Speaking of Curses!

Curse of the Wolf, a paranormal romance by Danica Winters was released yesterday. Awesome, awesome concept and a fun, out of this world read! Kudos to you, Danica! (I approve this add for this book!!)

I'm not a joiner, but one day my son said, "Aw, just get your hands out of the dirt, Mom (I was gardening) and go to this meeting of writers." And I hemmed, see-sawed. But did. There I met Rio/Rach, known to the writing world as Rionna Morgan. And my life changed. One moment with a niggle I might have ignored, but didn't. The Midnight Writers, we came to call ourselves, a very diverse, very intelligent group of the most amazingly creative women. For three years I had them in my life once a week. Wrote a whole novel with them. Then I moved.

Alone again, naturally. Until another Rio/Rach miracle happened. She moved to Missoula, 25 miles from me. We started the Montana Romance Writers chapter... a very long process... but once again I'm part of a group of incredible, brilliant, creative women scattered across Montana!

And now I have my critique group, six women so different from each other I'm not sure how we melded! Seriously! And Danica joined us last spring. She is the most awesome, supportive, loving person... like my goddess Rio/Rach, in that way. And extremely giving to the creative process. As we all are. Here's to we of the PARCCH critique group!

And congratulations, Danica! I love you to pieces.

Curses...

Having yet another one of those "off" days. Guess it's to be expected, Maurice Sendak died yesterday. Oh, and so did my Dad. Not that my Dad's passing is a footnote. Today it doesn't seem huge and dark and sad... but tomorrow? I'll suffer tomorrow and the next day. And feel sorrow for the rest of my life.

Curses on the "footnotes" of our lives, the nigglings, those scaly-wag happenings that stick onto us like lint.  They bunch up at times, pricking us like burrs under a saddle. I guess that's why I'm bucking like a bronc today. Squealing at the rake of niggling spurs. I'm fighting to stir some humor into my pot. Even gumption would be a step up.

But, having an "off" day... guess it's to be expected.

Surfin' the Morphine...

Watching my Dad lying in his Hospice bed is no fun. He and I aren't friends. We maintain a distant relationship (similar to the state he's in now, adrift on Roxanol). He's too young to die, possibly, yet spent his life killing himself with alcohol. And with crafty, manipulative skill, alienating everyone who loved him. Most of all his three wives and four children. My siblings and I spent our lives tripping that fine line between love and hate for him. All of us have, or have yet to, come to forgive him. But that's four other long, sordid stories...

Watching him now, I think he's happy. Not at peace. I doubt for a restless brain like his, there will be peace until he's passed on. And we all want peace for him. But he'll have none of it. Just keeps hanging on. For what, I ask myself? But secretly, I know. He's taking a joy ride inside his complicated, calculating mind, creating formulas, scenarios, inventing ideas and delusions in a world, no... a universe that only he controls.

Years ago, my Dad worked with other chemical engineers to create solid fuel for rockets going into space. So I clasp his weak fingers and give him a countdown. 10...9...8... as children we watched every launch into space (when we had TV). 7...6...5... but mostly listened to them on radio (mostly we had no TV). 4...3...2... he loved space, science fiction, possibilities hiding in nebulas (one of the few things he and I shared). 1...

Lift off, I say to his ravaged face. He doesn't go. Just draws another raggedy breath. I imagine him inside his synaptic space capsule, flipping switches, going through engine checks. Fueled by morphine, he's counting down his own launch sequence. Stubborn SOB. I smile, turn to the book in my hand and launch myself into the Clash of Kings (by George R. Martin). I am, after all is said and, yes, done... my father's daughter.

I owe ya...

Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has pushed my learning curve on "social media" straight up. I am grateful, really. It's just... when do I get time to, um, write or paint or draw or read or clean out flower beds or till my garden (still have a month or more before planting, gosh darn it!) or dust (wait, never mind that) or knit or walk or Zumba... or work!

Facebooking will not be an addiction for me, though I might be a tad prone to addictions. There's none of that "chocolate" dopamine rush for me while nosing around the web. Still, I can sooo gossip! So it's back to GGA meetings for me. (That's Gossip Gals Anonymous, and if you haven't heard of it, then the goal of staying anonymous has been very successful.) Just know that if I see any of you there, I won't really see you there...

Waiting for the dream!

You know how it's virtually impossible to outgrow the belief that if you work hard enough, your big dreams will come true? Well finally, I'm living proof that waiting for the dream can be, sometimes, not hopeless.

As you who know me can confirm, I have been waiting forever to get a manuscript I've written accepted. I even wrote a romance novel, not my first choice as I'm a literary snob (but only a bit). And last week a new imprint of Adams Media called Crimson Romance bought my paranormal romance, Smitten Image. It's an e-press edition, with print-on-demand, and will be up and running in June. And yes, I will be letting EVERYONE I know the details on how to access my tiny wee babe that took its first steps into the scary, new world. As my daughter Kate continually drones, electronic publishing is the future. But... I'm a tried and true librarian. And stubbornly have loved books since I could gnaw and drool them into mush with my toothless baby gums! Oh, that yummy papery taste...

Like old school paste. (Which, in elementary school, became somewhat of an eating disorder for me.) Can't you remember how good paste used to smell? And how, while smearing that lumpy guck on your construction paper with your fingers, occasionally you had to just sort of take a bite? No? (Well, I'd never tell 'cause, like, I'm the last person to point a sticky finger!)

My point is, I so love books and libraries and the smell and feel and turning of a page. And will forever collect paper books. But... in keeping with the times, it's evolutionary survival, as always. Hence, this declaration of the birth of my first published book, a strange little electronic alien, digital, able to fly through the ether as zero's and one's and magically turn into words on techno reader gadgets.

Is it my dream as I always envisioned? No. But let me tell you, I ain't complaining one itty, bitty byte!

Building fence and other stuff...

Easter Sunday we built a fence. Actually not in one day. It takes post holes dug, posts bought or found, posts pounded, cross pieces built, all before we stretched the sheep fence wire. Takes a lot of blood, from dozens of small cuts to the hands and wrists. Makes the hands ache and then shake later from squeezing pliers hundreds of times to close clasps. Not a "hey, let's have some fun today" project. But satisfying. And something better done in the spring after a few days of rain to make the soil soft, especially when you live on top of glacial till. Hundreds of feet of gravel left millions of years ago and topped with a couple feet of precious topsoil. Kinda puts things in perspective on an Easter Sunday, building fence does. It's not church, but it's of the earth, part of building a life, a home, a satisfied place for a heart to settle on.

Swans = spring

The Whistler Swans are migrating to Canada and paused, as they always do, to dance with the geese, pintail ducks, mallards, gadwals and coots at Lee Metcalf Refuge. A glorious site, reminding me that, yes, spring is come. And yes, the swan is an archetype. Not defined as such, perhaps, but classic none the less...

We know (some of us in more personally humiliating ways than others) the tale of the Ugly Duckling where the gawky plain Jane can grow up to be, say a beautiful and talented Meryl Streep! And lest we forget, there's the princess in the Russian ballet Swan Lake, unable to express true love because an evil spell keeps her in swan form by day. Then we have the leading lady of the romance of all teen romances, The Twilight Saga with Bella Swan. Bella is both Ugly Duckling and under the spell of an evil (being a vampire) but gorgeous prince... mmmm.

The trumpeter swan was on the verge of extinction until the mid 1900's. Yet last fall when the swans migrated south, we went to the refuge and there were at least three trumpeters hanging out with the whistlers. One had a sliding red collar around his neck. He'd lift his head, the sheath of plastic would fall down around his shoulders, he ducked his head underwater to feed, the collar slipped up behind his eyes. We watched for a long time and I swear, the handsome guy was playing the collar like an accordion. Just for fun!

I love archetypes, take great delight finding them in everyday imagery. To me, the swan has come to mean the return of spring or the coming of fall as Brett and I make our pilgrimages to the refuge and watch incoming feathered fowl. Swans are a set above, though, with their white cloak of purity, their living grace, gliding over mirrored water and strutting their stuff as they rise up, wings extended like angels. Yeah, there's much symbology a swan can wear with dignity and panache. And the proverbial swan song? They so pull it off with aloof yet spectacular beauty.  Yes, the swan is a true star...  of stage and screen, of air and water!