Why I Usually Don't Read Reviews.

Okay, reviews are important. They give readers an idea of what to expect from a book.

But I don't usually read them.

Why?

1. Because it's too late. The book is on the shelves. It's finished the editing process. For good or bad, I can't go back and change it.

2. Because if the reviews are great I get a swelled head. Praise is a wonderful thing. Getting cocky isn't. And yes, I try not to. But sometimes it's wonderful to have the old ego get a good stroking.

ON THE OTHER HAND

3. Because if the reviews are horrible I get seriously down in the dumps, wonder if I'm really any good at this, etc. One bad review has more power than 50 good ones. Seriously.


So, write your review. Post your review. I thank you for the time and effort. I appreciate you letting other readers know what you think so that they will (hopefully) read the books. But know that I probably won't read the review.

Cie

Stuff

Good morning. I would love to have something wonderful and enthralling to tell you all. But, alas, nada. Oh, wait. My niece had her baby. A beautiful girl. Both are happy and healthy from what I hear.

Oh, and I colored my hair. Reddish brown. Highlights to follow. I also (GASP) trimmed the ends and bangs myself. This means that they may be crooked and I will get scolded harshly by the hairdresser when, eventually, I go out of town to get it officially cut. But I literally COULD NOT STAND IT ANOTHER MINUTE!!! And even crooked (I'm guessing here, since I can't see the back and cut it by bending over and combing it down first. I did check using two mirrors after though and it didn't look too bad.) would be better than it was, which was hideous.

Alas, I am also losing quite a lot of hair. This, of course, is due to the thyroid and pituitary crap. Since I'm really not feeling bad I must only be off a bit. I have an appointment with the doctor soon. But honestly, if the worst that happens is my hair gets thinner, I will live with it. Actually, I'll have to live with it anyway, probably. But while I would not particularly like to go bald, I still have quite a lot of hair left.

Oh, and I've been exercising. Which means that I will be sore for a day or two. But they swear it is good for me and I DO feel better once I'm a week or two into it. Also, losing weight seems to help with the thyroid meds. (Don't ask me why. Just seems to. Maybe less mass=more effective.) Of course the thyroid/pituitary crap does making losing weight considerably harder. But HEY, I like a challenge, right?

Okay, day job calls. Gotta go.

Later.

Cie

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Okay guys, I've got a gazillion and one things to do today, so I need to get moving. But I owe you a serial. In fact, I believe I may owe you the CONCLUSION to the serial. SO . . . .

**********************************

Ryan smiled at the sound of Carrie's gasp. It was the nastiest smile I'd ever seen. It promised trouble of the worst kind. He drew the gun and used it to gesture that the girls should go ahead of him into Jen's room. As they passed I saw that Jen had a knife palmed and held against her thigh. That terrified me. Because a knife would be no match for a gun and, smart as she was, she might just try something stupid if he made her desperate enough.


"A computer. Well, well, aren't we coming up in the world."

"I bought it at the junk shop. It's too old for you to pawn."

He looked me over carefully. While he did I sent an urgent e-mail to everyone on the girls mailing lists: "HELP! RYAN BROKE IN. HE HAS A GUN!!! CALL THE COPS!!" All caps, LOTS of exclamation points. Everybody in the girl's circle knew Ryan was bad news. Hopefully one of them would be online and would do something.

"You're probably right." He finally admitted. He ordered the girls to sit on the bed and began throwing things around, rummaging through Jen's meager belongings, deliberately making as much mess as he could. It was obvious he was enjoying the tight-lipped fury she couldn't hide. While he was ransacking the place, I did a little hacking, managing to get control of the traffic camera attached to the stoplight a block over. I rotated it until it was aimed directly through the bedroom window.

Try as I might, I couldn't think of much else I could do. Not with him standing so far away.

"Nothing. Not a fuckin' thing. You are so pathetic." He shook his head. Grabbing the lamp from the makeshift desk with his left hand he swung it in a vicious arc, stepping towards me as he did. Jen and Carrie shrieked as the metal base smashed into my monitor with the sound of breaking glass and the crack of shattering plastic.

PAIN, hideous pain shot through me. He was off-balance from the blow. He was in reach. This was my only possible chance. I wrapped my cords around his ankles without him noticing. When he lunged to grab my base unit the cords tripped him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The gun went off, the shot shattering the window. Ryan's head hit the corner of one of the cinderblocks forming the bookshelves, breaking open his skull. Pulled off-balance I felt myself crashing downward onto his inert form.

Then nothing.


**************************************

I woke on a workbench. A fancy new monitor had been attached to me. I was in a new case. I felt . . . great. Really great.

Taking a look around I saw Carrie and Jen counting money out to the skinny man with glasses standing in front of the workbench.

"I still think you guys are nuts. I mean, yeah, the guts of it were still okay, but it's old. I could get you a much newer model for less than you're spending "

"No." Carrie said firmly.

"Absolutely not!" Jen gave him a horrified look. "We'll pay. But we want Ed. He's special to us."

Glad they thought so. The two of them were pretty special to me, too.

Hi!

Hi Guys! It's FRIDAY!

WOOT!

Life is incredibly busy. I only have a couple minutes until I have to start in at the day job. I'm looking forward to posting the finale of "Ed" for the breakfast serial tomorrow, and I have a pretty cool idea for the next one brewing in the back of my mind.

Gotta go.

Cie

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Okay, we've been short-handed at the day job, and busy besides, so I've been a bit pooped. I also have produced some short stuff, and a blog that will be going up on Tor.com (Oh, and you REALLY should stop by there. I have a short story "Olga" up there, and Cathy's got one up as well. And, as I said, I've got a blog coming there in the next couple of days.) In fact, I've had so many different things going, I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it. BUT, busy is good. I'm not complaining. I have a job. (In this economy that's saying something!) I have my writing. (Which sometimes frustrates me, because I want so much to be better at it, but I really love it.) I have loving family, friends, and pets. So, life is good.

Oh, and before I forget, I am excited to announce that I am now represented by Lucienne Diver of The Knight Agency. :) Merrilee Heifetz, my previous agent, is a wonderful person and a tremendously skilled agent, but we had a different vision for my individual future (aside from the joint projects with Cathy). So with no animus, or onus on either party, a change has been made.


NOW ON TO THE SERIAL:

********************************

You expect that if bad things are going to happen, they'll happen at night. The burglar, or rapist will sneak in through the bedroom window in the wee hours between bedtime and sunrise. It isn't always so. Sometimes the bad things happen in broad daylight.

I don't know how Ryan found out the girls were doing well. Maybe he heard it from one of the patrons from the bar, or around the neighborhood. Maybe he noticed the curtains and decided to investigate. I suppose it doesn't matter. But disaster struck on Saturday afternoon. The girls came back from the store, arms laden with groceries. Carrie hooked a foot around the edge of the door to kick it closed and followed Jen into the kitchen. She would've locked it after she set down the bags in her arms. She always did.

She never got the chance.

They were chattering and laughing in the kitchen as, very quietly, Ryan opened the door and stepped into the living room. He pulled it quietly closed behind him, flipping the lock.

"Well, well, well. Would you look at this. You two sure seem to be doing well."

"Get out." Carrie's voice was cold. In less than a second, her cheerful expression had hardened like stone. Slowly, carefully, Jen moved her body so that she faced Ryan. Hand behind her back, she very quietly reached into the silverware drawer and pulled out a steak knife.

"Now is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" He scolded. He sounded almost obscenely cheerful.

"Get out." She repeated. She was furious, but I could hear a tiny thread of fear in her voice. Apparently Ryan could too. He smiled.

"Oh, I don't think so. Not without what I came for."

"What do you want?" Jen asked. She held the knife in a white-knuckled grip behind her back, blade ready for an upward thrust. Clever girl. It's too easy to block a downward strike.

"You always did get right to the point." The fake cheer faded from his face. "What do you think I want?"

"Money." Jen answered. "That's what you always want isn't it?"

"Got that right. And you two seem to have more than enough to spare."

"I've got twenty bucks." Carrie said. She was still angry, but there was a sense of tired hope in her voice. An almost audible thought that, if she gave him her cash, maybe he'd just go. "I spent the rest at the store."

"Jen?"

"Ten."

He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Ladies, ladies, I just know you can do better than that. LOOK at this place." He smiled dangerously. "Jen, why don't we just check in that bedroom you used to keep locked up so tight. I just bet there's something worth pawning in there."

He turned toward the bedroom door, and the light jacket he wore unzipped moved slightly, showing the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

Carrie gasped, her eyes widening in fear.

Thoughtful

I have been remarkably lucky. While my grandparents died when I was fairly young (one before I was born), and I've had a couple of friends and acqaintances (and much loved pets) die, my life has mostly gone on pretty smoothly from that point of view.

I have friends who are a couple who had two children. They are a loving couple, great, doting parents, who are adventurous, really involved . . . great. And a little over a year ago they lost one of their daughters. It was sudden, unexpected, and horrifying. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to ease their pain.

I really wish there was.

Time

I am currently working on the first book in a new world I've created, the Guardians of Time series. So I've been thinking about time.

First, we take it absolutely for granted. It's like the air we breathe, the ground we walk on, gravity. Unless something goes wrong ("Oh CRAP, I'm LATE") we pay it no attention, or even wish it away. ("I can't wait for the weekend." "WHEN will this meeting END?") Very seldom do we actualy live in the moment, appreciating it for what it is: a truly fleeting thing. The next moment is never promised for us. We could end. But time will keep flowing on.

People can live in the future. "Someday baby, we'll have enough money to take that vacation you've always dreamed of." Or they can live in the past, "When I was a kid . . .."

But mostly we just exist in it without ever paying attention to it at all. Then suddenly we look up and a huge chunk of it has passed and we kind of blink and go "WHOA how did THAT happen?"

And while I am sorry about it, you CAN'T appreciate every moment. I mean, get real, who's going to appreciate getting reamed by their boss, or broken up with, or (oooo baby) having the flu? To paraphrase from The Incredibles, if every moment is special, none of them are.

So here's to time. For the next hour or so of it I am going to try to stay off of the internet (which eats big whomping chunks) and try to write something.

Best wishes.

Cie

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Good morning, I've got a ton to do. But I've promised myself I'll be better about stuff like posting the serial. So, here I go.

****************************

Ryan left that night. Things were tense the first few days, wondering when he'd come back. But when days stretched into weeks, the tension eased and things slowly began to improve.

Carrie got a job waiting tables at the local bar. It wasn't a lot of money. But it was steady, and it was enough. The sheets that had been hung over the windows with tacks were replaced with curtains---cheap, but cheerful and pretty. Ramen noodles gave way to Hamburger Helper and vegetables.

After some discussion the girls decided to chip in and get basic cable with internet. Now it was my turn to shine. I made sure both girls got plenty of coupons in their e-mail boxes, but screened the spam and scams. When Jen began writing seriously I surreptitiously collected writing contests for her inbox, screening out the ones that weren't reputable, and flat out failing to post the ads and solicitations by folks listed on sites like Writing Predators, and Predators and Editors. Her word processing program had a red button marked "ED" at the top that I'd installed. She thought it was a standard editing feature for the software installed on the machine. It wasn't. But I wasn't going to tell her different. She'd hit ED and I'd make editorial comments and suggestions. Both girls began calling me "Ed." It pleased me to no end. I'd never had a name before.

She worked hard and her writing, and her life, began to steadily improve. So it was no surprise to me when after about six months she placed in a short story contest and won a little money. The girls celebrated with steak and a bottle of wine, toasting each other, me, the future. It was a spectacular night, the best of my life.

I should've known it was too good to last.

Thank you Charlotte

THANK YOU CHARLOTTE!

Got my fact checking back. I hadn't done too horribly considering I was using internet sources, which tend to be limited and not always reliable. (Yes, there are good ones. But there are also bad ones, and it's hard to tell which are which sometimes.) I got to include some specific details I hadn't known, which helped me to beef up the word count. It's still a little short, but I sent it off to the editor. We'll see what she says.

I have to get moving. I'm the only staff member in the office this week, and it's a ZOO.

Later kids.

Short Story

Worked on a short story this weekend. I need to get back to the new book, but the story has been nibbling at the back of my mind, and I do have a publisher interested in it for an anthology. I just need to beef it up a bit to get the word count up. I also need to make sure that I have someone check some facts for me. I did some online research, but you have to be careful, because sometimes the online stuff isn't as accurate as it could be. Since I'm dealing with people's religious practices and culture as well as magic, I need to make sure I don't do something heinous.

As soon as my friend gets back on my fact checking, I'll finish editing it and send it off.

It's a romance. In fact, it's one of the most romancy things I've ever written.

We'll just have to see whether or not I've pulled it off properly.

Cie

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Good Morning. I've got to get working on the paying projects in a couple of minutes, so I'll just get right down to it, after I say that life is pretty good right now, so don't worry.

***************************

BAM, BAM, BAM.

The pounding not only shook the doorframe, it shook the wall. I could feel my cord shudder in its plug.

"Open the f***ing door!" A male voice, slurred with drink and drugs. I was guessing it belonged to Ryan. Such a charmer, waking the entire building at 2:30 in morning.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Jen muttered.

"You're gonna give me the f***ing rent money, and you're doin' it now."

I watched as she sat up in bed, glanced at the clock and winced. Someone on the floor below was pounding on the ceiling with a broomstick in a non-verbal complaint about the racket Ryan was making. The sound was unmistakeable.

"I gave it to the landlord yesterday." The word asshole was implied, but not stated.

"You what?" He was stunned, and outraged.

"I ran into him in the hall." She took a deep breath. "He demanded the money and he told me that if we didn't catch up on last month in the next week he was throwing us out."

There was a pregnant pause. I could hear Carrie in the background. "Last month? Ryan, last month was when I . . . you had me . . . I mean, that's the only reason I . . ." She sounded like she was starting to cry and I had a feeling I didn't want to know what Ryan had had her do to earn their part of the rent.

Ryan's voice was gruff. "He's a lying bastard. I gave him that money."

Even I could tell he was lying, and it's not like I came with polygraph software.

"Look," Jen said with more calm and patience than I would've been able to muster, "I paid him for this month. I don't have any more money. I have to go to work in the morning and I need some sleep. Good night." She flopped down onto her mattress, pulling the blankets up over her head. It took a while for her to fall asleep though. No surprise. Hard to relax when you can clearly hear the sound of your roommate's heartbroken sobs through the closed door.

Wednesday Morning

Good Morning!

Okay, yes, it's been a few days. Maybe even a week or so. (I'm not sure. I didn't look.) You probably wonder what I've been up to. (Then again, maybe not. But we'll pretend you do so I have something to write about besides ENJOY THE 4th!!)

I am a workaholic.

I don't think about that too often. And I usually don't think of myself that way. But my son has accused me of it more than once, and, looking at the evidence, he's probably right. I have the day job. I have the writing. And when I'm not at one, I'm generally doing the other. I have had 1 vacation in my adult life that wasn't work or family related. Since I am a (ahem) mature adult, that's pretty freaking pathetic.

So I took 3 days off. Totally off. Laid around and READ. As you probably guessed, most writers are avid readers. But what no one tells you is that, once you start writing professionally the grueling deadlines make it VERY difficult to find time to read. Particularly so if you have a day job (which most of us do for the first several years).

I read 5½ books in 3 days. I blasted through the 2nd to most recent Vladamir Tod (Excellent YA Heather, by the way. Congrats!) And I went through 4 of the Sookie Stackhouse books. I was starting to re-read a particularly good section and wound up getting so caught up in it that I read to the end again. A sign of an excellent book. BIG kudos to Charlaine Harris (who doesn't need mine, she's got plenty more important ones stacked up. But she deserves every one.)

Alas, I am now back at the day job and must get to work.

Take care.

Good news on the horizon. I'll keep you posted.

Cie/C.T. Adams

It's Sunday and Father's Day

It's Father's Day, and my father is one of the best. I love him dearly, and am sad that I'm on the far side of the country today and can't give him a hug. But the good that I have and what good I am and do can be traced directly back to my father and mother. They are incredibly good people.

Serial (Finally)

The apartment building was a dump. The carpet was older than I was, worn through in spots, with stains I didn't want to contemplate. She even had to avoid a couple of soft spots in the floor. I hoped that wasn't the sound of rodents I was hearing in the walls, but it wouldn't have surprised me. I could hear sounds from almost every apartment, the walls were simply that thin.

She carried me up three flights of stairs before she reached her goal, a paper-thin door with peeling pale-green paint the worn metal numbers reading 302. She kicked gently at the bottom of the door and shouted "Carrie, let me in. My arms are full."

There was some grumbling from inside and the door was jerked open by a rumpled looking female, her eyes half-lidded from sleep.

"Jen? You got a computer?!" Her eyes came fully open, her voice ringing out loud and clear.

"SHHHHHH! You don't need to shout it out to the neighborhood. Do you want us to get robbed?" My new owner shoved past her irritably, making her way to the kitchen. She set my box on the table and rummaged a set of keys out of her pocked. She selected the newest, still bright and shiny, and slid it into an equally new deadbolt installed in the first door in the hall outside the kitchen. "Is Ryan still out of town?" She opened the door, revealing a clean, but spartan bedroom. Propping the door open with the nearest book (there were a lot of them) she came back to retrieve me.

"He's back. He went to the liquor store. I should probably warn you, he's pissed about the deadbolt. Said, 'What? She thinks we're going to steal her goddamned books? Like that's gonna happen.'"

She leaned against the doorframe, watching as Jen began unloading my component parts and setting them up on the desk she'd created using an old wooden door and some cinderblocks. She'd cleverly filled the knob hole with a plastic drinking glass to use as a pencil cup. More bricks and boards had created the shelves that lined one whole wall---shelves filled with worn books and magazines from the classics to tabloids. It was all neat. All organized, and completely alien to the rest of the apartment.

"It's not the books." Jen answered tersely. Her expression was closed off, her eyes dark and angry.

Carrie sighed. "I can't believe you're still pissed about that. Nothing happened. He was high as a kite." There was a long pause. "He even apologized." She made that sound like a miracle. Apparently Ryan never apologized for anything. And he hated books. Maybe I was being judgmental, but I was beginning to really dislike the guy, and I hadn't even met him.

"Don't tell him about the computer." Jen said seriously. "I got it at the junk shop. It's old. He wouldn't be able to get any money for it. But he'd give me shit about it. You know he would."

Carrie pulled away from the doorframe and shambled toward the sofa without answering.

"I mean it Carrie. Promise me you won't tell. It'll just cause trouble."

Carrie sank onto the couch, curling up under a bunch of none-too-clean looking blankets. I heard her mumble something unintelligible, but I was betting it wasn't a promise.

Cool Factor/Chill Factor

I feel as though I may need to explain myself a bit. I don't care if other people think I'm cool. I care that I'm boring myself. For me the cool factor is being able to be whimsical and have fun without having there be dire social consequences. The smaller the area, and the more conservative, the less opportunity there usually is for fun, and the less tolerance there is for whimsy.

I am in a very small and VERY conservative community. So I feel constrained. Maybe they're not constraining me (or not deliberately) but I feel it nonetheless. Thus, I have lost my coolness. Because of how I feel, not because of other people's perceptions.

Does that make sense?


Cie

Good Morning to All

Good morning!

I only have a couple minutes before I have to start the day job, but I thought I'd drop a line before I did.

First, I have forwarded the beginnings of the proposal I was working on this weekend to be reviewed. I am hoping it passes muster. One of my worries was that the teenagers would sound like they were thirty. I am not a youngster. My son is an adult. It's not like I hear "teen" around me much. Still, I think it went better in third person than in first. I apparently can sound like a teen better than I can THINK like one. (For which I think we should all now pause and be grateful. LOL I was, admittedly, a bit of a handful as a teen. And I DEFINITELY had a mind of my own.)

ANYWAY, I hope to get input before I go much farther down the road into the book because, well, I want to get input. If it is dreadful, I'd rather they ripped off the bandage in one agonizing pull than have it linger, wasting my energy and time for months.

I am in the midst of a short story that isn't exactly late (because it didn't exactly have a deadline) but REALLY should've been done weeks ago, except I stopped to do the proposal, and go through tax documents (still not done, but at least 1/3 through now, making headway), and do all that life and businessy stuff.

I have also come to the conclusion that I am not cool. This is somewhat alarming. I was the cool aunt. I was a reasonably cool mom. (I was a SERIOUSLY uncool teen, but a lot of the most interesting people I know were). But I've somewhere along the way lost "much of my muchness." I can be funny. Clever even. But passing into middle age I lost my "cool factor." I think perhaps part of it is that I have been unhappy and in a small town, where indulging my basic nature would probably get me at least reprimanded at work and whispered and gossipped about around town.

I miss cool. I miss wearing hats when I want, and my leather biker jacket. I MISS PLAYING POOL, and hanging out in diners, playing video games and going places where the Muzak is Muzak rather than a country station that plays stuff that puts my teeth on edge. (I am positive there is good country music. It just doesn't seem to get much play where I am.)

Ah, time to work. Toodles.

Cie

Good Morning

Hi guys!

Inkspot the Infamous is determined, DETERMINED that I will not type another word until he has been appropriately appreciated, loved, petted on and generally indulged. Working around a large black furball with claws is NOT easy.

[LONG PAUSE--INSERT PURRING AND NUDGING]

Okay, MAYBE I can type a little more. [NOPE]

Now, I have been working hard on re-working a proposal that was originally going to be a graphic novel, but now probably isn't. It's very exciting, but it has a completely and totally different voice, tone, and well . . . everything from the Saturday AM Breakfast Serial that is running now. Since I HAVE to get that done I am going to do it this morning, and reward myself with serial after dinner. So, please tune back in either tonight or tomorrow a.m. for our latest adventure with Ed.

My apologies for any inconvenience, but my brain isn't as young as it used to be, nor is it as flexible.

Bestest.

Cie

Looking Determinedly on the Bright Side

I am looking determinedly on the bright side.

For example. The going away party started late, so by the time we got to the non-Mexican-food restaurant it was too full for a party of seven. We could not eat on the patio because someone had parked a cattle truck somewhere nearby and we all were agreed that the smell was somewhat less than appetizing. Besides, there's just something wrong about me ordering a steak and eating it under the eyes of a future steak. Yeah, they don't know. But STILL.

ANYWAY, we ended up going to one of the Mexican food restaurants. (NOT the one that gave me ohmigawdImayjustdie food poisoning, but Mexican food nonetheless. I sat at the far end of the table, in the farthest corner of the room away from the kitchen and ordered plain old American food. I did my very best not to look at or get downwind of my co-workers Mexican food. Thus I did not end up tossing my cookies during the meal and effectively ruining the going-away party. WOO HOO.

Example two is the launch of BLOOD SONG.

I am very freakin' proud of that book. We worked our asses off on it. As primary I am particularly assless (NOT--it grew back almost instantly, dammit). And in less than 24 hours after release there were pirate sites offering it.

In the morning there was only one that Cathy found. At 12:00 when Cathy checked, still only one (although the attorneys at the publisher were about to pounce on that). At 1:00 there were 15 new ones.

In one hour 15 more had put it up.

Okay, I could scream and rant like a lot of folks, because it's stealing, and it's stealing from me and DAMMIT I WORKED HARD ON THAT BOOK. BUT, I am determined to look on the bright side. So after deciding that it wasn't really feasible to try to hunt down each of the perpetrators and kick them in the N... (SHINS, I was going to say SHINS.) I decided to look at it this way. They liked the book well enough, and thought it was good enough, that they got right out there and moved in on it. In a perverse way it shows interest, and appreciation. Right? RIGHT? At least that's how I intend to take it -- all the while turning them over to the legal types who will kick them in the N. . . SHINS metaphorically.

SO, the book is out. It is being appreciated (hopefully mostly by those folks who pay for it legally and/or check it out of their local library). This is a good thing.

Now let me say for the record, IF a book isn't available in e-format and you are a die-hard e type, I'm willing to look the other way. But this is a brand-new release and the publisher was kind enough to make sure it was put out in every conceivable format they could come up with. SO, that's no excuse. And I don't go for the whole "test drive" theory either. You don't get to test-drive a movie by going to the theater and watching it then coming out and saying "Nah, didn't like it. Gimme my money back." Entertainment is inexpensive enough that you don't get to treat it like buying a freakin' car.

So you will have to pardon me a bit. For while I will insist on being flattered that they like it well enough to steal it. I will also be more than a little ticked that they're freakin' STEALING MY BOOK.

LAUNCH DAY

GOOD MORNING!

Today is the official release date for Blood Song. I am seriously excited. The reviews have ben stellar, the buzz is good. My only worry is that there may not be copies on the shelves. SO, if you don't see it ASK FOR IT. Order it. Tell people about it. Because if people don't see it they may not know it's out there. And with the smaller trade paperback prints run and good preorders it's really possible you/they won't see it.

(Cie is now climbing off of her soap box).

Had a really good launch event at Bitten By Books (bittenbybooks.com) Lots of good questions and discussion.

Not much else to say. I've been working hard.

Today is the last day at work for a friend of mine. She got a terrific new job, but I will certainly miss her. The trick is we're taking her out to lunch today and most of the resaurants in town are Mexican restaurants. After my severe bout of food poisoning recently I can't even think about dealing with Mexican food. If I have to I'll go and just have nachos--chips and cheese only with no additions. But I hope we do something else. Because even the smell makes me nauseous now.

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial

Okay, I'm back from a flying trip to Denver. (I mean it. I only had 24 hours and a full-single page to-do list.) I am proud to say I accomplished ALMOST everything. WOO HOOO!!!Today is going to be a busy day as well. Paperwork out the wazoo. SO, the serial is going to be more of a snack than a meal. I'll try to do better next week. :)

*****************************

They dickered. The kid wasn't bad at it, but she was up against a pro. Still, I'd been sitting around the shop for a while, and the type of folks who frequented this store weren't exactly my, ahem, type. (Pardon the pun.) So in the end agreement was reached, and in a completely unexpected (and I do mean completely unexpected) burst of generosity Ethel tossed in the printer and the books. Of course I didn't have anything to do with that. No. Absolutely not. I mean, Ethel is just a naturally generous type.

Unh hunh. You betcha. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

In no time I was boxed up and lugged out to an ancient but serviceable blue VW Beetle.

If I'd had lungs, I would've cheered as the shop became a distant speck in the rear-view mirror.

Rockin' Reviews

WOOO HOOOOO!!!! We are getting some seriously rockin' reviews for Blood Song. Let's hope that translates to hot sales, right out of the box.

I'm really excited about this book. I like the character a lot. Like the world. And I'm generally having a really good time. Cathy's had a lot of fun with her turn at primary in book 3. I can't wait for my turn to come again. That's always a good sign.

Finger is nearly normal again. I say nearly because it still looks like a Frankenfinger (scars now not stitches) but there's this one little spot that, if I poke it on something does the whole "hot bolt of lightning, ohshitdamnhell that hurts" thing. Which I, of course, do by accident about every-other-day. Sigh.

Okay, have to let the dog in, get ready for work, maybe exercise, clean up the house a bit and so forth. In other words, the day is already starting to get ahead of me.

Good Morning

Okay, the other story wrapped, so I wandered through my archives and came up with the following, which is the beginning of something I never finished. I figured it was as good a place to start as any. :)

Happy holiday weekend all.

************************

Ed – A Love Story



You probably know somebody who loves their car. Really loves it. Gave it a name; washes it once a week; waxes it by hand every sunny Saturday afternoon; and never misses a chance to make sure it is running perfectly. Yes, you probably know somebody who loves their car, or their stereo, or some other inanimate object.

You probably thought they were pathetic, an idiot.

And magic doesn’t exist.

Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

# # #

The bell rang, and I saw a small human female enter the shop. Petite and blonde, she was probably about sixteen, with milk-white skin and silver-gray eyes heavily outlined in black. She should have looked fragile, but the set to her jaw spoke of determination, and the tattoos and piercings hinted at a streak of defiance. Her low-cut jeans were a little loose, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. She’d missed a few meals. No surprise then, that she was shopping at a thrift store. This was the one. I knew it. A little electric surge rushed through my cables, making the screen flicker just a little.

The lighting here was bad, and every inch of the place was crammed full to bursting. Some of the stuff was valuable. Most of it was just junk. The last time any of it had been dusted was sometime during the Eisenhower era, and there was not enough room in the aisles to run a vacuum. Not good for me, of course, but Ethel, the owner didn’t care. What she knew about technology could be written on the head of a pin with room to spare for dancing angels. BUT Ethel knew people. Knew them well enough that she could tell you within a dime how much money was in their pockets and whether they’d be willing to part with it. She was almost never wrong. I saw her dark, button eyes narrow as she assessed the newcomer. Hefting her bulk from the stool behind the counter she lumbered forward, shoving her way through the overstuffed racks of clothing to approach the newcomer.

"How can I help you dear? Some vintage clothing maybe? A little jewelry? I have a couple of nice pins—"

"No thank you." The visitor looked around. "I was hoping you might have some books."

"Books?" Ethel stared at the girl as if she’d grown horns and a tail. I wanted to cheer. Books. The girl liked to read. Hallelujah! There might be hope for me yet.

"Yes, books. One of my friends said you had some books on writing." She sounded dubious. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I knew the books existed. They’d come in at the same time I had, purchased wholesale from the estate sale of the crotchety old man who’d supplemented his meager retirement by writing articles on vacation destinations he’d never actually seen. Ralph had been a lonely man, quiet and reserved. A dreamer with a real joy for living. He loved animals, but was allergic to fur, dander, dust. So he lived alone with only a goldfish for company, talking to himself, to me, and to Goldie. The day after she went belly-up in her bowl, he went belly-up in his bath. Poor old man. I miss him.

"So you’re a writer." Ethel smiled, showing the sharp little white teeth behind lips painted a garish orange that clashed badly with her dark red dye job. She gave the girl a deceptively innocent glance. "I suppose you already have a computer."

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and her gaze followed Ethel’s gesture to where I sat.

If I had lungs, I’d have held my breath.

Thanks.

Thanks to everybody who stopped by and read the past few days. I had a lot of fun posting this particular story. Heck, I had fun writing it. Tomorrow I'll need to come up with something new for y'all.Hmnnnnn... pondering... pondering.

Installment 4

4

The police arrived, with an ambulance. When the door opened instinct drove me to drag my feline form down the hall to hide behind boxes in the laundry room and die.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I woke hours later, naked and in agony. One side of my face felt bruised and swolen, and there was wicked bruising over my ribs.

It was hard pulling on the sweat pants and tee shirt I stole from the box of lost laundry on the shelf. I was sweating and swearing before I managed it. I had to rest before I could stagger upstairs.

A stranger let me use his cell phone to make a call. Not much later, I was headed to the hospital, then home.

# # #

The people at work keep whispering. I’ve overheard them talking about how much I’ve changed; checking out the bruises and bandages, then speculating as to just what happened to me on my vacation. The consensus is that I had a near-death experience that turned me into a better man. Which is pretty close to the truth when you come right down to it.

I make a point of calling and checking in with Bonnie’s parents about once a week. The doctor committed her to a psychiatric institution. Her father was understandably distressed, reluctantly confiding in me that she had some “unhealthy obsessions and delusions. Something to do with you . . . and a cat.” I hope they can help her. A part of me hates her for what she did to me. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Amber.

I see Amber nearly every day at the store where she works. We chat about pretty much anything and everything. She’s commiserated with me about my injuries. I’ve consoled her on the loss of her cat. It took a few weeks, but I eventually worked up the courage to ask her out.

Tomorrow night Amber and have our first date. I’m taking her out for sushi. For some reason I’ve been craving raw fish. Go figure.

Installment 3

He was there again on Friday.

Saturday was her day off. The snow had built up to a truly alarming level (from my point of view. Six inches of the white stuff may mean nothing to a human. In my new form it was a freakin’ blizzard.) Shuddering, I shunned the frost coated windows and curled up close to the space heater and watched her putter around the apartment before settling down on the bed with yarn and knitting needles. I swear I was tempted to go after that yarn. Instincts. Gotta love ‘em. But I controlled myself. She needed the scarf and mittens she was making. Her hands were chapped to the point of cracking.

She had almost finished the scarf by bedtime. Setting the needles and yarn onto the nightstand, she patted the bed beside her. I forced myself to be a gentleman, to wait until she’d snuggled beneath the covers before following. It wasn’t easy. I might be a cat physically. But my mind was human, and that mind wanted to see her naked, to run my hands over each and every one of those lush curves.

Dammit. Again with the no opposable thumbs.

###

I woke abruptly and totally. In the time I’d been living here I’d learned the sounds and smells native to my new home. I knew the scent and footfall of every resident of the building, from the frail old woman in 2A with her walker and her stinking, nasty-tempered little lapdog to the spoiled brat from 3B who entertained herself by running up and down the halls screaming at the top of her lungs.

No one from the building moved with such deliberate stealth. No one who belonged here smelled of whiskey and sour milk overlain with a heavy dose of cigarette smoke. He, because it was a he, stopped just outside the front door and I heard the delicate click of metal on metal.

I yowled, jumping onto Amber’s inert form, waking her rudely and totally. She yelped in shock and pain, I heard the front door of the apartment open, and quickly shut, the bolt of the lock snicking to.

Call 9-1-1. I wanted to shout, but all that emerged was a fierce feline yowl. Still, she got the message. Amber was grabbing for the phone on her nightstand when he burst through the bedroom door and knocked the phone from her hand before delivering a roundhouse punch to her jaw, knocking her back on the bed, and damned near knocking her unconscious.

I launched myself onto his back as he started to climb on top of her, clawing at his face, trying for his eyes. I bit hard at the bit of skin showing above his collar hot blood tasting copper in my mouth.

Shouting in pain, he grabbed for me, but I clung on with everything I had, digging claws in. He pried me off, tearing chunks of his flesh loose as he did and flung me against the wall with as much force as he had.

It hurt. God how it hurt. I tumbled to the floor. I knew my ribs were broken, it hurt to breathe. My head felt wrong. My ears were ringing; my vision was off, balance shot. I tasted my own blood But I dragged myself to my feet. He pinned her to the bed with one hand, his other pulling at the zipper of his jeans.

It took all my strength to drag the useless lower half of my body to where the phone had fallen to the floor. I couldn’t save her. Not in this form. There was only one hope. With the last of my strength I pressed 9-1-1 and send with my paw.

“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

Opening my mouth I prayed, prayed that I’d be able to help her, be able to save the woman I’d come to love. “Help, there’s an intruder. He’s raping her. I can’t stop . . .”

I’d expected it to come out a feline yowl, but it didn’t. Words. Real words. I wanted to sob with relief.

“What the hell?!” A male bellow, and a size twelve work boot swung at my gut. I twisted, the movement hideously painful and bit at him, my teeth sinking uselessly into the thick denim of his jeans. My body was spasming, cramping. I couldn’t fight him. All I could do was scream.

But the distraction bought us time. Help was on the way. Amber was coming to herself. Grabbing a knitting needle from the bedside she screamed in rage and defiance, as she thrust it into the intruder’s back with all of her strength.

Second Installment

Okay, because the finger still is a little sore I'm going to cut and paste the second installment of the story here rather than write a bunch. If I do this right, it will continue through Saturday. If not, I'll have to post something else. :) Yes, it's a change of plan. I do TRY to be flexible.
****************************

3

I learned a lot over the next few days.

Life is hard for animals. Opposable thumbs are important. With opposable thumbs you can open doors and windows, cans of food. You can cook, turn on things like the water faucet. Without them, you’re pretty damned helpless. Unless you can catch rats and mice.

I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to figure out how to catch them I wasn’t positive I’d be able to eat it, no matter how hungry I was. And I was hungry. Famished. And cold. The first night I’d managed to get back in to my house through the open window. But when the cleaning lady came in on Thursday she closed and locked it. I was out in the elements when the weather turned, fighting wild animals for any sort of shelter that could be found. Fighting—and losing badly.
Kids threw rocks at me. Most adults were no better.

Freezing to death was a real possibility as the temperature plummeted and snow blanketed the city. I might have human intelligence on my side. But I didn’t have the instincts and the survival skills of the wild dogs and alley cats.

I wound up in a rough neighborhood. By pure luck I managed to find a basement window that had been taped over with cardboard. With a combination of claws and brute strength I managed to tear enough of an opening to worm my way through. Exhausted from the effort and lack of food I collapsed atop the clothes dryer, sleeping to the sound of clothes tumbling and the comforting smell of fabric softener.

“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?”

A warm feminine voice woke me with a start and I panicked, diving for cover, backing into the space between the back of the clothes dryer and the wall.

“Easy buddy. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman squatted down a little ways away, giving me room, but staying close enough to get a good look at me. Which gave me a chance to look her over as well.

She was pretty. Not beautiful. Her features were a little to harsh, her nose a bit to large for traditional beauty, her lips just a little too big for her heart-shaped face. And she weighed a bit more than is considered acceptable. But her skin was like porcelain, white and flawless, and her hair was so dark it was nearly as black as my fur. It fell in waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were midnight blue. Those eyes stared at me in sympathy.

“You look as if you’ve been through the wringer bud.”

You have no idea.

She laughed. “I swear, it’s almost as if you understand me.” She rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you up something to eat.” I stared after her, watching the soft sway of her hips in her faded jeans as she walked down the hall to the door of her basement apartment.

You are an angel.

I’ve never been a big fan of tuna, but I swear to you no steak or lobster I’ve ever eaten tasted better. I devoured every bite, licked the plate, and begged for more by giving her wide, pathetic eyes. It made her laugh, a warm, musical sound that dragged a purr from my throat before I even knew what I was doing.

That first night my bed was a bath towel still warm from the dryer. I slept, safe and warm, and dreamt of an angel with midnight blue eyes.

Day two I got lucky. Very lucky. The woman had just enough money on hand to buy a litter box, cat food, and to get me my shots. She did not have enough money to have me neutered. Halle-fricking-lujah. When that appointment date came around I was sooooooo not planning on being home. The name she gave the vet was “Mister,” after the cat in her favorite books.

Day three was Saturday. The first week of my vacation was gone, and there was no sign of my getting my old life back. I fretted, wondering what if. What if I never got my life back. What if I was stuck like this forever? Would anyone miss me? Elaine, my cleaning lady, would miss her checks. The folks at the office would bitch about the extra work. But would they miss me?

I didn’t know.

Which was pretty freaking sad.

I paced the apartment while my benefactress was off at her job, cashiering at the local food mart. With her hair pulled back, in her unflattering uniform she looked plain, ordinary. I realized with a start that she’d probably waited on me a dozen times or more and I’d never even noticed her.
The apartment was tiny, but clean. The furniture was worn, but well tended. Everything was in order. The bills were stacked neatly on top of a small, roll-top desk that was scarred from years of use. There were a lot of them, some of them with the tell-tale pink and red color that universally denotes past-due. Her name was Amber Scott, and her pay stub told me that she was barely making enough to survive. Barely enough, but she’d been willing to take in a starving stray, share her food and get him to the vet. Foolish, but good-hearted, and more appreciated than she could possibly know. I felt a rush of warmth for her, and wished there was something, anything, I could do. But of course, there wasn’t.

I hate feeling helpless; hated the humiliation of using a litter box; having to clean myself with my tongue. In fact, there was only one thing I didn’t hate about the situation: Amber.

Ironic, a woman I’d never have noticed in a million years in my previous life was now the center of my existence. Every evening I waited inside the main door, watching through the frosted window next to the door as she trudged home from the bus stop, hands jammed in her pockets, body hunched against the frigid wind that cut through her thin coat. Even from the distance I could tell she was weary from a hard day’s work.

I was at my usual post Thursday night when I saw him.

I told myself it was nothing; he wasn’t following her; wasn’t stalking her. But something about the way he hid himself in the shadows, his body language as he watched her, made my blood run cold. I yowled, scratching at the window. She looked up, smiled, and hurried her steps.

He didn’t follow.

But he watched.

First Installment of Breakfast Serial

Okay, here's the first section. Second section comes at the usual time on Saturday morning. Hope you enjoy it.

1

It was taking me a long time to fall asleep. I felt rotten. Really guilty and a little bit angry. I hadn’t wanted to break up with Bonnie. But what had started out as a fun, light-hearted romp had changed. She wanted more. Commitment—with a capital “C”. I couldn’t. Because while I liked her, enjoyed her company, she wasn’t the one.

It wasn’t that there was anything obviously wrong with her. She was intelligent, good-looking, from a good family. If I could’ve made myself love her I would’ve. But I couldn’t; and didn’t.
I lay on my back, staring at a crack in the ceiling, a soft autumn breeze blowing through the open bedroom window remembering the ugly expression on her face and the bitterness in her voice when she said:

You’ll pay for this. You don’t know what love is. Pure, unselfish love. All you care about is yourself. Well, you’ll pay until you learn. And if you don’t . . . well, then you’ll just pay.

Okay, that was creepy. Seriously, scary. Because she hadn’t looked even a little bit sane when she’d said it.

At times like this I wished I wasn’t such a movie buff. Visions of Glenn Close and cooked rabbit came unwillingly to mind.

To think it all started because I didn’t want to visit her folks on my vacation.

My hard-earned vacation. Two weeks, taken to recover from fifty weeks of overtime, stress, and office hell. The past two months had been particularly bad. I’d almost forgotten what my house and my bed looked like. I was seriously sleep deprived and in no mood to spend my time off doing anything I didn’t want. And I didn’t want to meet her relatives in person for the first time. That spoke of commitment. A commitment I wasn’t ready to make to Bonnie.

All I wanted was to do nothing, and do it vigorously. I’d warned my co-workers not to even try to reach me. I wouldn’t be checking e-mails; I was turning off the cell. Maybe I’d go to the beach. Maybe I’d just be a couch potato, lying prone and watching classic movies and only getting up to eat and go to the toilet.

If that’s selfish then, yeah. I guess I am. So sue me.

I rolled over, punched the pillow a couple of times and tried to settle in deeper into the mattress. I needed sleep damn it.

Rolling over was a mistake. Lying at this angle I could watch as the red lighted display on the digital clock ticked off the minutes to midnight with excruciating slowness.
Shit.

I rolled onto my back again. I was exhausted, but sleep apparently wasn’t an option. So, fine, I’d watch a movie—maybe play a couple of computer games or read a good book. Whatever.
Throwing back the covers I sat up and swung my legs off of the side of the bed.
Two things happened simultaneously. The grandfather clock in the hall started striking midnight; and the mother of all muscle cramps hit me.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just one muscle. It was all of them. My entire body pulled in on itself, contorting in the kind of pain that made a charlie horse pale in comparison.

I fell forward onto the floor, unable to move—barely able to catch enough breath to keep screaming, the thick plush of the carpet rough against the skin of my face.

I needed help.

It took every ounce of strength I had to drag myself across the floor and reach for the phone on the bed stand. My arm was stretched painfully toward the receiver when the next spasm hit. I curled into a fetal position, my body twitching and spasming uncontrollably, sweat and tears pouring down my face to drip onto the carpet.

Each spasm seemed to last an eternity, but the chiming of the clock told me only seconds were passing. The phone was inches away. It may as well have been miles. I gathered my strength for another push and froze, staring in horrified fascination at my hand and arm.
It was curling in on itself, the thumb and fingers shortening, pulling back. Hooked claws sprang from the blunted ends of what had once been my fingers. At the same time long, thick fur poured out of the individual pores like water flowing over the bare skin.

Terror chased away awareness of the pain. “What’s happening to me?” I tried to shout the words, and only managed an animal yowl. The kind you hear when a pair of tom cats are fighting in an alley.

The pain was fading, but I feared my sanity was fading with it.

The room loomed large, my perceptions changing along with my shape. I swung a paw at the cord connecting the phone to the wall. Hooking a claw around the thin wire, I dragged the heavy plastic instrument to the floor. The receiver bounced loose, the dial tone painfully loud to my sensitive ears. With exquisite care I fought to control my arm and its unfamiliar extension punching 9-1 and 1.

When the voice came on the line I wanted to weep with relief.

“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”

I tried to talk, to explain what had happened, knowing I would sound insane, and not caring a bit. Let them think me crazy. They’d send an ambulance. I needed an ambulance. I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a piteous mewling.

She kept asking if there was anyone there, but try as I might, I couldn’t speak.

“A cat. It’s a goddamned cat.”

“Probably just knocked the phone off the hook. We’ll have to send somebody to the address to check it out anyway.”

“Whatever.”

She hung up the phone with a bang.

2

I stared at the receiver for a long time. Long enough for it to start buzzing, and then for it to stop. Long enough that the police arrived at my door in response to the 9-1-1.

I dashed downstairs just as the cop flashed his flashlight through the window beside the front door. The light pinned me like a spotlight. I could hear him clearly through the door. “Dispatch you’re right. It’s just a cat. We’ll check around the house, but so far it looks clear.”

NOOOOOOO! I yowled.

I followed them from window to window, trying to get their attention, to make them understand. Of course it was no use.

I was a cat.

A very male, long-haired, black cat.

In time, they left.

Disbelief was followed by despair. It was impossible. Incredible. But, impossible or not, my body was not my body any more.

They say cats have natural grace. I didn’t. I staggered and stumbled, trying to figure out how to make this foreign shape that housed my mind move.

I needed to fix this. . . . Whatever this was.

Bonnie’s words echoed through my mind, the malice in them almost palpable. Could she have done this to me? If it had been possible she would’ve. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Of course it wasn’t possible. Except, here I was.

I managed to make it up the stairs, but it wasn’t pretty. Then I jumped on the bed. If I didn’t think about it too hard, if I just let my body do the mechanics, I actually did better.

I needed to see Bonnie, try to figure out if this was her doing and, if it was, get her to undo it. Goal firmly in mind, I padded across the bed, leapt to the dresser, and climbed out the open bedroom window.

# # #

Bonnie’s apartment complex was only a mile or two from my house. An easy jog. For a human. Two miles is a long damned ways for an animal the size of a house cat. Oh, they can do it. But it takes time. By the time I got there I was tired, thirsty, and sore. Sore, because I still apparently wasn’t good enough at this cat thing to be climbing trees. Contrary to popular myth, cats do not always land on their feet. At least this one hadn’t. Ow.

I limped my way down the sidewalk, dogs barking furiously as I passed. The neighbor’s rottweiller charged the fence, growling and snapping. A board began working its way loose as he slammed himself against the wood, trying desperately to get at me.

I hurried on. That dog had frightened me as a full grown man. What he would do to a twelve pound cat if he caught it didn’t bear thinking about.

About a block from her building I saw the lights, the flashing red and white of the ambulance, along with the strobing blue and red police lights. No sirens, thank God. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. Everything was so loud. Bright, too. I could see into the deepest shadows, hear the small sounds of mice and insects scurrying into hiding at my passage. Smells I’d never even knew existed wafted to me on the night air, each perfectly distinct.

I froze in place, staring in horror as a pair of uniformed EMT’s wheeled a gurney out of Bonnie’s door. They moved with brisk efficiency, but didn’t hurry. There was apparently no need. She wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t hurt them, even though she was shrieking and thrashing, fighting the restraints that held her fast—right up until she caught sight of me. In that instant she stilled. A slow, pleased smile crossed her face. She smiled, and as the ambulance doors were swinging closed I heard her croon in a weird, high-pitch voice, “here, kitty kitty.”

I'm Back

Okay, I'm back. The finger is healing. It's still painful, but it will be for a while.

Nox and the kittens have settled in and are happy and doing well from all reports.

I have a lead on a possible job in Denver. I have been taking the steps necessary to move forward in that direction. Keeping my fingers crossed is counterproductive, but I AM hopeful.

Our newest book, the first in the Blood Singer series (Blood Song) is shipped and getting terrific reviews. It is YA friendly, and we are very excited. It technically hits the shelves on June 8, but you may catch a glimpse of it sooner since it wasn't a hard release date.

The quilt is up at the Brenda Novak diabetes auction. It is gorgeous. Please bid early and often.

And because I feel like I haven't done enough with the Breakfast Serial lately (or any posting with the finger hurting like it is) I'm posting a short story tomorrow morning. Look for it here. :)

Oh, and if the Posse would, send me e-mails. I'm feeling neglected as an NSEO, and you wouldn't want me heading down the dark path because of that sort of thing would you? BWAH HA HA HA.

Doing the Right Thing is Hard

Doing the right thing is hard.

First, KNOWING what is the right thing is a challenge.
Then, doing it, when it's going to be painful, is hard. And somehow the right thing always seems to be a little painful.

For example.

A stray set of adolescent cats wandered onto my porch. Still kittens, but no longer in that fluffy stage. I got the ones I could catch their shots, and was going to get them spayed and neutered on the next paycheck, but they wandered off again. (Extremely unhappy about the shots I suppose.) UNTIL the little female comes back HUGELY preggers.

SO, I set up a nest on the front porch. She has her litter there. (4 kittens. Nox is the mom, the kittens are: Tigger, Boots, Socks, and Callie Koh a/k/a Callie Fornia. ) She is raising them, they are adorable. Everybody starts getting friendly and affectionate (except Callie, who is just suspicious by nature). I start looking around for homes for them. Because, well, I have more cats than I can comfortably deal with. But I love them, so I want good SAFE homes.

Nox's brother (Cinnamon) starts coming by again too, and he tames up, but he's small, and he's not so good at the whole fighting thing. But he babysits the kittens and snugs with them and Nox and they're a great family. And he fits in with my cats and comes inside some, so we're good.

But there are too many cats here. Really. And I find a home that is willing to take mom AND the kittens as a group. (A friend's brother bought twenty acres and needs cats to sleep in the barn and keep the premises rodent and hopefully snake free. They can all be together with someone who will love them and keep them fed and in their shots and vet treatments, etc.)

The kittens have gotten old enough too now that they are exploring, in the form of running toward the street (ACK--since they moved the high school by my house people drive through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell), and climbing inside the underside of my truck. (ACK! I mean really! ACK!!!) If they stayed some at least will end up run over and killed. They just would.

So, yesterday I packed up mom and the babies and drove them out to my friend's house where her brother's wife was going to meet us and pick up my little darlings.

And it is the right thing to do. Nox can teach the little ones to hunt and protect them until they're big enough to protect themselves. The little ones will have 20 acres to run on and an access road that has next to no traffic.

But I keep crying. Because I will miss Nox running up to greet me every time I drive up to the house. And I miss the little furballs climbing on me and playing with my shoelaces. And Cinnamon is heartbroken. But damn it, he can't even take on the local tom cats, so he wouldn't be big enough to do well on the farm. And he's too tame now too. He's a housecat. And I love him, and can at least keep him, or perhaps my son will take him when I get up to Denver.

It was the right thing to do. Dammit. I know that. But I HATE it.

I'll get over it. I know. They'll forget me and be happy in the new digs eventually. But today it is very, very hard, and very quiet on the front porch.

Friday? WOW.

Okay, it's Friday already. I'm not sure exactly how that happened.

Last week I got my stitches out Friday afternoon. The finger is healing nicely (slowly, but nicely). It does, however, still look like something of a Frankenfinger ("It's ALIVE!"), and may always since I get keloid scarring. BUT, it works. I'm still doing nine-finger typing because of sensitivity issues. (I mean "OW") But it WORKS.

I'm getting back to writing. I am WOEFULLY out of practice. Illness and injury can do that to you if you're not careful. But I got the two short stories off. (Whether the editor will like them or not is anyone's guess.) I've got some businessy stuff to take care of today, then this weekend I'm back to working on the book.

I'm actually fairly proud of myself. I've gotten a lot done in this past week. There's always more to do, but I can see myself making progress, which is cool.

We got the ARCs in for book 2 of the Blood Singer series -- Siren Song. They look quite good. That one comes out in October. Blood Song the first book, comes out June 8th. I'm REALLY excited. It's our first book to come out as a trade paperback, and it has been getting a lot of buzz. If you can, pre-order it. We really want that boost in first week sales.

Well, I have to get to the day job. Take care.


Cie/C.T. Adams

OKAY

Okay, it seems some of you are just dying to hear about how I humiliated myself. SO, without further ado . . .

Previous entry in the OHMIGAWD you DIDN'T contest (the one I believed would never be topped.)

First day of a new job (long time ago in a city far, far, away). I had the stomach crud. But if you don't show up for the first day of work you don't GET a second day. So I went. The bathroom was on the far end of a loooooooooooong hall away from the office. I get one of those huge stomach cramps and take off at a dead run. As I am approaching the outer door I'm unfastening my belt. As I dive through the outer reception area I am unfastening my trousers. I swing into the first open stall dropping trou as I go and hear an EAR SPLITTING SCREAM.

Grabbing the partition I swing myself into stall two as my gut lets go.

Yes Gracie. I really DID moon my brand new boss on the first day of work. She was claustrophobic and didn't ever lock the stall so everyone just knew stall 1 was hers.


AND FOR THE NEWEST ENTRY --

I am in a ball gown and tiara, on stage in front of - oh, I dunno maybe a thousand or so people. The lights dim, the dinner is being served. I scoot my chair back a smidge away from the table and . . .

The back legs go off of the stage.

I have this moment of "OH shit" when I know I'm in trouble. I lean toward the stage to try to compensate. Won't work. SO, I fall. FORTUNATELY I used to be a skater. When you skate at high speed you learn how to take a fall. (on the meaty part of your hips/ass and shoulder, roll with it to ease the momentum). You also learn to get up quickly (so that the folks behind you don't (a) crash into you; or (b) run over you.) So I do this spectacular fall, and roll, and rise to my feet with my ball gown twisted around me, my tiara down over one eye, my shoes having flown beneath the stage and the metal brace for my finger 6 feet across the room.

Yup. That's me. Biggest formal event of my flippin LIFE thus far, and I put on a show.

SIGH.

Fortunately I only got a couple of spectacular bruises from it. But my pride suffered a serious blow.

Threes

Threes

I have been told that things happen in 3s. The good luck is supposed to follow the bad. BOY do I hope that's true. Because the third thing happened at RT. In fact, I may just have bypassed my previous most embarrassing moment -- the one I said I didn't believe anyone could beat -- you know the one.

The one where I MOONED MY BOSS ON THE FIRST DAY OF WORK. (Not at this job thank heavens.) Yeah, really.

And this might just be more embarrassing.

OY!

At RT & Been A While

At RT and it is a blast! Such good people. I'm in my tiara and ball gown for the faery ball. woot!

If you wonder where I've been, I had a spot of bad luck. Food Poisoning was followed by aplumbing issues, followed by a wrestling match with the electric hedge clippers.

They won.

I have stitches & a broken finger, which makes typing tricky.

SO, while I haven't forgotten y'all. This will be short.

Cie

Ahhhhh OOOPS

Okay, presumed I could probably eat regular food yesterday. Nothing too spicy. Just a McDonalds sausage biscuit at breakfast and a pot pie at dinner.

BAAAAAAAAAD idea.

The food poisoning is still kicking my ass.

Which sucketh.

It sucketh more because my plumbing decided to start acting up under the strain. ("Not NOW. You have GOT to be kidding me!"). Landlady is coming with a plumber in the morning. Not sooner because it's still working, it's just fussing about it.

Getting ready for the big trip to RT. Massive laundry run (to the laundromat since plumbing is acting up). Housesitter lined up. Have the short story right at the climax, and the edits ready on the other short story. Oh, and the first pass copyedits arrived on book 2 of the new series.

I'm behind on everything, I'm exhausted, and nauseous.

WHINE, WHINE, WHINE. We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Seriously, my life is really good most of the time. Love my family. My son rocks. Have great friends and great pets. I have a good job (which aint bad in this economy) and a career (which is a separate thing, which is sort of weird), and more things to be grateful for than I could shake a stick at (if I felt so inclined, which I kinda don't cause it'd look silly.) So, I'm going to chalk this up to the sleep needed grumpies and go back to bed. See if a little sleep improves my attitude.

Later.

STUFF

Okay, read about a YA book where the adult self could call the teenage self. Found this because authors I admire were putting messages to teenage selves on the tweets. Mine was: Dear 15 year old self -- It gets better. Really. When they say "these are the best years of your life" they LIE. Just hang in there.

15 was hades, hideous in intensity and in ways that only the young and ragingly hormonal can understand.

But it got better. For which I need to thank God . . . EVERY . . . FREAKING . . . DAY!

And for kittens, and puppies, and flowers, and all that happy stuff. But definitely for 15 not lasting forever.

********************

One of the coolest things about the major authors I've run into is that they are NICE. I'm sure there are assholes out there. I mean, a major chunk of the population are, so it would follow that a chunk of the author population would be too. But for the most part, the ones I've run into---including the ridiculously successful, powerful and influential ones, are NICE.

Nice is, in my opinion, seriously underrated. People think "nice guys finish last" and that nice people are pushovers. From what I've seen it's not true. Some of the most successful folks I know are nice. Nice does things like set up a charity to end a hideous and devastating illness. Nice donates time and effort to protecting the civil liberties and free speech of everyone, even folks that you don't agree with. Nice encourages struggling newbies and helps them find their footing. Nice meets and greets and promotes charities and is patient and kind when folks gush and are incoherent, and puts up with the crazies (and I'm not talking the nice crazies (for whom I have an abiding fondness), I'm talking the stalker, scary, gee I'm spending the rest of my freaking life with armed security and ooh, isn't it fun they just hacked my system and screwed with the fans because I set a toe out of what they think is line crazies) and keep working under difficult to impossible circumstances.

I hope I can be that nice.

I'm not entirely positive I can.

But hey, it's good to have a goal. As far as goals go, I think nice works for me. Of course raging success would be good too. Really.

Writing

Writing on the short story. It actually seems to be coming together this morning. YAY! Of course that means I'm not sleeping. Not so good.

Wound up eating a plain cheeseburger last night. Had to. Blood sugar had gone so wonky I was dizzy. It stayed down and in me so YAY! We will continue with the bland, but meat is definitely going to be included.

Okay, back to the story folks. I'm about to hit the epic battle scene. Wish me luck!

Recovering from Food Poisoning

Seem to finally be recovering. May I say for the record, food poisoning sucketh. I felt worse than all but one or two times in my life (and one of those was when my kidney went out and I nearly died). I couldn't even keep down water for most of yesterday. Seriously. WATER. I actually decided that if I wasn't better today the hospital was a possibility. When someone without health insurance who loathes hospitals says that you know it's gotten bad.

But I'm not as weak as I was. I am actually upright. I'm hydrated (and it stayed down!). I was even adventurous enough to try TOAST. But I think I have now crossed Mexican food off of my list of edibles forever. Just typing the words made my stomach roll.

Friends, Online Acquaintances, and Stuff

I have some of the best friends in the world. Seriously. And lucky for me I got to spend most of yesterday with one of them. We plant shopped, grocery shopped, and went to lunch. (Unfortunately, the Mexican food I ate didn't like me a bit and I'm paying for it today).

One of the tricky things I'm mulling in my head is the distinction (if there is one) between online acquaintances and regular acquaintances.

First, online gives you a peculiar intimacy. No one sees you as you type (unless you use the webcam. And oh the scary story in the news about the school district that activated the security program that ran the webcam on unsuspecting teenagers, taking photos of them every 15 minutes, including nude shots in their bedrooms!).

A lot of times you let your guard down. The blog almost seems like a diary. At the same time, you get input, usually from the same folks, and they start to get to know you and vice versa. But, for the most part, you have no idea what they look like, and without body language to judge you have no idea if they really are that nice lady or a raving axe murderer---or just your average, run-of-the-mill fruitcake. (ARE there "average" fruitcakes? A question for another blog perhaps.)

Can real friendships and relationships come out of online? Absolutely. But there is also the potential for the scary stalker stuff too. And how often have tweets or blogs about the upcoming vacation to Aruba giving dates and times led to someone's house/apartment being robbed. A LOT. And there's identity theft too. All this information is out there about you. It would be SOOOOO easy . . . and sometimes it is. And potential employers, and employers are now cruising the net LOOKING for things about job applicants and current employees. So it can really, seriously damage your career or job hunt. (NO more "WHOOOOO HOOO, PARTIED 'TIL DAWN" posts if you want to get/keep that job).

So what do you do? I mean, do you edit everything to death to make sure there's nothing that could possibly cause a problem? Be yourself and take your chances?

I dunno. It's an individual call. I try to make a compromise. I'm me. My posts are going to reflect that. If the potential employer doesn't like that I have pets, get migraines, am depressed about living in Texas, am on thyroid medicine (and Mexican food sometimes messes with my digestion) screw 'em. They probably aren't the person I need to work for if that's going to cause a problem. BUT I don't put my actual birthday and address down online. I use a pre-paid credit card for most online purchases, or PayPal, from an account set up JUST for that purpose. (I go to EBay and buy something for $30.00, I deposit $31.00 to the account.) If they track the account down they'll get something like a whopping $.50-$1.00. Probably not even enough for a cup of coffee.)

When I go on a trip that has been publicized I make sure I have a housesitter. There's not much worth taking in the old abode, but dammit it's MY STUFF. Besides, I need someone there to handle the pet duties.

I've met some wonderful people online. And some others --- not so much. I'm fairly sure some of the people who've met me feel the same way (some think I'm wonderful. Some, not so much.) But that's pretty normal. It's the same way if you meet them in person.

BUT, when you get really in-depth, and talk about your childhood (Mine was mostly pretty terrific. Some dark spots, but I think everybody has a few of those) and relationships (single, and not finding my type in small town Texas), and sexual escapades (see previous note), people who've never met you think they really know you. (And in a way they do.) And sometimes they act on that presumed intimacy in ways you don't want.

SO, I guess what I'm saying is. I'm careful. I try to think about what I put "out there" in public. I wouldn't go to the mall butt naked, so I probably shouldn't have "butt naked" equivalent posts.

Okay, I'm done. Headed into the kitchen to eat some soda crackers and see if the body will settle down. Have a good day.

Cleverness

I am reasonably intelligent. I am reasonably quick. And I used to think I was clever. Not in the bad way (you know what I mean), but in the funny way.

Then I started blogging. Still okay.
MySpace/Facebook? Not TOO bad. Not great, but so/so.

Then came Twitter.

Folks, I hate to say it, but I'm DULL. Seriously boring. Somehow or another I can't seem to fit clever into 150 characters or less.

ARGH!!

On the other hand---how sad is it that life and social interactions are now being REDUCED to 150 characters or less. I mean, really, how much can you convey. Let's try.

THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE! RUN.
(Okay, that's 31 characters, and it conveys a bunch.)

There was a young girl named Anheuser.
Who said that no man could surprise her.
But Pabst took a chance,
Found a Schlitz in her pants,
And now she *is sadder, Budweiser.
(Nope, can't get in a whole limerik, one of the shorter forms of poetry.)

To be, or not to be, that is the question:Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them
To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
(DEFINITELY not Shakespeare.)

But -

I love you darling.
(A definite yes.)

or

Go to hell!
(Also a yes.)

and

FOR SALE 74 CAMARO 350 4brl.
(Works)

So, I suppose it depends on what you're trying to convey. Short, to the point works well for some things. But I write better in somewhat longer formats. Which is why, even though I'm on Twitter, and Facebook (and nobody follows me on Twitter, seriously, I'm that dull), I won't be giving up the blog anytime soon.

Good Morning

Good Morning Folks.

It is Wednesday. I am awake (barely/sort of) after spending a long night reading Changes the newest Harry Dresden novel by Jim Butcher. He's brilliant, so there is no surprise that I was up WAAAAAY past my bedtime. Which I will, of course, pay for dearly today. I am not nearly as young as I used to be. In fact, I was so sleepy the last 1/2 of the book I will have to re-read it to make sure I didn't miss something important. AW DARN! (NOT!!).

Okay, time for work.

Later dudes and dudettes.

Cie

Cool Hand Luke, and Current Reality

Cool Hand Luke is a terrific classic movie. If you haven't seen it (and Spartacus, which reminds me of the Pepsi commercial which was a hoot) you should. There is a classic quote in the movie.

"What we have here is a failure to communicate."

That sums up a lot of modern life.

We have all of these communication devices. And we use them endlessly. But as in the tower of Babel everybody's talking and nobody's listening so it's just so much noise. In the written word you can put down the most detailed, step-by-step instructions, but they're basically useless (except as defense against the inevitable lawsuits) because NOBODY READS THEM.

We go blazing through our lives at 90+ mph and barely slow down enough to breathe let alone actually pay attention to what is really going on in other people's lives. And then we wonder why we're lonely. Because honestly, if you don't pay attention to others, they don't pay attention to you. It really is reciprocal.

A friend of mine reminded me of how back when he was in high school it was assumed that we'd be moving to a 3 or 4 day workweek within the decade and have all this free time. So we needed to have hobbies for all of our leisure time. Um, wow. Is that what you're seeing 30 years or so later? I'm not. Even though I've moved to part-time on the day job (with the subsequent pay cut -- ouch), I've got the whole second major career as a writer thing going, so that I actually work 6 days a week.

And life keeps speeding up.

When I first started in law offices people would bring something in and expect it back in about 3 weeks.

Then came the fax machine. Suddenly people expected things back in 3 days.

Then came e-mail. Now people expect it back in 3 hours MAX. They expect you to acknowledge receipt of it in 3 minutes or less.

BUT THEY STILL EXPECT IT TO BE PERFECT.

Now when you consider the average law firm has several hundred (or more) clients ALL of whom are expecting this, tis just a bit stressful. And not at all what was advertised back in high school. Then again, we never did get those rocket packs either. Or that cool hoverboard from Back to the Future. Which, by the way, I SERIOUSLY wanted.

But now my day job calls. So I am off to it.

Procrastination is an Art and Chocolate is a Vegetable

Good Morning.

Sundays are my "day off." I know I probably should work, but I have found that unless I take one day off each week I wear myself out and get ill. SO, I take Sundays, do my church and prayer, putter around the house, and try to have a good time. Yes, it's procrastination, but it's procrastination at its finest. And this afternoon, after church, I'm actually going to get to do one of my favorite things. I'm going out to my friends Don and Cathy's house and shooting pool. WOOT! I haven't shot pool in over a year. Since I used to shoot every single morning it has been something I've seriously missed.

Today is Sunday. SO, while I should be digging thistles, ("Ooh, man, I DIG thistles." "Really? I'm more into music.") I'm sitting listening to Nickelback and typing. Okay, "This Afternoon" came on and I spent the whole song dancing, half of it with Lucky the Wonder Dog in accompaniment. I'm kind of a spastic dancer, so she went a little nuts. But it was FUN.

This week I've rediscovered music. "Rediscovered?" Yup. I have a magnificent stereo that I haven't hooked up since I moved here six years ago. I have a collection of vinyl, tapes (both 8 track which I can't run and cassette which I can) cd, and an IPOD. I have been such a workhorse that I haven't used any of them more than once every six months or so. BUT the other day I had the radio in the truck cranked trying to wake up for the day job and they played one of my favorite songs. While I knew I remembered the first three bars I COULDN'T REMEMBER THE SONG at first. This is NOT something that's ever been an issue for me. Even songs I HATE I know. But it was gone. And then BAD MEDICINE started blasting out of the speakers. And I rocked out. Parked in front of the office with the stereo blasting loud enough to make my country loving neighbors driving by stare and shake their heads (and maybe one or two fingers LOL), and I DANCED. That is a trick seated, but it's possible. (I've seen my wheelchair-bound acquaintances dance, so why not?!) And it not only woke me up, it made me so happy and energized I had a really GREAT day.

It made me think. When was the last time I played my music the way I want and just cut loose? Answer, over six years ago. I play the radio in the truck (now that they have a station that isn't country in this section of Texas) and the station is pretty good. But it's not the same. So as part of my "let's see if we can't start doing some things for me and if it will improve my life, mood, creativity, and energy" I'm reincorporating music into my life. And thus I, the woman who 'doesn't dance' has started dancing spastically, with my dog.

Saturday Morning Toast

Okay, I know, I need to do a breakfast serial. And I may if I can think clearly. Which means, I may not because my head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton candy. Fluffy, and sticky and a mess. Hopefully doing some physical labor will help.

Still, rather than natter on about nothing in particular, I shall, after all, give it a shot. And speaking of shots . . .

*************************************

"OW!" I turned to glare at Jorge. "I swear you get a perverse pleasure out of that." He gave her a bland smile, but didn't deny it, simply turning to toss the used needle into one of the marked biohazard receptacles. He knew she was watching him, and she knew he knew it.

Of course, everyone watched Jorge. It was hard not to. The man was seriously genetically blessed. Literally tall, dark, and handsome, but there was so much more to it. He was smart (then again, he was a doctor), and funny, and if the rumors she'd heard from Judith in accounting were correct there were horses who'd envy . . . "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said I think this is a bad idea. The Mexican border is very unstable right now."

"It's not like I had a lot of choice. That's why they call them assignments."

"You could have refused."

"Yeah, right." I snorted. "Refused, and watched my entire career go down the toilet. No, I don't think so."

"You are a beautiful woman Hannah. It is a bad plan."

"Thank you. But I'm a big girl. I can handle it." I gave him a slight smile. I didn't feel like smiling. In fact I felt . . . odd. My head was swimming. It was hard to focus. My tongue didn't seem to want to work right. Still, I managed to force the words out clearly enough to be understood. "They need someone who can act in a telenovella, someone attractive and bilingual."

"I know." He stepped forward, shining one of those little penlights in my eyes one at a time. Normally it hurts like hell. My eyes are very light sensitive. But it didn't. And when I pulled back, he had to catch me to keep me from falling over.

"What in the hell was in that shot?" I tried to say it clearly, but it was pretty much an unintelligible mumble.

"It was a bad plan Hannah." He lowered me gently into a lying position on the exam table.

"Bastard." It was a bare mumble. My eyes were too heavy to keep open. As I faded out of consciousness I was almost sure I felt the brush of lips on my forehead.

Strange Days

More good news for more of our friends. This is a happy thing. I like happy.


Yesterday was a little weird. Woke up in the middle of the night because the cat was making unnatural noises. It's spring, they get furballs, but this was just . . . odd. Little Bit had thrown up. Not great, but it happens. I cleaned it up and went back to bed. Woke up again. (Ah, insomnia.) She had thrown up blood. Not a lot, but multiple times.


Took her to the vet. There is nothing obvious so we did some general things. She's doing better, but I'm keeping an eye on her. It is worrisome.

Yesterday I took half a day off. I am working today instead to make up for it. Hormones and cat issues made me whacked out and I needed to pull myself together. I spent the day at home

1) Digging thistles. (The woman next door is elderly and her husband isn't doing well. She no longer has a lawn service and she hasn't had time to take care of it herself. SO, her lawn has gone to probably a thousand thistles, which have spread into my lawn. Since I am allergic to virtually all chemicals, the ones near the house are being taken out the old fashioned way. I did ask a friend to come and poison the ones a little further out.

2) When I got tired (hey, it's hard work) (not finished, MAYBE 1/3 done. I have an ugly weekend ahead of me.). I went inside and started in on the house. The living room is now clean. This includes the ceiling. ("The ceiling?" You ask. Yes Gracie, the ceiling. Someone put a textured ceiling in. I have cats. They shed. I have ceiling fans. My ceiling was beginning to look like some sort of weird art form or animal skin. I'm not sure which.) The kitchen is now clean. The hallway is scrubbed (including the floorboards and all of the mud that the dog shook onto the walls and tracked onto the floor, etc.)

When that was done I was really, SERIOUSLY tired. So I watched a couple of shows on Hulu and went to bed.


I slept like a dead thing. I am sore and stiff this morning, but I am by GOD rested. And I feel virtuous. AND I got my exercise. With more to come.


Physical labor isn't exciting, but sometimes I need it. It clears my mind. AND there's a product in the end. I think that's one of the reasons I like writing so much. I can actually SEE a result. (It is also one of the reasons I hate laundry. If you are not naked when you're washing clothes you're not ever going to have it ALL done.)

I have needed to clean house. I HAVE to get rid of the thistles. But more than that. I have needed to clear my head. There's been a lot of ugliness in there. Most of it is directed at me. But that's counterproductive. When I indulge in it I don't get anything positive done, which means that I feel like crap, and indulge in beating myself up, which means I don't get anything positive done . . . you get the picture.


So, the thistles and a clean house are a major deal for this weekend. And in the process I may pull out the old motivational CDs. (The same ones I had in casettes and replaced when cassettes became passe. And I will get myself moving forward and unstuck with the mental equivalent of dynamite and a bulldozer. Because apparently it's necessary.


If I am lucky, perhaps, the book that I didn't find locally by a freakin' New York Times bestselling author and friend will finally arrive and I can reward myself for working so hard by reading it.


Now I am off to take a little something for the stiffness, to cross post this, and to start the day at the day job.


Be well, be happy.





Cie

Equality, Prejudice, Sadness, Frustration & Disgust.

Okay, as you can see, this is a heavy post. Probably foolish of me to embark on it since I have to get ready for work very shortly. But I've been reading the news lately. I don't usually. It only frustrates me and makes me very angry. But I've been online more, and headlines have (sometimes literally) popped out at me. . . and well, there you go.

"All men are created equal."
Define equal for me. We have different talents, abilities. Some are smart (Hello Steve Hawking, Al Einstein, et al), some (being politically incorrect here) SOOOOO aren't. Some are strong, some physically handicapped. It takes all kinds to make a world, and I truly believe we all have a purpose. I'm never going to be a powerlifter, or a scientific powerhouse. But I can write novels, and short stories, and scripts, which some other people can only aspire to.

Recently I've been reading about kids who have commit suicide due to bullying. Two of them. One male, one female. And I read about the lesbian student whose school canceled the prom rather than have her attend with a female student. (And who since had two proms, one where she was invited attended by a whopping 7 students many of whom are learning disabled; and another, to which she was NOT invited, attended by the majority of the students.)

I don't know that we will ever truly be able to stomp out bullying. Even in nature there are packs. To survive animals group themselves into "us" and "them" and try to drive off the "intruders." They select the strongest (sometimes the brightest, but definitely the strongest) to protect themselves. It's called "natural selection" and "survival of the fittest." And ultimately, we are animals.

BUT, that said, we should try. Truly. Because while we are animals. We are also PEOPLE. With intellect and effort we can work to effect change. And change will not happen without WORK.

Am I uncomfortable when I am the only white in a neighborhood filled with people of another color? Oh hell yeah. And it gives me a clue how that first child being bussed to another school must have felt, under GUARD going to a strange place, among people she didn't know, who obviously didn't want her there must have felt.

When I was in high school football players and cheerleaders ruled. And some of them packed up, and became assholes and abusive. Others didn't, for the record. But I remember the ones who did---vividly. But I also remember how helpless the "powers that be" felt and truly WERE. They couldn't be there 24/7. If they protected you in school, you could be damned sure you'd pay for it after. Does that mean they shouldn't protect students in school? NO. But it means that as outsiders they can't impose their beliefs and morality on others wholesale in only one area of life and make it stick.

The change in attitudes has to be across the board. At home; in school; in outside-of-school arenas. And it has to start from infancy. Which means that parents, with their own prejudices and history of pain have to step up to the plate and say "I want to do better for my kid. I want to BE better for my kid. And I'm willing to work against my ingrained behaviors to do it."

Some will/do. Some won't/don't.

Again, for example I use the civil rights movement. We have come a long way. Are we there yet? Consistently? Without blemish and throughout the country and the world? Hell no. I feel like the little kid in the back seat "Are we there yet?" "No honey, not yet."

Will we ever get there?

I don't know. But it's worth the trip. Hell, I'll even chip in for the gas.

Up Early to Write

Okay, up early to write. Got started on the short story yesterday, but I didn't get it finished. I have no idea if it's any good. It may be total crap. That happens sometimes.

Today looks as if it will be a good day. One of my favorite authors, Jim Butcher, has a book coming out that I've been waiting for! Changes is the next Dresden File book and I am SOOOOO rockin Harry.

Earned major Mom points last night. I found out on Twitter that Neil Gaiman is doing an American Gods event with The House on the Rock. I got details. I told James. If at all possible we are so doing this. He is the ultimate American Gods fan and I am a great enabler of this.

Okay, now off to work.

Just a Quickie

Okay, I've GOT to get things done today. I've been sleeping more (probably a good thing for my body, but such a bad thing for my schedule!). I'm VERY behind on things.

Friday night my glasses broke. The metal gave, so they fell into two separate pieces. I didn't realize how much worse my eyes have gotten until I didn't have them. Holy CRAP! Okay, this was bad. Tried the reading glasses thing. It didn't work. Okay it worked, kinda. But not well enough to really function. SO bad. Now, fortunately, I need them for close stuff and for an astygmatism, so I could still drive, BUT I'm a writer. Not being able to read ANYTHING with print less than an inch tall was SO not working. Of course this being a holiday weekend the small town where I reside had nothing open in the way of optometrists. SO I had to go to the nearest city. Went to a quickie optical, but because they're no line bifocals (you may now make jokes about my age. I'm okay with it.) I can't have them until Tuesday or Wednesday. At least they only cost 1/2 of what the original pair ran, but finding frames I could stand was a challenge. And the thought of being as non-functional as I was (did I mention the headache? The being off-balance because suddenly the astygmatism [which I'd lived with before glasses for years just fine] suddenly being uncorrected made my world shift?)

But the optical guy (who suddenly became heroic optical guy and I would give him a shout out if I could remember the name of the store without any caffeine in my system) told me that a jeweler could probably solder the frames for about $20.00. SO I go to the mall and find a jeweler who did, indeed, solder the frames back together. (WOO HOO -- Let's hear it for the jeweler at XIV KARATS in the Sunset Mall, San Angelo!!!)

SO I now can see. And, you know, um, WALK. But I spent quite a bit of money this weekend that I really didn't want to. And an entire day of writing went down the toilet. BUT now I can see, so I can write. And I'd better do just that.

Later.

Cie/C.T. Adams

Ambition and a Game

Trying to reconcile where I am and who I am with where I want to be and who I need to be to get there. The question is how far can hard work take you, and is the talent level up to the ambition level? Only way to find out is to try and to work hard. But it is scary.

Because if you give it everything you've got and you fail there are no excuses. But I don't want to "play it safe." I want to live.

Which, I suppose, is very good news.

At least my son would think so. :) And the dog.

And perhaps the cats.

*************************
Boris Karloff
Attilla the Hun
Karl Mauldin
Jimmy Durante

And the question is -- Men who would look seriously awful as women.

Your turn. Give me 3.