Liza Martz - Cogitations and Codswallop

2010-02-06T17:16:00.001-05:00

Oh Where Have I Been?

2009-08-19T19:08:00.008-04:00

In case anyone has noticed my disappearance from this blog, I wanted to assure you I haven't gone far. I've simply moved to a blog next door.

My move to a new bloggerhood came about from being on the Board of Directors for an animal shelter in Northeast Tennessee. A shelter that isn't yet built. Last spring I was appointed as the PR person and I've taken to it like, well, a dog to a bone.

Since accepting the assignment, I have somehow managed to build a pretty darn good website (she said modestly.) You can check it out here.

I also write a weekly article for the local paper which gets published most of the time. And I've started a new blog, right here (on Blogger) called, "Claiborne Animal Shelter Updates and News." Catchy title, eh?

It's been an interesting learning curve that has helped me hone my writing skills. With the news articles I figure I've got three seconds to engage my readers before they turn the page to see what's on sale at the United Grocery Outlet. I've set a 150 word limit for myself and stick strictly to one topic. The one topic rule is really hard!

I update the blog once a week which is not easy since there's not always something new to say. But, the shelter Board wants to keep people updated on the progress of the building (sloooooow but still moving) which we hope will convince them to donate money. It's a real challenge thinking of creative variations of, "we need cash!

All of this writing has energized my brain and, surprise-surprise, spawned an idea for a non-fiction middle grade book! Who'da thunk? So that's it. That's all I wanted to say.

(How many words is this?)

Gone Fishin' - Back in June

2009-02-14T15:34:00.003-05:00

I've been so quiet lately you probably thought I fell into a snow bank and couldn't get out. (If you wondered at all - heehee) Well that's not what happened. I've left the Great White North behind and headed south to here:

No, wait! Don't let your abandonment issues run away with you. You can keep up on my very interesting life and deep, philosophical thoughts by reading my other blog, A City Slicker on a Country Road.

Hope you give it a look!

A Christmas Song for Kids Young and Not-so

2008-12-19T08:41:00.002-05:00

Greetings to all. It is time for the annual posting of a Christmas song by my own dear brother, Peter. As you may know from last year, he is a squirrel nut. Every year, to celebrate the holidays and honor his favorite rodent, he writes a song. This is something you do not want to miss!

If you click Here you can read this year's squirrel newsletter; always an inspiration.

Or, if you'd rather go straight to the song, click Here then sit back and enjoy.

Happy Holidays!

Liza the Brave

2008-11-25T11:23:00.007-05:00

Yesterday morning I was sitting in my favorite chair sipping tea and feeling at peace with the world. My pup, Cody scratched on the door and I let him in paying little attention to the clump of soggy vegetation he had in his mouth.

As I went back to my chair, Cody deposited a large leaf on the floor then stretched out for a nap. I idly studied the leaf, it was red in the middle with brown tips. I decided it was a Maple and it was probably staining the rug.

I went to pick it up but as I reached for the stem I realized it was a long, skinny tail. I looked more closely, the autumn hue I'd been admiring was guts and the brown leaf tips were claws. It was a mangled, half-eaten mouse!

I must pause for a moment to explain my feelings about mice. Not only do I cringe at the thought of a them, I go into screaming-meemie-hysterics if I even suspect there might be one in my house.

I needed to act fast before the fleeing portion of my fight or flight instinct kicked into overdrive. With bare fingers, I lifted the rodent by the tip of its tail. I dangled it at arms-length as I walked through the kitchen, dropped the disgusting remains in the waste basket, slammed the lid, then scrubbed my hands so hard the skin almost came off.

I returned to my chair and tried to feel proud of myself for walking into my fear but my revulsion was too strong to let me feel anything but grossed out. After giving myself a stern lecture about how courageous I'd been, I went to make lunch.

I rolled some cheese into a pita bread and went to stick it in the microwave. The microwave next to the waste basket with the dead mouse in it! I made myself breathe deeply while after-shocks of disgust wracked my body.

When I tried to eat the sandwich the oozing melted cheese almost made me barf. All I could think of was that dead mouse. I needed to get the damn thing as far away from me as possible.

I grabbed the plastic bag out of the waste basket, ran it out to the trash can in my garage, and threw it in. I locked down the heavy duty lid to prevent the mouse from escaping if it had a spontaneous healing, then hurried back into the house to wash my hands Lady MacBeth style - over and over and over - until I felt that I'd removed any airborne mouse cooties that may have gotten on me.

Now I'm worried. Are there mice outside my house trying to get in? And what about Cody? He's a mixed-mixed breed. Does he have some kind of mouser in him? Will he continue to hunt rodents and bring them to me? Will he get tape worms from eating mice? Or die if he chews on a mouse that has recently been dining on D-Con?

These are a lot of questions for which I have no answers but of one thing I am certain; that dog is never going to lick me again.

I Been Had

2008-11-11T08:58:00.002-05:00

I am a person who has no business having two blogs. But I do. Why? Because one is for recording my deep and often captivating thoughts (that's this one, by the way.) The other, City Slicker on a Country Road, documents my amazing experiences as an Appalachian Mountain-girl wannabe.

Now, here is the hard part to admit in a public forum: neither one of my blogs is read by anyone. Well, hardly anyone. A big week for me is two hits.

So, this morning as I responded to an email from a friend who had commented on my recent blog entries, advising him he is one of my only readers, I got an email from Blogger. It was a comment to one my older blogs. From a complete stranger!

"You write very well," the person said. I couldn't believe my eyes! The timing was perfect. I quickly sent a p.s. to my friend and told him I now have two readers.

Then I went to the blog that was commented on, as I read it my head began to swell. It was pretty good. I modestly thanked the sender in the comments section. Then I decided to snoop. Who was this secret admirer?

It was an insurance company! Yep. The link to this person took me straight to a site that is all about the good deals that can be had if one purchases this particular brand of insurance.

I am deflated. I had to send a p.s. to my p.s. advising my friend he is back to being my only reader. What a let down.

A Room by Any Other Name...

2008-11-03T19:10:00.005-05:00

Today I got a gigantic urge to show the world my absolute favorite room in my house. I sometimes call it my reading room or, when I'm in a more formal frame of mind, The Library. It's dark without being dingy, and while the wood paneling is knotty pine rather than mahogany, I still think it gives the room tone.

I realize as far as urges go, posting a picture of a room seems pretty lame. So, rather than trying to convince you of the merits of this room, (and therefore, of this blog entry) I'll post the photograph and be done with it. Except, well, seriously....

...waddya think? Is that a humdinger of a room or what?

Is it a Snit or a Sweet Potato Spell?

2008-10-28T09:39:00.006-04:00

My dog, Frannie, suffers from separation anxiety. In an effort to alleviate her emotional pain, I adopted a three-month old puppy named Cody. He was to be Frannie's companion; she'd never be lonely again.

I didn't just spring Cody on Frannie, I gave her the opportunity to vet him through visits to his foster home and play-dates. The pooches got along great. They sniffed each others' behinds, zoomed around the yard, and dragged each other by their necks. A sure sign they loved each other. Perfect.

Not. It seems that in Frannie's eyes play-date versus live-in are two very different things. It's three months later and Frannie refuses to play with Cody, she gobbles his food, steals his milk bones, and leans into my legs to prevent him from getting near me. Everywhere I go,Frannie is there, leaning and gazing up looking betrayed. At first I thought she was in a post-adoptive snit but as time wears on I have come to realize it's something much greater than that.

Frannie is having a full blown sweet potato spell. A phrase coined by my great-grandmother when Uncle Bud regularly exhibited his unwillingness to eat sweet potatoes by going into a prolonged, publicly displayed pout.

I'm hoping Frannie gets over it soon because I can feel my own spell coming on. Not only do I now have a Velcro-dog with separation anxiety, I have a bored puppy who expects me to entertain him.

Cody and Frannie waiting for a treat

A Little Bit of Heaven Right Here on Earth

2008-09-20T17:04:00.011-04:00

I am positive I am not the original inventor of the Chocolate/Peanut Butter Swirl with Ice Cream on Top. But I am definitely the first person I know who has rustled up this delightful combo. As a decent human being, I feel it is my duty to share my discovery with you.

Plop a generous dollop of Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter into a microwave-safe bowl like so:

(Author's Note: Even if you're a die-hard Smoothy, for this concoction, the Crunchy is where it's at)

Next, submerge the peanut butter in a pool of chocolate syrup:

(Author's note: Hot fudge that must be softened in the jar does not blend properly and should be avoided if possible.)

Place the bowl in the microwave and heat it for 1.3 minutes on half power. If the peanut butter is not fully melted, heat for an additional twenty seconds.

Upon removing the bowl from the microwave, gently swirl the chocolate and peanut butter until it forms an attractive pinwheel:

Add three generous scoops of good quality Vanilla Ice Cream:

(Author's note: I have tried using el cheapo, off-brand ice cream and it does not get the job done. Go for the good stuff, you won't regret it.)

You are now ready to enjoy a bit of heaven right here on Earth.

(Author's note: You're welcome. Please hold your applause until you have set your spoon down.)

It's All in the Presentation

2008-08-05T17:36:00.005-04:00

I once tried to describe this sign in a blog but was unable to capture the essence. Sometimes ya just gotta see it with your own eyes.

Reflections On a Windsheild

2008-06-29T10:26:00.003-04:00

Friday I drove to Tennessee. It's an eight and a half hour trip and, normally, I put the car on cruise and put my mind in "the zone." But this time the traffic, construction, and weather were such, I was forced to focus on driving.

A drive so boring, I was driven to study the bug splats on the windshield for entertainment. They were large, small, smeared, round, square-shaped, pear-shaped; an entire gallery of yellow goo. My interest began to wane when I spotted one mushy, red splotch. My mind skipped a beat, then boggled. Do bugs have blood? It's something I've never considered. If they do, does that mean they have hearts? Arteries? Blood pressure?

I have since spent a great deal of time pondering this. I even asked my friend, a retired chemist, and his vague answer led me to believe he doesn't know and isn't particularly interested. But I can't stop thinking about it, not so it's driving me nuts, it just bugs me.

Michigan Nature Tour #1

2008-06-11T11:10:00.006-04:00

Things I learned while sitting on a park bench next to a lake:

1) Swans rule the lake.
2) Swans hate geese.
3) Swans warn Geese to get lost by twitching their tails.
4) Geese pretend they're not intimidated by Swans but you can tell they really are because they don't take their eyes off them.
5) Swans chase Geese by swimming at them snapping their beaks, or by flapping their wings and skimming across the water at them.
6) After a Swan has run a Goose off, it raises its wings, lifts it's chest, points its beak toward the heavens, and snorts repeatedly as though it's dragging a particularly difficult loogie up from the bottoms of its webbed feet.
7) When a Swan is not showing off, it swims placidly in circles.
8) Ducks don't mean doo-doo to Swans or Geese.
9) My dog, Frannie, thinks Goose poop is a delectable treat.

Oh Those Dancing Feet

2008-04-07T19:19:00.005-04:00

Have you ever tried placing a bar of soap under the sheets at the foot of your bed to prevent Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS)? If you're scoffing at the notion, I can tell you've never been driven to madness by the torture of RLS.

You've never heard of it? It's like this. You try to sit still and your legs squirm and twist like night crawlers in a coffee can. The inside of your skin from feet to knees feels infested with burrowing, biting insects. The soles of your feet itch and burn as though you've danced for hours in a vat of Poison Ivy. You think I'm exaggerating? If only!

Saturday night as I lay my weary head upon my pillow, my legs kicked into gear. For hours they itched. They twitched. They attempted to jump off the bed and run up the walls. It was terrible. Sunday, I woke up crabby and fearful, the tingles were still there. As the minutes ticked by, the threat of another wretched night loomed closer. My legs crept and crawled in anticipation.

Desperate, I ran to my computer to look up folklore remedies for RLS. Turmeric, Black strap Molasses, Baking Soda in water, and....soap in bed. I opted to try everything I had on hand. I tucked a fresh bar of soap under the sheet at the foot of my bed then headed to the kitchen. I began with an oozing tablespoon of bright yellow mustard for a healthy dose of turmeric. Ooh-ooh, talk about a sock in the kisser! After I'd finished reeling from shock I noticed the creepy crawlies had stopped. Hot dog!

I read for awhile, and then my legs started to dance. I moved on to the next remedy, baking soda and water. My stomach heaved a few times then stopped. That's it. With legs still atingle I downed another tablespoon of mustard. It worked again. Yes! I was ready to hit the soapy sack. With a feeling of trepidation I tucked myself in. My feet started to wander, found the bar of soap and stopped. Started up again. Stopped.

I had a wonderful night's sleep but had to awaken before dawn to get to an acupuncture appointment on time. I quickly downed Cheerios with bananas followed by a mustard chaser. I was good to go. The acupuncturist (after covertly sneering at my remedies) treated me for RLS then sold me some expensive no-name Chinese herbs supposed to really help (not like those other lame things, harrumph!)

I am now full of mysterious Chinese herbs, and I am prepared to once-again brave the mustard. Right now my right heel is rubbing my left foot. It must be time to hit the sauce. I do hope my legs and I sleep as harmoniously with the soap as we did last night, I don't have to get up tomorrow until I want to.

I Fall to Pieces

2008-03-13T19:23:00.009-04:00

Today I gained a huge insight into myself; humorless people intimidate me. If I can't joke my way through a conversation, I turn into a blabbering idiot. The path to this self-awareness began with an email I sent to a company that sells hinge-topped mint-tins. The response I recieved says, "I tried to call you. The people said they never heard of you. Please call me. Vincent"

I grab the phone, dial Vincent's number and get his voice mail.
"Hi," I say, "This is Liza. Sorry about the phone number, I think I sent you the wrong one. My real phone number is...I'm not sure. I think it's 123-4555. No. Maybe it's 123-4455. Wait. I think the first one was right. Anyway, call me."

As I hang up, I realize my message was too stupid for words. I still don't know my number so I look it up. Both the numbers I'd left were wrong. I call back, get the voice mail, and leave the right number. An hour later my phone rings.

"Hello?"
"This is Vincent," he says, clipping off the end of each word with the precision of a neurosurgeon, "What is your phone number?"
"Oh," I say, laughing, "you must think I'm so dumb."
"No, I don't."
I laugh again, "I had to look myself up in the phone book."
Silence. Okay, so he doesn't think it's funny. I decide to get down to business, "My brother and I want to get the back stamped out of a tin."
"What do you mean by 'stamped?'" He sounds mildly disapproving.
"Cut a hole," I say.
"By 'back' do you mean bottom?"
"Yep. We're going to have printing on the top."
"By 'top' do you mean lid?"
"I guess." Does he feel like he's pulling teeth as much as I feel like mine are being extracted?
"Let me tell you the parts of a tin box," he says.
"That's a good idea," I say.
"Lid, body, bottom," he enunciates each word for all it's worth.
"Oh, okay, I'll remember," I say then proceed with what I'm trying to say, "I have a schematic. The length I need, or maybe it's the width..."
Leonard sighs, "We call the longest part the length, the shortest part the width."
"Oh," I say and tell him the dimensions.
"What's the depth?" he asks.
"Um, I dont' know. Not very deep."

And so the conversation goes. Inch by painful inch. I try to crack a joke here and there, Vincent isn't buying it. Perhaps a bit of self-deprecating humor will break through his shell. No dice. I finally give up, knowing he hates me because I'm a tin-box dunce.

Vincent wraps up the converstaion by telling me what he needs to know before we can discuss price, "Send me a schematic," he says, "That includes the depth. Also send your name, address, and phone number. Be sure to include your phone number."
"I will," I say, "I'll even look it up again to make sure it's right."
Leonard does not chuckle, he bids me adieu and politely hangs up.

I set the phone down and wipe the sweat from my frazzled brow. I am such a fool. I don't know the first thing about anything. I replay the conversation in my mind, where did I go wrong with Vincent? It's because I gave him the wrong phone number, it has to be. But, he called me! It doesn't matter.

Another Fine Old Family Expression

2008-03-08T20:02:00.012-05:00

Texas Sit/v. When two or more people gather to spend countless enjoyable hours talking about anything that happens to come up.

Texas Sitter/n. A person who comes to visit then stays long past their welcome, ingoring their hosts' glances at the clock, donning of pajamas, and other subtle hints suggesting the visitor leave.

Resurrecting the Slang of My Youth

2008-02-16T10:04:00.006-05:00

Bochuggie is a word that may be indigenous to my family. It was popular with all the little Martz's during our teenage years in the late '60's. It means, "to wig out, usually over something insignificant."

Example: When my parents see the "Frank Zappa" tattoo on my forehead, they're gonna have a bochuggie.

Chinese Spam

2008-02-13T13:01:00.003-05:00

My brother is a creative genious. Really. He could make a lot of money with his recent invention only he doesn't want to market it. So I decide to do it for him.

First we need to manufacture it. In his prototype he used a tiny part he hacked out of a product bought at a dollar store. Read this as - Made In China. The part is essential to the success of our venture only neither of us knows what it's called. We'll just have to work around that.

I start my search for the gizmo at Alibaba It's a Chinese-based operation, sort of a dating service for buyers and sellers. I fill out the usual registration information - name, email address, etc. and get busy. I spend an entire day searching fruitlessly for a supplier of this item-without-a-name then decide on a new approach. If I can't go to the supplier, let the supplier come to me. I'll use the "Post Buying Leads" feature.

I attach a photo of the cannibalized part to the advertising form. Next, I'm asked to provide a concise description of what I want. Since I don't know what it is, I wing it. Then I must fill in some key words. Those are pretty easy, I explain what it does. A description of what we want? "Like the item in the photograph." They want to know about our business, I make up a bio. What do we expect to pay? How do I know? I guess ten cents a unit sounds good.

Then I'm supposed to put in a "nice" request, an invitation that will entice suppliers into doing business with us, something to woo them. I write, "We are looking to form relationship with supplier based on trust and happiness." It sounds like a message inside a fortune cookie but I can't think of anything else.

I'm nearing the end and hit a wall. I have to fill in some boxes and the example given is "10~1000." Anyone know what this means? I sure don't. Maybe it's a price range so I put ".10~.20" Done!

I hit the submit button. Nothing happens. I scroll down the form and right in the middle, in tiny print, is the following: Failure due to --- the reason is written in Chinese! I bet it's those boxes. I change them to look like the example "10~1000", hit submit, and I am in.

After all that effort I've heard nothing. Nobody writes. Nobody calls. All I've gotten is an inbox full of Chinese spam. Hear my head against the wall? Bang. Bang. Bang.

I Don't Know What This Means

2008-02-05T12:49:00.000-05:00

I'm driving along in Tennessee. It's Sunday morning, nothing but churches and flea markets are open at this hour. The highway goes up, up, up until it reaches the top of a mountain, then down it goes dipping and curving like a roller coaster ride.

A sign beside the road tells me there's a flea market ahead. The next three signs describe the treasures to be found there:

Knives and Swords

Sam's Quilts

Nothing Unique

The last one makes me want to stop. What do they sell? White socks? Ketchup? Marine engines? Don't you want to know? I may have to mosey on back and find out. If I do, I'll let ya'll know. In the meantime, take a gander here and read more about the interesting oddness of country life, or so it seems, when seen through the eyes of this city gal.

Zounds! A Website Has Been Born

2008-01-21T19:32:00.000-05:00

So what if I have nothing to say. It's not totally nothing. I mean, I can tell people I'm a writer, that's something. And I can give them links to my two blogs, always a winner with blog addicts. I'll include some photos, of me, of my dog, of my road - fascinating stuff. And I'll top the whole thing off with a song about moi. What's not to like?

Give it a look and let me know what you think. Please? Liza Martz

The Belle of the Ball

2007-12-30T14:17:00.000-05:00

My daughter's grandfather-in-law passed away the day after Christmas. When I went to the funeral home to pay my respects, my three-year old granddaughter, Mina, grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the coffin.

"He died," she said, then pointed to a cross in her great-grandfather's hands, "That means he's in heaven."
"That's a good place to be," I said.
"Why is he wearing glasses?" Mina asked.
"Because people are used to seeing him that way."
"How does he go potty?"
"He doesn't have to any more."
"What's that?" she asked pointing to the coffin.
"A coffin."
"Oh. Watch this." Mina demonstrated her ability to stand on one leg. After that she led me to couch to sit with her.

"Tell me a story," I said.
She sat up straight and said in a solemn voice, "He got very, very sick and then he died and they put him in a coffee pot."

Then she jumped off the couch and hustled over to shake hands with some new arrivals and introduce herself. She totally cracks me up!

Squirrel Songs Rock!

2007-12-16T10:33:00.001-05:00

Christmas is the time for sharing. So, I've decided to share my brother's annual Christmas song with you. Click on the link and you'll be transported to a magical world where squirrels rule! Yes, my brother is a squirrel nut, and he'd better watch out lest his furry friends decide he'd make a delectable treat.

Hear the song for 2007 by clicking on the link below, then clicking on the acorn. Or, scroll lower and listen to the songs from yesteryear. May your days be filled with joy, happiness, and squirrel songs!

The Fur Tree

You Can Call Me LiZa

2007-11-13T09:09:00.000-05:00

When I was young I was the only person in the world with the name Liza, well, except for Liza Minelli. It has now become a fairly common name. There are several published authors named Liza, some literary agents, an editor at a publishing house, there's even an attorney in Canada named Liza Martz.

So, why do people who respond to my letters and emails address me as Lisa?

This is not a criticism, merely a curiosity; Lisa and Liza are not the same name. Don't get me wrong, I answer to Lisa; at Panera when my order comes up, in workshops, at parties. I don't bother to correct the mistake when I'll never see these people again.

But people are sensitive about their names. Read interviews with literary agents and editors about common mistakes writers make when querying them. Misspelling their name is frequently at the top of their list. Submission guidelines often warn, "Spell my name right." Needless to say, I double check their name before I send my letter to them.

And, this is what crackes me up...nine times out of ten when they respond it's to Dear Lisa Martz. I wonder if that's why J.K. Rowling went with her initials, Jo must be another toughy.

What Else Could I Do?

2007-11-10T11:10:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting at the far end of an empty strip mall parking lot waiting to meet my parents. A woman in an old beater of a van pulls up alongside of me and honks. I look over, an infant carrier is perched on the seat next to her with a small, grubby baby facing my way. As I roll down my window, I know what's coming.

Her: "Can you give me gas money to get to a shelter?"
Me: "Sounds like you're trying to scam me."
Her: "I'm not. I'm trying to get to the [Name of Shelter for Battered Women]."

I take a moment to ponder the situation. I can tell by looking at her she's not from the immediate area. She's also nowhere near the city the shelter is in. I'm 99% sure she's a scammer. But what if she isn't and she really is trying to get to a shelter? What the hell.
Me: "I'm giving you five dollars, and if you're scamming me I'll let it be on your conscience. If you're not I wish you luck."
As I hand her the money she breaks eye contact and looks down. At that moment, I know I've been taken.

I don't feel bad about it. She probably isn't familiar with the word, "conscience," and I can afford the five bucks. And there is still the eensiest chance she really was trying to get to a shelter. I'd make the same decision next time.

A Classic Case of Between a Rock and a Hard Place

2007-11-09T11:07:00.001-05:00

I love rocks. I have them in my garden, on my windowsills, sometimes in my pockets.

My daughter, Amy, shares this passion. She recently acquired a stunning, heart-shaped specimen that she proudly displays on the window sill over her sink. I have coveted that rock from the moment I laid eyes on it but realize it would be bad form, not to mention futile, to demand that she give it to me.

Imagine my surprise when I went to her house yesterday and saw a smaller heart-shaped rock nestled against the large one.

"We got it for you," Amy said handing it to me.
"Yep," said Mina, my three-year old granddaughter.

I was delighted with the gift and set the rock on a bench near my jacket. We had lunch, shot the breeze and had a lovely day. When it came time for me to leave, I couldn't find the rock.

"Mina?" Amy asked in a stern voice.

Mina trudged into her bedroom and emerged with one arm behind her back.

Mina: "This is my special, special rock. It looks so nice with the other one."
Amy: "Give it to Grammie. We got it for her."
Mina reluctantly handed it over.
"Thanks," I said.
Mina: "I want to keep it."
Me: "But it's mine."
Mina: "No it's not."
Me: "Yes it is."
"WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Mina raced into the kitchen, "It looks SO-NICE-HERE!"

I looked at Amy. She shook her head. Was I really fighting with a three-year old over a rock? Yes.

I stored the rock in my pocket, made up with the still-sobbing Mina, and went home feeling like a louse. I got a phone call first thing this morning.

Mina: "That really is my special, special rock."
Me: "I know. And I know you want to keep it but you and your mom got it for me."
Mina: "But it looks so nice here."
Me: "It looks nice here, too."
Mina: "Maybe we can share it."
Me: "Hey, that's a great idea."
Mina: "And when I come over, I can take it home."
Me: "No you can't."
Mina: "But we're sharing."
Me: "We'll share it here."
Mina: "That's not sharing."
Me: "Yes it is. Just like we share Frannie [my dog]."
Mina: "Here's my mom."

She is not getting that rock. Now I must go check my birth certificate. Is it possible I was born in 2004?

It's Not an Addiction, It's a Habit

2007-11-07T08:41:00.000-05:00

Years ago, while cruising an antique store, I came across a small pamphlet from the 1800's extolling the virtues of an elixir that was guaranteed to help one break free from the chains of "the solitary habit."

The pamphlet was comprised of anonymous testimonials from people who used the elixir and, much to their surprise, no longer felt the need to indulge. As an added benefit, their acne cleared up, some went back to school, others were finally able to hold down a job, and their lives were restored to happiness and balance.

At the time, I thought the solitary habit was, uh, well...you know. But I was oh-so-wrong! I have recently fallen victim to that very habit and realize they were referring to reading the entertainment news on the Internet.

It's terrible. My life is out of control. I no longer write, I haven't got time. Most of my day is spent hunched in front of my computer poring over pictures of Britany at her skankiest, reading about Dog's fall from grace, wondering if Paris will ever go to Rwanda, hoping Foxy Brown will get the model-prisoner-award she's working so hard to receive.

It's terrible. If only I hadn't cast that pamphlet aside with a superior sneer, I would have rememberd the name of the elixir, ordered some today, and gotten my life back on track. Instead it looks like I'll be searching for a twelve-step program. If I'm lucky, we'll meet at an Internet cafe.

Rites of Passage

2007-11-05T17:36:00.000-05:00

The other day I drove past an elementary school and noticed the bicycles chained higgelty piggelty to the bike rack in front. That one little glance sent me hurdling back in time to my neighborhood parochial school.

There were no school busses. We got to school by walking or getting a ride from our parents. That is until we reached the seventh grade, when a third option presented itself, the bicycle.

It was no small matter because only the seventh and eighth graders were permitted to bicycle to school.I was bursting with pride when I hopped onto my blue Schwinn racer, slung the chain and lock across my chest like a bandalero, and zipped down the street past all the "kids" who had to walk.

It was the same year I went from wearing a white blouse, green jumper, and matching beanie to wearing a white blouse, green plaid skirt and a plaid tam (fancy name for dorky beret!) I mean, does it ever get better than that?

All of this remembering, took me further backwards in time, to the day my second grade class went to the library, and eack kid got a library card. It was a cold, rainy day; the building was like a cathedral of huge limestone blocks with a slate roof. Golden light glowed behind floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows; inviting us to come in and get warm.

The floors inside were shiny wood. The library smelled like lemon furniture polish and BOOKS! Thousands of books, all waiting to be checked out by me using my very own library card. It never occured to me then that someone had written those books. They were simply there, waiting for me to choose which ones I'd take home.

And here I am, many years later, writing books, with high hopes they'll someday make it to those same library shelves. I am sure the seven-year old me would have been astounded if she could have seen where that library card was going to take us.

Maybe you had to be there...

2007-10-26T16:54:00.000-04:00

This morning I was talking to my favorite three-year old on the phone, and she told me a joke she made up:

Question: How does a witch blow her nose?

Answer: Wicked hard!

Okay, so maybe I'm biased, but I thought it was pretty funny.

Favorite Q&A of the Week

2007-10-11T10:36:00.000-04:00

Me: What's Carol's last name?

Maggie: Carol who?

Hey Babe, What's Your Sign?

2007-09-13T16:09:00.000-04:00

It's February and I'm walking in a park in Michigan. Trudging is a better word. The path is treacherous. The packed snow must be two feet deep, uneven with lacerations from cross country skis, and covered with a thick layer of ice. My dog tugs on the leash, I know any minute I'm going to slip. This is not fun. I pray I make it back to my car without breaking any bones.

A dark figure approaches in the distance. It's a man. He seems to be struggling even more than I am, and flings himself onto a bench.

"Tough walking," I say.
"You're not kidding," he says, "Especially since I'm an amputee."
Conversation screeches to a halt.
"Uh, yes," I finally say, "I bet that makes it even tougher."
"Yep," he says, "My ankle doesn't bend."
"Darn," I reply.
"See?" He hikes up his pant leg to reveal a leg made of steel rods with a shoe screwed into the bottom.

He whacks the shoe a few times with his knuckles, sure enough, the ankle doesn't bend. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic but this is way more than I ever want to know about this guy.

I edge away. "Enjoy your walk," I say, and beat feet.

I bumped into him again recently, same thing. He announced he was an amputee, showed me his prosthesis and gave me the ankle demo. I have an uneasy sense he's trying to pick me up. He really needs to work on his opening line.

Isn't Life Strange?

2007-07-23T11:32:00.000-04:00

This morning I was thinking how important my writing buddies, Loree Burns and Eric Luper, are to me. Then I thought about how random it is that I know them at all.

I must first state I never intended to become a writer. It happened accidentally after the world, as I knew it, blew away, taking my identity with it. I started going for long walks in the woods, trying to figure out who I was. When I finally accepted I didn't know, the walks became meditative.

One day, a children's story appeared on the movie screen in my mind. I liked it so much, I wrote it down. Another story came along, then another. I decided to take a crack at getting published, only I didn't know how. A friend of a friend suggested I join SCBWI. So I did.

I met Loree and Eric through the SCBWI message board and, in 2003, we formed a critique group. Over the years, our relationship has evolved into a very special friendship. With their support, and a great deal of trial and error, I have completed two novels. At some point along the way I picked up a new identity, I'm a writer.

We met because each of us took specific steps at precise moments in time. Three little meteorites traveling through the vast universe collided and a friendship was formed. It's too random; I can't think about it anymore.

Mirror, mirror....

2007-07-21T20:02:00.000-04:00

I divide my time between two houses, one in Michigan, the other in Tennessee. In both of them I have mirrors hanging everywhere, not just bathrooms and bedrooms but the living room, dining room, kitchen, basement. It's not because I'm vain, I like to look at rooms backwards.

First I admire the general appearance. Without fail, each room appears more spacious. I cannot figure out why. I marvel at the still life quality, the colors in the furnishings, the angle of a chair, the views out the windows. It's like I'm looking at a different house.

When I'm done with that, I move onto the main attraction; I try to see what's going on in the spaces that are outside my range of vision. I twist, and turn, stand on my tip toes, lean in, lean out. Since I have so many mirrors, I can spend countless whiles moving about the room, seeing it from different angles.

I know the concept is not new. Alice did this very thing in her "Adventures in Wonderland." But I didn't get the idea from her. I started this practice as soon as I was able to climb up on a chair and look in a mirror.

It's great fun and I suggest you give it a try.

Oh Dear

2007-07-04T16:31:00.000-04:00

I just finished the book I've been working on for the past year and a half. My days will no longer be spent in the dysfunctional little world I created.

I'm not happy, I'm sad. Worse, I'm bereft. I feel like I just got a divorce. Like my dog ran away.

I stand alone watching the train pull out of the station, and all the characters from my book are on board. They have each other. I have no one. This is too hard. I am never writing another book again. Ever!

The Essentials for Writing a Book

2007-07-03T16:00:00.000-04:00

Let me just launch into this. My writing behavior is inconsistent because I suffer from multiple-writing-personalities-disorder. Here's how it works:

#1: I don't write anything at all and don't feel guilty.

#2: I beat myself up for not writing but I don't have anything to say.

#3: I am on fire! My fingers race to keep up with my mind. Nothing can stop me. I forget to eat, sleep, turn on lights, bathe.

#4: I'm done. I submit my manuscript to my writing group. I can't type and gnaw my fingernails simultaneously, so I wait. And fret. I realize there was a plot twist I left out. A witticism I neglected to include. A loose end I forgot to tie. Too many dialogue tags. Not enough tension.

#5: My writing group sends their critiques. Every word reads: THIS SUCKS!

#6: After I pull myself out of the fetal position, I slam my computer shut, and go back to personality #1.

#7: I am being eaten alive by guilt. I have got to finish that manuscript. I square my shoulders and sit down at the computer. I take off my shoes. Blow my nose. Go floss my teeth. Come back. Read my email. Send my brother a chatty note about myself. Read people's blogs. Eat a bag of Starlight Mints. Write something in my own blog. Go brush my teeth. Come back. File my nails. See what's happening on Rugman.com.

When I am finished with these warm-up exercises, I re-read the critiques. They aren't so bad after all. In fact, they're downright encouraging. Hey, these are some fabulous suggestions! My mind sparks, it ignites, I'm on fire!

It's All in the Presentation

2007-06-22T12:31:00.001-04:00

Here I go again, commenting on signs. The name on this one has been changed to protect the innocent (me.)

It's spray painted on a warped piece of wood that's staked into the lawn of a house on the side of a highway:

Jane Doe Attorney at Law

The mind boggles.

Let's Hear It For The Roses!

2007-05-26T13:26:00.000-04:00

My roses are in bloom. Amazing.

I'd always thought roses were little sissies that had to be coddled and coaxed into growing. Not these guys. They hang tough in my survival-of-the-fittest garden.

They're planted in soil made up of clay and rocks. The rain here comes four inches at a time, if it comes at all, and the clumpy dirt retains no moisture. It's not a problem.

Every May these roses strut their stuff like a troupe of Las Vegas showgirls. Sadly, by July they are nothing but bare stalks.

I think I shall go outside and enjoy my roses before the deer do.

A Few Short Words on Verbosity

2007-05-24T10:21:00.001-04:00

Verbosity is my middle name, so I'll make this long. Just kidding.

For years I have blithely claimed to be verbose. Today I decided to look up some synonyms for that wonderful trait.

Windiness, long-winded, redundancy. Yikes!

That's what I've been telling everyone? What're the antonyms?

Conciseness, laconic.

I like those better. From now on I'll be laconic, short-winded, admired by one and all for my succinct, pithy...damn! I'm doing it again.

Communicating Clearly

2007-05-17T13:06:00.000-04:00

Okay, I know I tend to go on about this, but I saw a hand-lettered sign posted in the window of a storefront church. It said: What if it true?

What if what true?

The Martians have landed? The fork ran away with the spoon?

Next time I'm near that church I'm going to knock on the door and demand an explanation.

Bad, Badder, Baddest

2007-05-15T13:36:00.000-04:00

My writing group of two, Loree Burns and Eric Luper, have finished critiquing my novel. They have offered their usual wonderful insights and suggestions which I intend to incorporate into the next draft.

I had hoped the novel would fall into the young adult category. It does not. It's kind of liberating. I can now fully unharness my dark side, dust off some choice swear words (joke - they don't need dusting) and get some of my characters off their passive butts and into really hot water.

I simply must spice things up. No, it won't be heaving bosoms or throbbing manhood. It'll be something much better than that - violence. Just a tad.

I also need to add a new element of surprise. Dr. Luper was not impressed with my who-dunnit angle, so I'm going to twist it around so that even he, great sleuth and guesser-of-endings will be caught off guard.

Now, how to make a surly, snarky individual into someone Dr. Burns will like from the get-go. Groan. Sigh. That is my biggest challenge.

Writing bad guys is so much easier than writing good guys.

And the Answer Is...

2007-05-14T08:25:00.000-04:00

When I get to heaven I have three questions I'm going to ask:

1. What happened to Amelia Earhart?

2. Who was behind the grassy knoll when President Kennedy got shot?

3. What does this slogan, posted in the window of a beauty salon, mean?

"Yesterdays hair is tomorrows trend"

A Little Whine, Please

2007-04-26T10:11:00.001-04:00

I have an idea for a new novel. I have a good premise and some interesting characters but I'm not sure which one is the protagonist. I know I'll find out when I start writing the book, only I don't start. I feel overwhelmed by the immensity of the project, like I'm an ancient Egyptian laborer who just received orders to build a new pyramid.

I'm Puzzled

2007-04-25T08:59:00.000-04:00

The other day I saw a group of men on motorcycles. They and their passengers wore black leather vests with the following inscription, "Undisputed Ryders." I assume it's the name of their club. And I'm sure they spent a great deal of time deciding on it. But I can't figure out what it means and it's been bugging me.

It's That Time Again

2007-04-21T07:47:00.000-04:00

I am about to start a new novel. This will be my fourth if we count my very first attempt which was written in ten days using the stream-of-consciousness technique. Whooo-eee, that was a beaut!

I have written two novels since then. The first first draft of the second one, a middle grade light fantasy, was another one of my ten-day wonders. It amazed me how fast the words sprang from my fingers. And, looking back, how random and unfocused they were. Three cheers for my writing group, Loree Burns nd Eric Luper who read both of these pitiful manuscripts and critiqued them. They even managed to encourage me, and this stuff was B-A-D!

Two pretty darn good novels later (she said modestly), I've realized my problem in revising first drafts is I've tried to keep them as is. Not a good idea for a free-range writer. If I consider the first draft to be a 300 page outline, maybe the first first draft of this next book will shine. Maybe.

Four Firsts and an Answer

2007-02-12T17:11:00.000-05:00

I just got back from the Rising River retreat in New Hampshire. Hooray for me! I went to my first ever writer's retreat, and I met Eric Luper and Loree Burns(my online critique group). Two firsts with one stone.

I was a bundle of nerves about going. When the Big Day arrived I dragged myself out of my hermit cave, shoved my feet into my big-girl shoes, and booted my butt onto the plane.

The weirdest thing about meeting Eric and Loree was, it didn't feel weird at all. It felt like we already knew each other. I guess we did. Isn't that funny how you can make friends just by typing on the Internet?

The place we stayed was really neat. It's called the Gibson House, here's the URL - www.gibsonhousebb.com

Check out the rooms. I was in Le Petite Chateau, Loree was in the Rialto, and Eric was in the Taj North, which was only fitting for the only male amongst nine women.

The writing part of the retreat was the hardest for me. That's because I didn't have anything to write. I'd just finished my novel and wanted to put it away for awhile but that left me with nothing to do. So, I hauled it out and read it through. Yikes! My protagonist starts out as one of those people you couldn't warm up to if you were cremated together. She gets more likeable as the book goes on but I'm afraid she'd scare the readers off long before they got to that point.

I spoke about it with Jackie Davies who hosted the retreat; she made some excellent suggestions. Then I had a group critique with some of the other writers. (The one-on-one, and group critiques were both maiden voyages for me - pat on the back for bravery!) I got a lot of helpful feedback but I still couldn't figure out what to do with my nasty little main character. Until...

We were at dinner on Saturday night (marinated flank steak, roasted potatoes, and Swiss chard...YUM!) Eric was talking about a woman who had trouble writing a synopsis. I was giving him my full attention when, for no apparent reason I exclaimed, "I started my book in the wrong place."

The people at the table looked puzzled.

"The story really begins in chapter six," I said, "and that's when my protagonist lightens up. Ha!" I realized how rude I'd been and added sheepishly, "Sorry, Eric."

Here's the URL for Rising River retreat - www.risingriverretreat.com

If you click on the images of Winter 2007 session, you'll see your's truly along with the other attendees. I'm the one with the light bulb glowing over her head. It was a very cool experience.

Say What?

2006-09-27T15:05:00.000-04:00

As a writer I may not always mean what I say, but I'd darned well better say what I what I mean! In order to do so, I rely on words to say what they mean.

When they don't, I get in a snit, which is what I'm in right now. The word that put me here has no synonym, is impossible to spell, ridiculous to pronounce, and means - words that sound like what they describe.

Yes,friends, I'm talking about onomatopoeia.

I suppose if I were an ancient Greek I'd say, "So what's yer problem? Da woid couldn't be more clear."

To an ancient Greek, I'm sure that's true. But what about the rest of us?

We can snicker at the irony of using onomatopoeia to mean, "...the use of words whose sounds suggest the sense...," but when we're done laughing we need to get serious. Words like buzz, whisper, babble, smooth, are an important part of creative writing; it's essential to have a word that defines them. Surely we can do better than onomatopoeia.

I'm not suggesting we lose the word, let's just change the spelling to something more contemporary like, wordsthatsoundlikewhattheymean. It would still look imposing and be difficult to spell but, when spoken aloud, its meaning would be instantly understood.

You think I'm going on about nothing? Next time you're at a dinner party with your learned friends, casually drop onomatopoeia into the conversation and see what happens.

I'm sure there will be some smarty pants who knows what it means. Ask that person to spell it. If they can, then they are probably an ancient Greek. Because I'm here to tell you, ain't nobody else gonna know what that word's tryin' to say!

The Q-Word

2006-09-02T12:08:00.000-04:00

Do you ever experience word rage? You know, a word that gets up your nose, or bugs you so much, you want it to be outlawed? One such word for me is, quintessential. In one week I came across it four times in a single book, in a Real Estate ad, and in a description of a house plan.

It stops me in my tracks every time. I think it's clumsy, full-of-itself, and vague. It's an uncomfortable word to say aloud, similar to, "wasps nests." When it's used as the sole depiction of a setting or an object, I'm flummoxed. What is the writer trying to tell me? That it's the ultimate? Typical? Dull?

An adjective is fine if it gets the job done but one man's quintessential Tourist Mecca, might be another man's quintessential Bizarro Land. How can the reader decide which it is for him or her without a more detailed description?

After giving it a great deal of thought, I have decided that using "quintessential" as the modifier of a noun and not offering further explanation, is a covert attempt by the writer to control the readers' thoughts. The writer expects, no, demands that the reader visualize the object being described exactly the way the writer intends it to be seen. If the reader is unable to do so, then so be it. The writer knows what he or she meant, if the reader doesn't get it, that's their problem.

When You Hit a Wall, Embrace It!

2006-08-12T15:01:00.000-04:00

I recently completed a middle grade (MG) light fantasy novel. It took about two years for me to get it right, and one and a half of those were a real struggle. So I thought I'd be glad to write "The End" and send the book out to dazzle the literary world.

Instead, I felt sad when I finished it. I was going to miss my protagonist. She and I had spent a long time together, and she'd become a real person to me. I also realized that while that particular part of her story had concluded, she wasn't done yet. Not a problem, I'd write a sequel.

"You're going to what?!?" asked my inner critic, in a tone that implied I was contemplating a faux pas of the worst kind. "I'm sorry, but a sequel is not a done thing."
"What about Harry Potter?" I asked.
"A mere quirk."
"How about Junie B. Jones?"
"The answer is, 'No!'"

Okay, so I'd write something else. Only I couldn't. The story that began with my first novel was incomplete, it needed to be followed through to the end. After much wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, I decided to write the sequel. I wasn't going to let the "shoulds" interfere with what I wanted to do.

So, I started to write. It was a blast. I already knew the character. I totally knew what she was going to face, and some unexpected, interesting people showed up in her life. I was on a roll. Until...

My personal life intervened. I was dealing with a sticky emotional situation that threw me off track. Even if I had been able to write, which I couldn't, I didn't want to taint my book with the negative energy that was engulfing me at the moment. I came to a screeching halt. Then Eric Luper, one of my trusty and trusted writing group friends, challenged me to write something from the perspective of the person who was causing the problems for me.

IM-possible. That woman was down and dirty. Mean and evil. She didn't have a redeeming quality in her body. How could I, fine speciman of humanity that I am, ever get inside her head?

"Try," said Eric.

So I did. The character practically grabbed my computer off my desk, and started typing the story herself. She's not even close to the person who inspired the writing exercise, but she is still a real piece of work. She is definitely not MG material. In fact, I don't believe I can even pass the book off as edgy young adult (YA). She is a young adult, mind you, but the subject matter is pretty mature for those tender YA minds (Ha!).

So, now I'm also writing an adult novel with a protagonist who's negative, conniving, and has a vocabulary that would make the sailors blush! The fun part is keeping her true to who she is, while making her sympathetic enough for the reader to root for her.

It started as a wonderful outlet for my negative energy, and it's a good thing I grabbed the opportunity when I did. My life is back on an even keel, but my character is solid enough to keep moving on her own. Since things have settled down, I've been able to resume writing the sequel to my MG novel.

And the weird thing is, I don't have any problem shifting between the two books. I am amazed at how easy it is.

In a deeply philsophical moment, I likened a writer to a Shaman. Sometimes we need to be able to shapeshift to get the job done.

The Book Every Insomniac Should Have Read

2006-08-07T16:40:00.000-04:00

“The Dullest Tale Ever Told” could have been the title of my first attempt at a middle grade novel. The point of view (POV) was limited third person, meaning the characters were referred to as him/her, he/she, and the reader only knew what went on inside the protagonist's head. Or so I thought until my writing group critiqued it.
"How does she feel?" "What's she thinking?" "Pick up the pace or lose the reader."
What didn't they get? I said the protagonist, "Felt bored." That was a feeling. She thought a house looked spooky. Wouldn’t the reader want to know why? So what was missing? A spark of life. The story had no soul. I knew the problem was fixable, only I didn’t know how to do it. I was stuck. Discouraged. Ready to throw in my pen.
Then fate led me into a tiny bookstore, its entire inventory barely filled two bookcases. In one of them I found, CONFLICT ACTION & SUSPENSE (ELEMENTS OF FICTION) by William Noble. After I read the book, I understood how to ignite the missing spark; anything at all that happened in the story must move the plot forward or be banished. I was ready to revise.
I reread my manuscript for the first time in months. It was terrible! It preached. It rambled. My protagonist was a drip. The voice was as exciting as a news anchor reading a list of school closings. I still thought the book had potential, but it was in need of an extreme makeover. I had no clue where to begin.
And then I had, The Dream:
I was in a classroom.
"What's your book about?" asked the teacher.
"A girl," I replied, "she goes here, and she does this, and...."
The teacher interrupted, "What's it about?"
"Well, uh..." I didn't know.
Fast forward to the next class.
"What’s the book about?" the teacher asked.
"It's about this girl. She’s a good speller and proud of it. When she looks
up to talk to her uncle, she can see the hair inside his nose."

The next day, as I pondered the dream, I realized the soul of a novel came from seeing the world through the eyes of the protagonist, then telling the story from her perspective, not mine. And just like that, my protagonist started talking to me. She was almost thirteen, friendless, judgmental, loved learning new words, had a quirky phobia, and, best of all, she had a tale to tell. I raced to my computer and let her loose. The POV changed from third to first person. She did the talking, I did the typing. I was ruthless with details, anything that didn’t propel the plot forward got the axe. When I’d finished the revision, an entirely new story had emerged. The characters were real, the story was fun, it moved, and it had spark and soul!
I recently completed the final revision, and the book is out looking for a home. Meanwhile I have two new novels in progress, well, the characters and I do. I now let the characters tell the tale, and I write it down for them. After all, it is their story, is it not?

Deep Thought for the Day

2006-08-04T12:56:00.000-04:00

This morning, while making my bed, a random thought popped into my head. It has to do with the directions, North, South, East, and West.

Here's the thought: Wherever I go, I am the point at which all four directions meet.

Wow! That's deep.

But wait, if it's true for me, isn't it also true for everyone else? Deeper still.

Is it even important? Hmmm. Maybe not so deep.

Is it, perhaps, codswallop? Whatever.

Searching for a Match

2006-08-03T15:11:00.000-04:00

Today I settled in for a day of Getting Down to Business. I have some information I need to document and I have been putting it off. I got a big glass of water, rolled up my shirt sleeves, and settled in to get the job done. Just as I got started I decided a scented candle would add to the ambiance of my home office and make the experience more tolerable.

I got the candle, set it up, and rummaged through a dresser drawer for some matches. It is one of those drawers that is rarely opened except to shove something inside, and slam it shut. This is the first time I've actually looked through it in years. Who would have thought that much stuff could fit into such a drawer that was probably designed to hold handkerchiefs?

I found yellow plastic "road sign" coasters from Australia advising travelers there might be Kangaroos, Koalas, or Emus crossing the road in the next few kilometers. One of the signs warns about shark infested waters. Better not swim there. There is a single kelly green sock, which I know is not mine. I wonder if the owner is still looking for it or has given up and thrown the mate away? There's a plastic belt clip in case I want to hook a phone to my jeans while I walk around my house. I never knew I had so many small change purses. I found phone jacks, electrical outlet jacks, a grip extender for my Glock pistol, a cigar with a pink band announcing, "It's a girl!" I could go on for days about this drawer but, lucky for all of us, I won't, because I found the matches. I lit the candle, and when I threw the match-box back in the drawer, I noticed a stack of photographs.

Ha! There I was with my family when I was three. My sister Kathy and I are wearing matching plaid dresses with starched, "Little Dutch Girl" pinafores, and white babushkas on our heads. My brother, Christopher, is clad only in diapers, and my parents look like they are eighteen years old. Another picture shows my sister-in-law, Jan, standing back with her arms raised in victory after she has successfully balanced a dyed Easter egg on top of an overturned funnel that's sitting atop the head of her friend, George.

There were many more such pictures, all classics. I needed to scan them immediately and email them to my family. After doing that, I decided I should send them an update on what's going on in my life (they are scattered all over the place, including Australia). I had so much fun talking about myself, I realized the time had come to start a blog. So, here it is, my very own blog.

And now, look at the time! I haven't even begun my project, and I need to get dinner going. I think I'll get up early and start that project first thing tomorrow. Right now I have to extinguish that candle, it's giving me a headache and making my eyes water. I wish I knew the proper spelling of P-U!

2006-08-03T14:37:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am. Safely hidden behind a hat, some shades and a can of pop (soda to you folks outside the Midwest USA). I am a writer of books. I write for actual children, aging children (like moi), and for adults.

I do not watch television or go to movies. Many people consider this odd. I do not.

I read, read, read. And when I'm not doing that, I write. But I also do other things. I love to hike, preferably on moderately difficult mountain trails that lead to waterfalls. I garden in the spring but lose interest by mid-June and leave my plants to fend for themselves. I occasionally carve things out of tree branches and roots. I am a lousy guitar/mandolin/banjo player who loves to play the guitar/mandolin/banjo and sing along. Luckily, I live alone, well, except for my dog, Frannie .(Lest you think I'm a doggist, she tells other dogs she lives alone, well, except for her person, Liza). Thanks for visiting my site and welcome to my world.