not because it was a horrible story, though it may well be, I haven't gone back to read it to find out. Then more comments came in saying similar things. I'd made readers feel the emotions I'd felt when I wove the words together. That was pretty damn awesome. And quick to write, so much more so than the monster novel I'd been working on forever or even the novella I'd slaved over for months. I wanted to do it again.
Then I discovered NaNoWriMo. Novels. In a Month. Holy crap. This could happen? They didn't take years? I had to check this out.
Enter the sparkly distraction chicken. I wrote novels. Four of them. Found a real critique group. Learned what I was writing was not good and how to fix it. Dove into fixing it. Rewrote my first novel yet again, but in 200K less words. Made lots of writer friends all around the world. Yes, I danced the tango with the sparkly chicken of distraction for years. Then a writing prompt jogged my memory about wanting to write a short story. Ooooh yeah. That.
I wrote a short story. It wasn't very good. But I liked it. I pondered the responses from those who didn't like it and those who did, weighing what I liked about the story with the things they suggested needed work. This feedback went into the percolator for a good long while. I had no intention of rewriting that story. It was an exercise in learning to write short again.
When the next prompt grabbed my attention, I was ready. Solitude was born.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Better Late Than Never
I'm pleased to announce that after bouncing around in my submission juggling routine for a year, and a recent rewrite to polish a few details, Late has been accepted for publication in Bards and Sages Quarterly. It is slated to be in the April 2015 issue.
So what's it about?
An incident with a cart sidetracks a man and his date with true love.
Late is a favorite of mine. Well, okay, they all are, the stories that I submit, but this story is a little different. It's a fairy tale with elderly characters. And I don't kill anyone. Amazing, I know. I'm also excited for this one because it will be available in print and haven't had anything in print to add to my physical bookshelf in awhile.
Now then, back to juggling.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
You wouldn't think it could get worse...
You may have surmised that my doors are still missing from my house.
Last weekend brought on this conversation:
"I'm really sorry, but we can't get another truck out to you. The delivery company can't find another box truck to rent. It's going to be Monday before we can deliver your doors."
"I have an installer coming Monday. This would be the third time I've had to bump his schedule if you can't have them there by Monday morning. I really don't want to chance having to do that. Again."
"I understand. Do you have a vehicle with a hitch?"
"Yes."
"We can loan you one of our rental trailers free of charge if you wouldn't mind transporting the doors yourself. We'll load them up and secure them for you."
"That's better than nothing, so sure. We'll be over within the hour."
This means I have to find some manpower to unload the doors and haul them up the sand hill to the house, but I figure we'll deal with that once the doors are on site. So I call my husband he hurries home from his errands so we can head off to get the trailer and our doors.
While I'm waiting for him, the manager calls back.
"Umm. I'm really sorry. It just occurred to me that we don't have your doors here. They're still on the box truck in the towing company's yard. Glad I caught you before you were on the road.
"Yes, you are. That would have been a very bad situation, had I arrived only to find they were not there. Again." I take a deep breath. "So what do we do?"
"I'll call you first thing Monday morning and let you know where we're at on this."
"All right."
Monday morning comes and I wait for the call that doesn't come. So I call.
"We're still waiting to hear from the delivery company. We've left several messages with them."
"Great. If you can't get this door here by noon, I'm bumped until Thursday with the installer."
"I'll call them back right now and get an answer."
"Sounds good."
Twenty minutes later, the very flustered manager calls me back.
"You're not going to believe this."
"Uh oh." I'm imaging the truck exploded. My door was stolen. It's damaged beyond repair.
"I got the real story from the delivery company. The driver did make it to your city, but then he got pulled over. He had warrants and he was arrested. The truck has been impounded by the police."
Maniacal laughter erupts from my throat. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I should be really pissed, but this is so crazy, that I can't help it."
He nervously chuckles. "I know. It's kind of totally out of my control. We'll make this right, I promise."
I guess this explains why the missing delivery driver hadn't called me on Friday. He just may have used his phone call for someone more helpful in that particular situation.
"We were hoping to have the door to you this afternoon, but you see, the owner of the delivery company has to claim the truck and the goods inside because they are in a police impound lot."
"Okay."
"He's on vacation in Florida."
Yes, really. I am now utterly convinced my characters are plotting against me, and they're doing a really good job of it.
"He's flying back today."
"So the odds of me getting the door today are pretty slim."
"Sadly, yes. When they do get delivered, look them over and I'll call you on Wednesday to work out compensation for this situation."
At this point what can either of us do? We both sigh and hang up the phone.
Tuesday comes and plods along. No phone calls from either the manager or the delivery company. I'm relishing the thought of the conversation on Wednesday when I let him know the doors didn't get delivered. Then, at 5:15, as I'm starting dinner so I can get over to the house soon to work on installing the radiant flooring shielding plates, I get a phone call from the delivery company.
"We're on our way. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Well damn, good thing I'm home and live close to the new house. I ditch dinner and drive over to the site and wait. And wait.
Just when I'm about to call them back, they show up with my doors. Yes, both of them. They are not damaged beyond the little dent I'd already seen. They are at the house! Hooray!
As to the delivery company, the owner delivered them along with his entertaining conscripted teen nephew. If you've ever watched a person carry something heavy through sand in big floppy untied trendy tennis shoes you'll understand my meaning of entertaining. The owner looking forward to speaking with the arrested driver to give him a piece of his mind. He apologized profusely. I was sorry his vacation was screwed up as he seemed like a really nice guy.
The driver is still in jail.
The stupid service desk person who told me my door was there and I should drive over to look at it - went it wasn't really there - is still blissfully working behind her desk. Woe to those who come in contact with her.
The manager was very apologetic and offered a level of compensation that negated the majority of my frustration with his store.
The door...still needs to be installed. Let's just hope the story stops here, shall we?
Last weekend brought on this conversation:
"I'm really sorry, but we can't get another truck out to you. The delivery company can't find another box truck to rent. It's going to be Monday before we can deliver your doors."
"I have an installer coming Monday. This would be the third time I've had to bump his schedule if you can't have them there by Monday morning. I really don't want to chance having to do that. Again."
"I understand. Do you have a vehicle with a hitch?"
"Yes."
"We can loan you one of our rental trailers free of charge if you wouldn't mind transporting the doors yourself. We'll load them up and secure them for you."
"That's better than nothing, so sure. We'll be over within the hour."
This means I have to find some manpower to unload the doors and haul them up the sand hill to the house, but I figure we'll deal with that once the doors are on site. So I call my husband he hurries home from his errands so we can head off to get the trailer and our doors.
While I'm waiting for him, the manager calls back.
"Umm. I'm really sorry. It just occurred to me that we don't have your doors here. They're still on the box truck in the towing company's yard. Glad I caught you before you were on the road.
"Yes, you are. That would have been a very bad situation, had I arrived only to find they were not there. Again." I take a deep breath. "So what do we do?"
"I'll call you first thing Monday morning and let you know where we're at on this."
"All right."
Monday morning comes and I wait for the call that doesn't come. So I call.
"We're still waiting to hear from the delivery company. We've left several messages with them."
"Great. If you can't get this door here by noon, I'm bumped until Thursday with the installer."
"I'll call them back right now and get an answer."
"Sounds good."
Twenty minutes later, the very flustered manager calls me back.
"You're not going to believe this."
"Uh oh." I'm imaging the truck exploded. My door was stolen. It's damaged beyond repair.
"I got the real story from the delivery company. The driver did make it to your city, but then he got pulled over. He had warrants and he was arrested. The truck has been impounded by the police."
Maniacal laughter erupts from my throat. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I should be really pissed, but this is so crazy, that I can't help it."
He nervously chuckles. "I know. It's kind of totally out of my control. We'll make this right, I promise."
I guess this explains why the missing delivery driver hadn't called me on Friday. He just may have used his phone call for someone more helpful in that particular situation.
"We were hoping to have the door to you this afternoon, but you see, the owner of the delivery company has to claim the truck and the goods inside because they are in a police impound lot."
"Okay."
"He's on vacation in Florida."
Yes, really. I am now utterly convinced my characters are plotting against me, and they're doing a really good job of it.
"He's flying back today."
"So the odds of me getting the door today are pretty slim."
"Sadly, yes. When they do get delivered, look them over and I'll call you on Wednesday to work out compensation for this situation."
At this point what can either of us do? We both sigh and hang up the phone.
Tuesday comes and plods along. No phone calls from either the manager or the delivery company. I'm relishing the thought of the conversation on Wednesday when I let him know the doors didn't get delivered. Then, at 5:15, as I'm starting dinner so I can get over to the house soon to work on installing the radiant flooring shielding plates, I get a phone call from the delivery company.
"We're on our way. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Well damn, good thing I'm home and live close to the new house. I ditch dinner and drive over to the site and wait. And wait.
Just when I'm about to call them back, they show up with my doors. Yes, both of them. They are not damaged beyond the little dent I'd already seen. They are at the house! Hooray!
As to the delivery company, the owner delivered them along with his entertaining conscripted teen nephew. If you've ever watched a person carry something heavy through sand in big floppy untied trendy tennis shoes you'll understand my meaning of entertaining. The owner looking forward to speaking with the arrested driver to give him a piece of his mind. He apologized profusely. I was sorry his vacation was screwed up as he seemed like a really nice guy.
The driver is still in jail.
The stupid service desk person who told me my door was there and I should drive over to look at it - went it wasn't really there - is still blissfully working behind her desk. Woe to those who come in contact with her.
The manager was very apologetic and offered a level of compensation that negated the majority of my frustration with his store.
The door...still needs to be installed. Let's just hope the story stops here, shall we?
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