This is a brief, and late blog, as I’ve had little energy to invest beyond my writing deadline.
However, great minds decided we needed more puzzles.
And so, along with my self-elected labors, I had to put Sophie together ASAP.
This morning, Sophie was all ready to take her walk—UNTIL I held up her harness in one hand and her coat in the other. She took one look and walked away.
I love an expressive dog! I then put the coat away and dressed her in harness only, and we took a leisurely stroll down several blocks sans coat.
Here she is in her MVP (Most Valuable Puppy) coat, a few days ago. With thanks to Leslie, who told me what those letters really stand for.
And that’s all, folks.
Happy Hanukkah, Solstice, Christmas to all!
On seeing the literal—I got used to being farsighted after the cataract surgery, except for anything up close, like fingernail care and reading and jigsaw puzzles.
Finally freed to visit my optometrist, I now have progressive lenses—something new for this previously trifocal user.
Some of the time the progressive lenses work well. However, the jigsaw puzzle swims around when I look down at it. And seeing the ground when walking can be disconcerting where uneven surfaces are concerned. Let’s hope my brain adjusts to it all.
On seeing the metaphorical—I begin to see a way forward to resolve my trilogy. Following a careful read-through of what was already written, last week I began to spend—ideally an hour, though often falling short—doing a daily free-write. Of course, it’s what I should have been doing in November!
Ha! I just spotted a notice posted over my desk on time management. The first rule is: Action leads to Motivation which leads to More Motivation. My resolution to Act—write for an hour, has led to Motivation—seeing where the story can go; hopefully the process will grain traction as it moves along.
On seeing Encanto—We watched Encanto last week. Recommended by my son-in-law, this Pixar animation thoroughly enchanted me.
In spite of its magical wrappings, there’s a beautiful message that no one person can carry the whole weight of a family—neither Abuela, who has held them together all these years; nor those family members with magical gifts. Gifted or not, perfect or not, only self-acceptance and mutual acceptance of each other can save them.
Sophie after a bath and haircut, wearing her Christmas scarf.
I seem to have taken all of Thanksgiving week off—not by plan but by inclination.
And since, when tired, my first inclination is to escape into familiar fiction, I pulled a Kate Wilhelm paperback off my shelves. It was # 8 of her Barbara Holloway courtroom dramas. As soon as I finished it, I borrowed ebook #9 from the library, immediately followed by # 10. When # 11 was not immediately available, I returned to the real world.
In his retirement, my father sent out yearly reminiscences, mixing stories of his past with a running commentary of his present. Often, he listed books read. If it was a re-read, he’d ponder why that particular book had called to him.
And so I ask myself, why was I drawn to Kate Wilhelm? The main answer is that in all her books, she displays her fascination with the workings and the mysteries of the mind.
I’m currently stuck. All month, I’ve been demanding the untapped possibilities of my own mind. Last week, I hoped that by leaving my back brain alone to work on the problem, it might provide an answer.
But so far, a question mark as big as a boulder blocks my progress.
However, I decided on a work-around. Without knowing exactly what happens, I’m going to slip past it. I do know how it affects my main character, Maybe he’ll be able to figure out what I have not.
NaNoWriMo was a bust, netting maybe 5,000 words. Remains my goal:
I’ve promised myself a complete draft by year’s end. If I have a full, detailed (and it has to be very detailed) outline before January 1, 2023, I’ll be satisfied. That means settling down and really doing some work.
Sophie is doing well after her husky encounter. Nor did it put her off telling the big guys what she thinks of them. On this walk, she growled at a large black and white named Hobbes, who fortunately had much better manners than that husky.
Here she is with the park ball-chasers, ‘Jita (short for Hijita) and Holly.
Sophie had a hard day last Friday.
And when Sophie has a hard day, so do we.
In the morning she and I took our walk to the park, where a woman with a big blue-eyed husky approached us. She did admit she was never sure how her dog would react, but as usual, Sophie wanted to say hello.
Except, when close up, Sophie didn’t like the way the other dog was looking at her. Her hello turned into an exposure of fangs. The husky grabbed her by the muzzle.
We pulled them apart, Sophie dropped to the ground, the woman said nothing, and we headed home. Straight home. Sophie seemed okay. And my time was occupied with preparing to be away from home all day Saturday.
I did wonder in the afternoon, when she approached her water bowl at a strange angle. But she drank and I gave it no more thought.
Then she refused her supper. She made it clear that she wanted to eat—but couldn’t. Her back was arched in pain; any touch on her cheek brought a cry of protest.
A call to the vet referred us to an emergency room only minutes away. I registered online and we waited. And waited. With Sophie between us on the couch. At some point, something —a blister? an abscess? — broke in her mouth and there were traces of blood on the sofa cover.
For four hours, we waited. Along about our bedtime, we got the text to come in. The vet didn’t find any lacerations, gave her a shot of a 24-hour anti-inflammatory, and pills.
We came home, Sophie ate her supper, and everyone went to bed.
I often feel like Sophie and I are alike. But Sophie is braver. She faces up to the big dogs out there. I walk away fast.
The next day I displayed my books at my first-ever arts and crafts event. Somehow, remembering Sophie in the pet ER the night before kept matters in perspective. Sort of.
I am now ready to return to my persona of a writer recluse.
November is National Novel Writing Month—at least it’s supposed to be for me. The month is half over and I’ve recorded less than 3000 new words.
Start and stop. Get discouraged. Try again.
Last year, I spent NaNoWriMo on this same project—the final volume of a trilogy—interviewing my characters, listening to them talk, and describing scenes as they happened, in no particular sequence.
This year I’m paying the price for not sorting out the mess sooner. And wondering why my (less than 3000) words aren’t as lively as last year’s words.
I’m also packing books for my only appearance this year at an arts and crafts festival, to discover who wants to buy some marked-down books.
Books, poster, bookmarks, what have I forgotten?
After an uninspired weekend, I decided I needed to do some research, plus carefully read the manuscript—as far as it goes—making sure it has a solid foundation.
Since one of my plot lines deals with nanites, I checked out several library books, fiction and nonfiction, on the topic. The first one I read was a children’s picture book—well done, aside from one particular illustration:
I burst out laughing and said, “No it’s not!” A drawing states: “The gas in hot-air balloons is helium.” New Mexico children know better than that!
Where nanites are concerned, I need ideas of future possibilities, so I’ve now moved from the adult nonfiction to the fiction.
The mulberry trees are testifying to a solid freeze. They’re dripping carpets of leaves around themselves.
Sophie, being related to Tibetan palace dogs, loves this kind of weather—as long as there’s not too much wind.
Have you ever noticed that when you’re looking for a particular piece to a jigsaw puzzle, you can’t see it anywhere? So you start looking for something else, and that first piece jumps up and says, “Here I am!”
Why is that?
The crows appeared on the morning of Halloween, as I was walking Sophie. They were coming and going and chatting amongst themselves at the top of a cottonwood tree. Glad to have them back!
The next morning, no crows. The morning after, back again.
A couple weeks ago, before the crows returned, I blogged about how in the fall, crows bring pecans to a nearby light pole and drop them onto the pavement. I wondered where the pecans came from, and how far the crows flew before consuming them.
On time-change Sunday I took a late walk. It was a duty walk—I didn’t want to go—but pushed myself out the door. After dropping off a couple items at the park’s library box, I searched for the sunniest streets to walk down.
Just two blocks away, but a street I usually pass by, I came across pecans on the sidewalk in front of a house. There was the tree right in the front yard, only two blocks from the light pole (one block as a crow flies).
I picked up four pecans from sidewalk and street, and had eaten two by the time I got home.
An aside—
Speaking of the time change, I notice many states are considering a move to continual Daylight Savings Time. Please, please, please, Legislators, reconsider. Yes, return us to one continual time, but make it Standard Time, not DST.
There’s a reason it is called Standard Time. Look to the health benefits, not the urgings of businesses, when making this decision!
With this latest time change, my thoughts have been scattered. I wrote nothing over the weekend.
This week, I plan to get back to writing. I have a particular plotting quandary that has proved impossible to resolve by direct approach.
Here’s hoping if I attend to the details of my characters’ lives, and wander down a sunny street or two, maybe the answer will pop up and say, “Here I am!”
In last week’s blog I spoke of walking in new places and seeing new things. I took a walk before uploading that blog, and came home to write what I’m posting this week.
The sky had captured my attention even more than the neighborhoods. To be exact, I was captivated by the sky’s deep blue on a chilly morning.
And that deep blue reminded me of a love poem I wrote in 1989.
I love blue Once I saw a sky so blue it was new to me deep unfathomable blue. Once in the Rio de los Frijoles, blue sparkled with sun-catching facets bright uncatchable blue. Once your eyes flashed blue at me. Long before you saw me, I saw you unforgettable blue. I love blue. Once your eyes flashed blue at me.
I’m drawn to poetry that tells a story. And I turn to poetry when most deeply moved. That’s why I’m drawn to working on verse novels that demand writing from my depths.
I’ve been in a number writing groups since retiring, but re-visiting this poem reminded me of the generous mentors who also came and went during my working years. Truly, this world can be an open-hearted place.
My internal batteries got messed up, and I’ve missed two blog deadlines.
Messed up from what? you might ask. From Changes, I think.
Change in seeing: I completed the three weeks of eyedrops after cataract surgery and I’m still adjusting to taking OFF glasses to see the world.
Change in company—come and gone. Such a delight to see my sisters, in spite of a rainy week and no big happenings, other than a crisis or three.
Autumn crocuses bloomed just in time to welcome my sisters.
The Monday after they left, I felt like I’d had a real vacation—a staycation, at least. But by the next day, the world had crashed on my doorstep with all the pieces I’d ignored.
It’s rare that I take time off from all my projects. Before my sisters came, I managed to read a book: THORN, by Intisar Khanani; its plot based on The Goose Girl tale, full of middle east flavor. This past weekend, I read its sequel, THE THEFT OF SUNLIGHT, and couldn’t put it down. Unfortunately, it ends in a cliffhanger, and the library doesn’t have the next volume or ebook yet.
After reading THORN, I felt the tug of my own novel-length version of The Goose Girl, and pulled it out. It’s been nudging the back of my mind for months. Looking over the beginning, I was immediately dissatisfied. Told in three voices, at least one voice needs to be in verse. Something to play with when I want a change of pace.
But meanwhile, I’ve committed to writing a complete first draft of Book 3 of the Pawn Quest trilogy by the end of the year. For November’s NaNoWriMo, that will be my main project. And December too.
Sophie is feeling better and better, now that she’s given up jumping on the furniture. She’s not above begging to join us, though. We lift her onto the couch.
And down again—unless she beats us to it.
I blame the pandemic for a lot of things—mainly losses. Like my former pattern of early morning walks to a coffee shop. I always passed a walnut tree and in the fall would collect the ones dropped on sidewalk or street. Then there was a fenced yard where a scrawny peach tree leaned over the sidewalk. It grew scrawny peaches—but really tasty ones.
Neither is a big loss—just a reminder of changed circumstances. The pandemic merely speeded up a more static lifestyle.
But there is always something new if we only go looking.
The point man on our solar project lives in our neighborhood. He commented an interesting house he’s observed, and mentioned his own fencing project. I went looking for the house with stained-glass windows and an upperstory add-on, and smiled at the bike hanging upside down on the balcony. I also wandered until I found the fence Jason had described.
My habitual walks can be a whole lot more interesting if I explore everywhere, not just the same old streets. Another case-in-point are—
They haven’t arrived yet, but every fall crows show up and shout “Caa!” from trees around the park. Also every fall, they sit on a nearby light pole and drop pecans to break their shells. I’ve picked up whole ones and eaten them.
And always the wonder, where’s the pecan tree? How far do the crows travel?
By exploring new streets I actually found not one but two trees dropping nuts onto the sidewalk. I brought some home.
Not!
They turned out to be walnuts instead. Maybe the pecan tree is in someone’s back yard.
Or maybe I should ask a crow how far it travels . . .
My lifetime of wearing glasses still catches me looking up at the world through the fuzzy lenses of cheaters (from reading or laptop).
This almost-frosty morning, I got in the car and put on a cloth mask in preparation for arrival at a medical lab. My first puff of air reminded me of the foggy glasses syndrome. I had grabbed the wrong mask.
A few breaths later, I thought: Hey! You don’t wear glasses to drive. What’s the problem?
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