Wishing all of you a very happy Valentine’s Day.
The hubbinator and I plan to spend it quietly with the dog and cat watching a scifi movie and maybe enjoying a chocolate cake from the bakery.
Whatever you do, I hope you are surrounded by those who love you.
Until next time.
Good morning all,
I’ll be at the Glendale Chocolate Affaire Friday, Saturday, and Sunday signing books with 39 other authors.
Come for the chocolate, the fun, the books, the free writing workshops, and the gorgeous weather.
For more information, directions, and parking info click here.
Oddly enough, as one of the coordinators of the author signings and workshops, I was interviewed by the Arizona Republic. You can read it here.
Hope to see you this weekend. But I’m not sharing my chocolate:D
Until next time.
It’s hard to describe being a writer to those who aren’t writers. And yet, having an artist for a mother, I think other artistic types understand. Even if you aren’t practicing your craft, it’s always there like software running in the background. There are odd moments when your vision shifts and things appear different.
For instance, last Monday when I was downtown for training classes I was focused on what I needed to accomplish for the day job then I started to study the different types of architecture that was downtown. From Art Deco to post-modernism and some funky honey-comb style that was probably a big hit in the ’80s.
It was about then that my perspective switched. As I entered the 22 story building with the class, I started looking for routes in and out. The guards scattered throughout the lobby would go first (standard SOP in all action horror flicks, a shame since they were nice).
Keycards granted folks access to certain floors and others were accessible only at specific times. How easy were they to override? And were these key readers inside the stairwells, too? Could you take the elevator to an open floor, then enter the stairwell and make your way to one of the closed floors? And did those same rules apply during an emergency such as a fire alarm or power outage? As I studied the emergency exit map, I began to think of other scenarios but then my phone buzzed and I had to get to class.
Ah, well, there’s always next time.
I might have developed a bad habit. Since I belong to so many writer’s listserves I get a lot of advertising from cover designers. Especially notices about sales.
Lately, I’ve been visiting them and buying covers.
This is an anomaly as I have no ideas for the stories to go with the cover. Sure I have a general idea, but not any concrete idea. Which means, I could wait years before I use the covers.
And yet I can’t stop myself. Or don’t want to, which amounts to the same thing.
Still, at least they are themed. They represent my new version of classic fairy tales. I think the future covers explain everything.
Here are a few from Carey Abbott:
Until next time.
I am like most humans. I find comfort in my routine. It makes those surprises easier to deal with.
But with the comfy-ness of the comfort zone, there is the fear of stagnation. So, I force myself to move into the discomfort zone. Of course, it helps if what you’re about to do is interesting.
And so it was that decided to take a class to learn a skill that I need for my day job.
I could have taken my truck, driven to downtown Phoenix, and shelled out my $15 for parking.
Instead I decided to park at the terminal and ride our light rail downtown. The light rail had crept 3 miles into North Phoenix and I hadn’t ridden it in a while, so here’s a win for me. As a bonus as I sat in traffic on the freeway creeping along toward the city, I decided how brilliant I was when I exited to park at the station.
I arrived at the station, bought my ticket, and boarded with no problem. As we rolled closer to town, more and more people boarded. The good news: there were people. The bad news: there were people.
Still, I watched as most folks studied their phones, a few tapped their feet while their ear buds twitched, and one guy even danced and sang a little.
I arrived at my station and got a little lost finding the building. Thankfully google maps helped me and I went into my class.
The trip home provided a bit more excitement. I was able to sit next to a guy who was so exhausted he kept falling asleep. Instead of doing the sensible thing and wedging himself against the side, he rested his elbows on his legs. He swayed and pitched forward so often, the vet in the wheelchair nearby was counting until he landed on his head. I watched as his hat and glassed slipped off and onto his backpack.
The students who boarded watched in fascination, some probably videoed it to catch the inevitable moment he landed on the floor. Instead, he leaned against me for half a mile. He did wake up and assume his favorite position. On one stop, I got luck and eased him against the side and he slept there for a couple miles. I tried to wake him up as we pulled into the last station.
In the end, he slept on and I left with everyone else.
Until next time.
Admit it. We’ve all done it. Written replies, letters, and emails in our heads yet never put them to paper or pixels. And as much as I love the idea of telepathic communications, I can also see how it could go horribly wrong.
Consider this:
Bob, who is in an important meeting, receives a telepathic communication from his partner asking if the milk is spoiled.
The milk is spoiled. Horribly with great big chunks and an awful smell. (because, really, don’t we all ask obvious questions?). And since telepathic letters come complete with smell-o-vision, the scenario doesn’t end there.
Poor Bob, gags, but as his partner vomits in the comfort of her own home, she stimulates the same response from Bob. At work. At his meeting. Bob vomits too.
And since this is funny for the observer, they share this scenario telepathically with their friends and family, and random strangers on social media, and soon folks are vomiting everywhere.
And while the writer in me sees story possibilities in a last letter from a murdered loved one. I can’t help but think this is a bad idea.
We all know how fast the flu spreads. What happens when someone opens that attachment from a stranger, and it’s not a communique from a prince in Kenya but a virus.
That’s how the zombie apocalypse begins folks. Just saying.
Dang. I might have to write a story or two about this:D
Until next time.
Since work has been such a joy (sarcasm font) and the writing is deadlocked, I’ve taken to binge watching during the weekends. I haven’t stopped watching documentaries that drive me nuts, but I’ve begun to moderate my exposure.
No doubt my blood pressure and throat (from the yelling at the TV) appreciate it.
Of course, for a guaranteed good time, I tend to watch Hallmark movies. And thanks to our new fire stick and I now watch shows on a 50in TV instead of my iPad. The hubbinator usually finds other things to do, but this last weekend I found a new show that he and I can enjoy together.
The series of shows is called Signed, Sealed, and Delivered. It takes place at the Dead Letter Office and involves a little mystery with a good ending.
It was just right.
Now it’s back to work and while I’m out of episodes. I hear there are movies, too.
Until next time.
We have one of those days. Mine is in it’s fourth week for the year. 2018 is just an extension of 2017, except the trials are beginning to become exhausting.
Yet, there is always light shining through. Sometimes it’s a bright star. Other times it’s planet smashing meteor. And yes, there are times I’m rooting for the meteor.
And then something happens.
Something amazing and completely stupid. And I have to laugh.
The latch on our front door doesn’t work. It’s been that way since the month after it was installed, a year and a half ago. Yes, I called and eventually the installers came out, adjusted the latch. It worked for 2 days then broke again.
I wanted to call again. Hubbinator didn’t want to. The dead lock worked. The security door locks worked. So I didn’t call. And for the last 18 months got use to having only the deadbolt. I’m adaptable like that.
Then I got back from walking the dog, unlocked the deadbolt and leaned on the door. It didn’t open. Naturally, I checked to make sure I’d unlocked the deadbolt completely. Sure enough the door didn’t open. Given my history with the door, I figured the deadbolt had broken. I thought about calling my son to open the door. Who minds about being woken up at 423am to open a door? Except that would be admitting defeat. And I wasn’t about to lose to a stupid door.
Thankfully, I had a lightbulb moment and tried the latch. It worked!
Doh!
Laughing, I walked inside. Not all problems are as big as we make them out to be.
Until next time.
Time is a funny thing. It moves at a snail’s pace when you’re being paid by someone else to spend your time on their work, but it moves quickly when it’s your time. What is the line from that song—days are long but years are short.
Minutes can be an eternity or a blink of an eye, too. It all depends on where you are in relation to the alarm.
For me, an hour close to the alarm sounding is napping with one eye open. I’m sure the alarm won’t sound and I’ll sleep through it, making me late for work. That did happen once. Only because the power went out and we don’t rely on our phones to wake us up.
To make matters worse, I wake up at the same time whether or not I work that day. Without an alarm. It’s my routine.
I just wish I could sleep through those slivers of time and actually be awoken by the alarm clock.
Ah, well. Maybe when I retire. Although I have it on good authority it takes years to break the routine.
Until next time.
Has anyone else noticed the rise in spam? Don’t get me wrong, I receive a steady stream of it all year long. But this year it’s like there’s been a training course and a whole fresh crop of folks are sending notices in bad English.
Facebook even encouraged me to respond to several messages. They said it would be good for me.
Let’s be clear. I will accept this kind of SPAM:
Not any other. You can’t cook with those:D
Until next time.
Linda Andrews 