Fantasies and Consequences

It is not crazy to have fantasies. It is crazy to expect them to come true without repercussions in the real world. I have always known this, even though people with bipolar disorder are notorious for pursuing fantasies with a naive manic glow.

I said it in a poem once, and the line is still true: I do not want what I want. We do not want what we want. Every fantasy has a dark side: Winning large amounts of money results in either a mad splurge where all the money is spent, or distrustful conservatism. An affair with a media star results in disillusionment and the dissolution of other romantic relationships.

But oh, the fantasies (if you recognize them as such) are glorious!

My real life self is pragmatic, dealing with what is; my fantasy self is much more daring. My real self is more compassionate toward others; my fantasy self is somewhat narcissistic, doing what she wants without minding consequences. I like my real life self better, but my fantasy self makes for better stories.

My fantasies help me write about other people and other situations that become a short story or novel. To do this, it's necessary to step out of the story, to not be the protagonist. To let the fantasy take wing in a character's life, a person whose circumstances mitigate some of the consequences, or who rise above the consequences and become someone new.

My new computer

So my new computer came in yesterday, and I've been playing around with it. This is what I've discovered so far:  

• It's huge. With a 15-inch screen, fans, and speakers it's bulky and heavy.
• It's fast. Who cares about the bulk when one's not waiting for everything?
• There seems like some way to zoom the screen but I can only do it accidentally.
• The track pad is set off to the left, so I am never where I'm supposed to be, Everything i do ends up to be a right-click.
• OOH, fast.
• I haven't tried the graphics software I want to use with it, because I am still waiting for my educational discount.
• I have to keep from being distracted by the games. No, I don't play first shooters. But Microsoft has free hidden object games! And coloring books1

I'll get a real post up soon, I promise.

Very short note.

A short note -- I'm back and all unpacked. I have a lot of work to catch up on -- but isn't that the point of a vacation?

Love you all -- if I post something real, I'll post it later.

To my family

I don't get to see my dad and sister often, owing to the fact that I'm about seven hours' drive away from them. I see them twice a year, at Memorial Day and Christmas, and Christmas is a bad time for my dad since my mom died at that time.

I'm very different than my dad and sister, having collected a few college degrees along the way and having a larger vocabulary (I can't help it, Lisa, I like using the right words). And the fact that I'm an extrovert, and I couldn't tell if they were listening to me because I wouldn't get much of an answer. It was hard to be around them, then.

But now, I get an inkling of who they are when I come visit. I am reminded of the family I came from, full of compassion and anger banked into sarcasm. The family whose fortunes turned sour when a fifteen-year-old Gerald Leach chose the farm rather than the foundry which now makes most of the garbage truck hoppers in the United States. The descendants of both Michel Cadotte (the spelling varies) and Iksewewe. Child of a man who served in the army and became a pacifist. A family that accepts me without marveling at me, which makes me happier than could anything.

Thanks, Dad and Lisa. I had a wonderful time.

Memorials

My cousin Francis died
in the river he walked into;
he left behind a family
who had only wondered when.

My mother, on her deathbed,
demanded from a priest
that the Church apologize to her;
she gave it absolution.

When my grandfather died,
the children didn't mourn him;
they laid one unspoken secret
with the casseroles at dinner

These stories are their testimony;
these stories are the flowers
I've laid upon their graves.

The Lock of Hair

Hair carries with it rich symbolism, and just as it's fun to play with hair, it's fun to play with the symbolism of hair.

In sympathetic magic, hair is used as a stand-in for the essence of a person. Hair's mystical attributes may have come from the fact that it appears to grow after death.

A gift of a lock of hair often denotes romantic intent -- except for that stage I went through in college, when I would introduce myself to guys with long hair by asking for a lock of it. I got a surprising number of locks of hair from that. They're safe in a box somewhere, and I have vowed not to do voodoo with them.

In Prodigies, Greg of the long red hair cuts his hair and hands the hank of hair off to Ayana, his girlfriend. Ayana cries. This scene is full of impact for a reason:

1) Greg needs to cut his hair for the upcoming mission at United Nations so that he blends in. It took nothing short of life and death for him to cut his hair;
2) Ayana didn't believe he would commit to the current plan, seeing him as a "drifter".
3) In Japanese opera, giving up one's hair is a symbol of making a great break with something,
4) In handing it to Ayana, he is either saying "I did this for you" or "I am in your hands" -- or both.

There are different ways to give a lock of hair. Greg's was almost brutal in its delivery, which fits the contentious relationship he has with Ayana. Most people who gave me locks of hair had no subtlety -- just "snip, snip, here!" Miguel was an exception. After teasing him for a year with "Can I have a lock of hair," he related to me how he'd gone home and washed his hair, flipped it over his head, and took a lock from the back of his neck. It smelled of shampoo and incense. He gave me an impromptu concert with the lock of hair, barefoot and in a rasta cap. It was one of the best gifts I'd ever gotten, not only the lock of hair, but the story.

Coffee and atmosphere and people's stories. This is what I do on vacation. ("Did you get to the Parthenon?" "No, but there was this really great espresso bar down the street.")

I'm sitting at Higher Grounds Coffee in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. Wisconsin is full of picturesque place names, including Native American (Oconomowoc -- we can tell you're not from here by how you pronounce this) and French (Prairie du Chien -- yes, for those of you who are translating, that's "Dog prairie".  It's also pronounced badly -- "Prairie d'SHEEN" 

The meeting of my Metis ancestor Michel Cadotte and his bride Ikwesewe, the daughter of the head of the White Crane clan, happened up in Chippewa County, where I have a lot of distant relatives that descended from that union. I claim myself as a Wisconsinite, although I have never lived there, because of my family and their history there. I also claim myself as a vacationer, having been let loose in a country of bratwurst and Danish pastry, beer (I don't drink), brandy (ok, maybe a little), and my favorite type of cheese, brick. Lest you think we eat and drink here all the time, we also fish (much fun), hunt (except for me, because they don't want anyone to die of my ineptitude), and boat (I  so wish I had access to a boat, even the black carp boats that shine lights in the murky water at night and harpoon invading supercarp. 

This morning, I listened to a woman's stories of twenty-plus years raising golden retrievers, and my mind was full of puppies on the way to Higher Grounds. Now I'm drinking honey in my coffee and remembering part of who I am, the part I forget when I'm far from Wisconsin -- a person who can sit still and listen, not driven to do anything and everything now, happy to swap stories.

My family doesn't quite know what to do with me, because I'm not totally that person. I'm also the person taking graduate classes after getting a PhD, the one who writes books, who needs to be doing something almost all the time. The "smart" one, who journeyed to a life they can't imagine and who comes back to bewilder them with her otherworldliness. The irony is that my life isn't that much different. The irony is that I came from a very intelligent, if not highly educated, family, who don't know how interesting they are.

Wisconsin is a great place to visit, but I don't feel like it truly accepts who I am. It takes me by the hand and thanks me for being a guest, and it's cheerily helpful while I'm here. Then it sends me on its way, back to where I live, which I don't feel a part of either.

Of Fairy Tales

We long for what we wish to be,
Our crushes a heady potion,
A periapt to ward against our fear
That we are not enough, that we are
In need of rescuing — we rub the lamp
and the prince comes and kisses us.

The prince will never come,
And if he did, he would bear discord
On a silken pillow, and the ugly fairies
Would chant, “You get what you wish for.”
The illusion would break,
And you would feel you never were enough.

We need our crushes, our illusions
So we will be enough in our own worlds,
So we will be enough.

What am I going to do with Voyageurs after the beta-reader revision?

Probably go through the cycle of submitting again. If I don't get an agent, I can at least say I tried. And if I get rejected, I know I gave them the best product I could.

Now for finding beta readers for Mythos, the first book in the Barn Swallows' Dance cycle (Duology plus one related book)... anyone want to volunteer? Please let me know at lleachie.

********
But for now, I'm going on vacation! It starts with a seven-hour drive to the hinterlands of Wisconsin, where I will stay in a cheap hotel with my husband so that we can spend the last night in a spendy boutique hotel. I will fish, eat bratwurst and brick cheese (think limburger without the stink and strong flavor, although I like limburger too) and visit my dad, and collect more stories. My sister and possibly her husband and possibly my niece will be there, and dad will cook a crockpot dinner and mix drinks for us and all his friends. My father is very introverted, maybe even shy, but he finds his human contact through sharing. And he is an incredible cook, even now.

I hope this recharges my batteries toward writing. My computer will be going with me, so expect some missives from the road.

Love you all.

Insecurity as part of life

I am close to the end of Prodigies, so close that I can see -- the headlights of an oncoming train.

That's how writing feels like if you're insecure -- the feeling that you're going to finish the work only to find it a piece of crap. And realizing you're the least objective person reading your work, but still accepting your own judgment that it's a piece of crap. That's what insecurity is -- the lurking voice that whispers "you're not good enough, you'll never get published, nobody cares about what you write."

I'm insecure. Isn't every writer? Isn't every creative person out there?

What do I do about it?

At this point, it's hard, because many of my creative friends say, "Hey, I did a thing! Look at this thing I did!" and post it on Instagram or Facebook. I think that's why I have a blog here, but I get comments very few and very far between, so I don't have the response of "Hey, what a cool thing you did!" Come to think of it, my friends who say "Hey, I did a thing!" don't get responses on Facebook or Instagram either, and they have more friends than I do.  I should comment more on their things they did. Maybe it'll come back to me.

My beta readers (two of them; the third hasn't gotten back to me) have been complimentary of my work even through pointing out some necessary changes. I actually feel less insecure when people point out errors and problems becausef they care enough to read and it’s only in the worst writings that someone can’t make constructive comments.

Insecure people seek out reassurance, and sometimes it has the opposite effect if they ask for too much. “Look at this thing I did!” seems more positive and effective than wailing “I’ll never be published”. I’ve done both.

I can own it, my entree into the world of creatives — I’m insecure.

And we will tell stories ...

Richard and I will be visiting my dad this weekend at his summer cabin. Dad's cabin, actually a park RV, sits at an RV park in Horicon, Wisconsin, near the famed Horicon Marsh. The place is, much like the rest of Wisconsin, a place to get away, to fish and grill bratwurst and drink.

Dad was born in Wisconsin, and to hear him tell it, he spent his childhood hunting, fishing, and skipping school.This would seem like a poor role model to me, but he grew up to be a stand-up man by taking lifelong learning seriously, taking care of my sister and me when my mom couldn't, and taking care of stray cats. He did, however, retain a wicked sense of humor which both my sister and I have inherited.

There were a few years when Dad and I didn't talk. It was the time when I had gone through two incidents of sexual abuse and harassment, followed by a rape I didn't remember -- as a result, I developed a fear of men that lasted three years. My father was included in that number even though he had done nothing to me. My dad handled it by being there for me from a distance, till eventually it thawed, and eventually he tried to teach me how to drive. Even to this day, however, talking on the phone with my dad is awkward, with long pauses and awkward small talk.

In person, though, I get his stories. My dad is 82 years old, and he has years of stories and an engaging storytelling style that runs in his family. I believe in words even in (especially in) the storytelling tradition, where stories become refined in the passage from generation to generation.

So Friday, Richard and I will drive 7 hours to Wisconsin to visit my aging, somewhat ailing dad. We'll borrow Dad's golf cart and go fishing in the river and catch baby bullhead and eat at a local restaurant with him and a couple of his friends.

And we will tell stories.

From the Brigadoon Sparrowhouse

With this held breath,
everything stands still
except for blood,
which pounds within me --
no words -- no, words --
invite me to the dance.

A Place I've Never Written About

I've been reading a lot about "incels" -- men who call themselves involuntary celibates, but who have such a repulsive worldview of women that it's understandable why they're not finding partners. They look at unattainable women as bitches and women who enjoy sex as sluts and women who are involuntarily celibate as cows. In other words, they've dehumanized every possible woman they could have bedded. Naturally, they've taken to valorizing men who kill as many as these women as possible.

When I was younger and single, I had a lot of what would be called dry spells. I was appealing only to a select group of people, many of which were interested because "fat girls are easy". (Note: we're not.) I once even called myself celibate, until a sassy friend said, "There's a difference between being celibate and not getting any." So, as you see, I was in the same boat our incels were in.

I didn't become a man-hater, although I've always been too much of a feminist to give in to "fat girls are easy" and too proud to gush over any guy who looked at me. So I took matters into my own hands.

I fantasized about a place of solace.

I named it the Brigadoon Sparrowhouse, "Sparrowhouse" for a place where free spirits, which I had nicknamed "sparrows", lived, and "Brigadoon" for the play about a mysterious village that appeared only every seven years.  In my mind, the Brigadoon Sparrowhouse popped up somewhere in the west central part of Urbana, the funky area where college professors and the occasional house full of poor, progressive students lived. I didn't know where it would be, but it would appear when the light filtered just so through the trees as they shook droplets from their limbs. In my mind, in the moments I was most in need of human contact.

The door to Brigadoon Sparrowhouse was always open to me. I would walk in, and find myself standing in the middle of the living room, a slightly chaotic place with couches and chairs, all with their newness worn down by use. The living room wore dark paneling, an artifact of the era in which the room had first been remodeled. Pillows and an afghan brightened the room, and a woven wall hanging completed the look.

I would sit on the couch and cry, soaked from the rain and feeling like I would never get warm again. I would grab the afghan and curl up in it. I was alone; it was always a chance I took going there.

Soon, someone would show up, someone who was free and not currently connected with someone. Usually, it was Mark, who looked gloriously unlike the people I knew. He was tall and thin, with waves of auburn hair pulled back in a short ponytail. His face was narrow and pale and Irish; his eyes nearly the same color as his hair.

"You're freezing," he would say and wrap his arm around me, hugging me close.

"I got caught in the rain while I went walking," I would stammer. "I didn't know where I was going." Often, I would think, I didn't know where I was going.

"Something's up, then," Mark would say. "Tell me what's up."

I would tell him what was up -- I felt like I was wrapped in a bubble and unable to talk to other people; I looked at the shining beauty of a friend and couldn't reach them; I believed that nobody would ever love me.

"We love you," Mark would say with his arm around me. We. The Sparrowhouse.

Sometimes Mark the sparrow and I would make love, up in his bedroom, a chaotic room with white walls, a mattress on the floor and a chest of drawers with sacred objects on its top -- a stone with a hole, a cowrie shell, a bowl made of stone and a feather. Our union would grow out of a discussion, and tears, and solace. I felt the poignancy, because the sex was borne of agape, not eros or ludus -- it was a gift, a reassurance that isolation would not be forever. It was not charity, but humanity answering humanity.

I did not fall in love with Mark, knowing that he was a figment of my imagination, just like the Sparrowhouse, which would disappear when I stepped out of it.

My Yard

I live in a two-story foursquare house that was built in 1905. It's what is known as a kit home, as it has simplicity of lines and design elements that were found in mass-produced home kits that could be delivered and assembled at the home site.

The previous owners were a man named Robert Pleasance and his wife. By all indications, Mr. Pleasance was a bit of a tinkerer. Remnants of an engine lift in the garage, a workbench and old-fashioned intercom system in the basement, the handmade concrete birdbath with fountain (that regretfully didn't work anymore)...

The yard, as a result, has beautiful bones as a landscaper would say, and just as many quirks that I acknowledged with a shrug. On the plus side: the back yard was fenced in with chain link, except for two gates leading from side yards to back yard, which were old-fashioned iron fence and gate, painted white. There were stone steps to the back that, although weathered, were not a complete ruin; The back yard was just right for a small patio and a decent garden.

The quirks: Mr. Pleasance had torn down an old brick one-car garage once he built his big garage/workshop (which looks uncannily like a pole barn with foldout doors) and built a hill with fine dirt and scree from the demolition. In other words, he reproduced a Mediterranean hill in a non--Mediterranean climate, which meant nothing but weeds, and even scarce ones at that. I appreciated the recycling at the same time I wondered what I could possibly do with this hill other than let the weeds grow. Also, there was a trellis serving as a grape arbor, but the grapes had been neglected and the arbor more so -- it had been cobbled together from narrow iron pipes and cattle panels, and had started listing to the left. The grapes, still alive, had abandoned the trellis for the fence.

We've been wrestling with the yard a little at a time. Much of the backyard is a cluster of raised beds for vegetable gardening (heirloom and quirky varieties you can't get in a store) which surround a small patio and grill. (If we have guests, we'll have to move off the patio, it's that small.) The bars that remain for the trellis will be used, with the cattle panel, to grow squash temporarily until we get the trellis back. Then we will plant more grapes and make the shady garden into a meditation nook or something.

The hill -- we've found things that are falling in love with the hill -- herbs. It turns out many herbs grow on scree -- thyme, mint, sage, oregano, rosemary -- and we're getting good results with these. The tarragon, surprisingly, is growing better than anything I've seen grow before. We still have a lot of the hill to fill up, but we're pulling weeds to keep it looking like it will become the quirky haven we hope to see.

Waiting for my new computer

I have a computer -- a five-year-old MacBook which has served me well, as long as I didn't care about having more than 230 MB of storage, a separate video card, and an OS that occasionally forgets to perform the "click" part of "point and click" six times a day and has to be restarted. Obviously I mind, so I'm getting a new computer.

I'm getting a new computer with some interesting specs:

• 7th Generation Intel® Core™ i7-7700HQ Quad Core 
• Windows 10 Home 64-bit English
• 16GB, 2400MHz, DDR4
• 128GB Solid State Drive (Boot) + 1TB 5400RPM Hard Drive (Storage)
• NVIDIA® GeForce® GTX 1050Ti with 4GB GDDR5

I don't really know what any of this means, except that the hard drive has a separate boot disk and the main drive is over 4x bigger than what I have, and that it's a gaming computer.

I'm a writer. Why do I need a gaming computer?

The simple explanation is that I'm using a program called Sketchup, available free in its most basic form on the web, to render maps for places I write about. For example, three of my books take place on the ecocollective (a collective, but not communal, living arrangement) called Barn Swallows' Dance (It doesn't really exist, but if I did, I'd probably live there). I wanted a map of the place because I have at best shaky visual memory, which I believe I've said before. So I put together a layout of a map of Barn Swallows' Dance on Sketchup using already created components, not realizing they were three-dimensional. They were!

That gave me lots of potential, but lots of frusrtration, because my computer was much too slow to act on the objects in my map. I thought they were at ground level, but in three dimensions, they were floating in the air! And I would adjust them according to what I saw on the screen, but there was a delay, so the objects went from floating in the air to buried in the ground, and my computer wouldn't let me find the down-to-earth mode. It was like a very slow-motion game of whack-a-mole.

That was two years ago, and I've long gone past writing those books, although I am sending Mythos (the first) to my beta-readers soon. (Note: Do you want to be a beta-reader? Please email me at: lleach  (it's a link) if so.)  I still would like to fix that project, because what's there is intensely cool.

I also have a new project that goes along with the book-in-waiting Whose Hearts are Mountains, which is currently last in the writing queue. It also takes place at an ecocollective, one built largely underground in the desert. The housing is based on a conceptual idea (and I will have to find and credit the architect involved.). The tube habitats he drew up have not been created in 3-dimensions, so I would have to do that myself, probably in pieces. No, I've never created my own piece before, but it's another skill to learn just for myself.

I wish all the things I learned were useful to others -- teaching, of course, is. Writing -- the journey is still out. Disaster mental health -- very useful to me and to my college for accreditation, but I would also have to take a master's in counseling or social work to become certified in disaster mental health. (No, I am not doing that) I might be useful in consulting with the city or county, but I've had a history of not being taken seriously by the guys with trucks that do the planning. If I could get the Ministerial Alliance to quit quibbling over butts in pews long enough to see that they need to mobilize so we could certify disaster case managers (which I am qualified to do)... sorry for the divergence. It's a sore point. 

Anyway -- odd little hobbies like my gardens (and trying to get rare seeds to grow), fishing, and the Sketchup design are things I do for myself. I push myself to get more competent (I don't seem to be able to do things without that drive to improve unless I'm super-depressed) Hobbies are flow activities; they're things I lose myself in and it's like meditation, only with a satisfying level of challenge. I'm hoping Sketchup rendering becomes another flow activity for me.

And I hope that computer will help.

Really fun revising

My new beta reader is likewise challenging me, in a good way! Her first chapter notes on Voyageurs is that she didn't feel close to Kat, even though Kat narrates that first chapter. If a reader doesn't identify with a main character, they don't read further.

I had to go through that chapter and figure out why she didn't feel close to Kat, and why she felt closer to Ian (who was Kat's partner in the scene). I came to the conclusion that Kat made a lot of observances but had very few feelings and reactions. There's someone on the bench dressed like a widow in all-black, she sits like a man, oops --- she is a man. But I didn't have enough of Kat's reactions -- scared, agitated, frustrated, conflicted.

I had been told "show me, don't tell me" at some point in my writing development. The problem is, when I take a piece of advice, I take it to the point of applying it perfectly (hello, I'm anal-retentive) and go too far in the other direction. So Kat observed, and I figured her observations would give her an edgy, defensive feel -- they didn't.

The trick here is to let Kat have reactions and emotions without it sounding like "I felt sad", "I did this," although I guess this has to happen a little. Here's the introduction after two beta-readers. Beta-readers: have I addressed your concerns? Other readers: Do you want to know Kat better or is she a little too prickly?

May 19, 1814 (Kat)

I stepped out of shadow and stepped into the line at the gate. I had dressed like a gentleman in a smoky blue coat set off with a cravat and a striped vest. I hoped the trousers set off my tall stature and disguised the lack of manly bulge of my calves. I glanced down at myself; I looked like the men who had money, as I intended to. It took a short time jump to the Regency era and light fingers to liberate the outfits from the racks at a London clothier. 

The red-faced man collecting money, who resembled a walrus I had seen in the Kansas City Zoo, waved me on. I strode confidently through the gate of Vauxhall Gardens, as men do. From a grandstand, some musicians played something I didn’t recognize, something that sounded jaunty and Germanic. 

A woman in widow’s weeds passed through the gate right behind me like a wraith and strode around me. I knew she would receive scorn not only because she walked in alone, but because she marred her period of mourning for frivolities. I admired her gall and wished I could accompany her to reduce some of the harsh judgments against her, as a daring gentleman would, but she slipped away before I could offer.

However, I had come here to solve a mystery, not to engage in gallantry. An unknown someone had left a note in my (Twenty-First Century) mailbox that read, I know you are a Traveller. Meet me at Vauxhall Gardens at 8:00 PM on May 19, 1814. I will be on the first bench beyond the lights to your right. As we Travellers — time travelers from legend — kept our lives and talents secret, I felt a queasiness in my stomach thinking of that note. It could be an ambush; my contact could try to kill me or disappear me, as had been done to my mentor Berkeley back in 2015. Still, I stood in Vauxhall, the setting the stranger had picked, a land of perfume and intrigue and dalliance. 

I thought I knew of all the Travellers. A few of us had met up recently at the 1904 World’s Fair, Wanda and Harold and I, to see the wonders there. We had connected by email to set a rendezvous, as we lived in far-flung cities, and Wanda had to make her face look pale under her bonnet because St. Louis had been even more racist then. We interacted as we always had — Wanda, fretful and suspicious, Harold egging me on to do something outrageous by the rules of that time, me on my guard against Harold’s capriciousness. I think that time he wanted me to raise my skirts up to my knees, which would have been disastrous socially.

We all ate ice cream cones, of course. That was what Travellers did — lived as sightseers through time, observed, partook in the activities only as much as it wouldn’t break the Time Laws — although the natural laws of Time tended to prevent influential changes to the time line.  It was not like Travellers to experiment with Time, except perhaps for the daredevil stunts of the Voyageur game, such as crossing oneself in time or base jumping into another era. As I was at the top of the Voyageur boards, I guessed I experimented with time a bit. I flirted with painful crushing death from crossing myself, and I stayed alive. I was rather proud of being legendary.

As I walked toward the dark, I felt the note in my pocket as a talisman.  My foray into meeting an unknown Traveller could be dangerous. I carried a sword cane, standard for gentlemen of this era, as defense. I had practiced the maneuvers needed to arm it, with a flourish that would speak of my experience. I, of course, didn’t have experience.

 Torches set along the perimeter lit my way, throwing suggestive shadows on sheltered nooks. I heard a cry in the night; I would interrupt the unseen couple’s intimate business if I guessed the wrong nook. I walked toward the first bench I spied to the right, set in one of those nooks in the darkness, and there sat a single figure in all black — the widow. She had pulled knitting from her bag and set to it amid the strains of a single trumpet.

Still, this was the first nook. I would ask the widow if she had seen a man nearby. 

 Through her veil, I thought she watched me.

I ventured into the deeper darkness, and her words, said in a husky voice, startled me. “You are not a man. You walk like a woman.”

I grumbled, annoyed at the fact that I had been made. I had learned to fool numerous mooches in games of chance as well as the occasional cop, but I couldn’t fool this widow. I knew that, with my tall, slender build and choppy hair, looking male was as easy as binding my breasts, wearing a proper male costume — which I lifted from a shop down the road — and walking like a man, which I apparently hadn’t done. 

 I peered at the widow’s black skirts and lace which blended into the night, and I realized that she sat with her legs slightly spread – “You sit like a man,” I countered.

I had missed the most obvious sign of a Traveller out of time because of the dark — a Traveller sees other Travellers out of their timeline in slightly diminished colors. We are so used to this that we react instinctively. An ordinary person would never notice, so we stay hidden in plain sight. But the darkness of Vauxhall masked all the leaching of colors, and the widow wore black, so there was no way of knowing.

“Katerina Pleskovich,” the other said in a voice slightly changed. “It’s good to see you in person.” I could have sworn the stranger chuckled. The flicker of a nearby torch revealed, under a black lace mantilla, a fine nose and dark lakes for eyes.

“Okay,” I said sternly, shaking the clouds from my mind, “You have the advantage on me, and that makes you look like a stalker.” I stiffened up, my hand ready at the handle of my cane in case he was a threat to me. I didn’t know how to use a cane, but I understood how to use a knife, and hoped the cane sword was similar. 

“Ian Akimoto,” he said, standing and pushing back his bonnet. In the moonlight, he was truly post-racial with glossy dark hair, wide-set Asian eyes, a long, thin nose, full lips. And an odd swirl of freckles on his high cheekbones.  Not handsome, exactly, but perhaps appealing. I could not help but chuckle at this innocent boy.

He took my hand. He still wore the black gloves, which accentuated his blocky hands. He brought my hand up to his lips, a courtly gesture of the era we found ourselves in, until I pulled it away. “How do you know about me?” I snapped. I glared at his beautiful eyes, his parted hair. The darkness around us revealed no secrets of how he knew about me.

“Berkeley told me all about you,” he sighed. “And you’re even more magnificent in the flesh.”

“Berkeley?” My stomach turned into ice and I struggled to breathe. I thought as quickly as I could, a talisman against my shock – My mentor had gone by Berkeley; his real name was Alexander West. Only other Travellers would know him by Berkeley; I did, as I was the last person he had mentored. Or so I thought. 

“Berkeley disappeared ten years ago. Nobody, none of us – “ by which I meant Travellers, but not necessarily the man who stood before me -- “None of us know where he is.” I felt tears in my eyes and strove to keep them hidden, knowing that weakness could be dangerous.

“He’s in hiding; I’m sworn to secrecy as to his location.” He raised his hands in front of him to stall questions.  I still stood – my knees wobbled, but standing gave me the appearance of control.

“Trust me, Berkeley’s okay.” Ian sat again and patted the wrought iron bench beside him. I sat. “I can’t tell you further. It’s a Traveller thing.”

“How do I know you’re even a Traveller? You could have heard some old stories from Berkeley and thought to impersonate one of us.” I was on a roll, spurred on by my suspicion. 

And not very much sense, it turned out. Ian quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t you trust the evidence of your eyes? You can see I’m slightly bleached, can’t you? I’m sorry I have to stay silent about Berkeley, but it really, really is for your own good.”

I could not see the bleached colors because of the lack of light. “You don’t get to tell me what is and is not for my own good,” I shot back. “I’m not from Regency England.”

“And Berkeley’s safety,” Ian added softly. I felt a chill.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, clutching my cane. “I’ve never heard of you.” He wasn’t a Traveller I knew, nor did he frequent the Voyageur website, but then again, only a select group of Travellers played that daredevil game. I would know, being a seasoned Voyageur myself. 

Where did he know me from? “Do you have a flight name?” I insisted. If he was a Voyageur, he’d have given himself a nickname, a flight name only known among comrades. I remembered that Berkeley but would not let me choose a modest nickname --

“Kat,” the rotund, balding Berkeley had said, steepling his fingers together in his easy chair, a customary glass of brandy at his side. “You stand there in front of me with a crimson wingsuit, and you mean to tell me you want to name yourself “WildKat”? You are the most skilled Traveller in this generation, a female who has to stand up against these self-aggrandizing men – you need a name that represents your rank, not one that makes you sound like a football mascot.” 

“Ok, then. What should I call myself?” I snapped.

“Wizard. That’s the name given to all the most daring and skilled in technology, in sport — computer wizards and pinball wizards and medical wizards and word wizards dot our history. Most of them are male. You, Kat, are a woman — and the wizard of  jumps even at your young age. As much as I don’t like the risk, at least own your heritage.”

Berkeley’s acerbic voice rang in my ears as I looked up and Ian looked at me with feigned impatience. “Seabhag,” he said, breaking the silence I had left. The bh sounded like a harsh v. I wondered what language it was.

“Mongolian?” I asked. The band had started up in the distance, playing another oom-pah sort of tune.

“Scots Gaelic,” he smiled. “Hence the freckles.” Seabhag’s grin gave him a sly masculinity which warred with his black mantilla.

As Ian had told me his flight name, I felt obligated to give him my flight name, but he beat me to the punch after a short pause. “And you are Wizard. Berkeley said you’re aptly named.”

Before I could unleash my indignation toward him, he laid a gloved finger to my lips and said, “More people walk toward us. We should take the hint and leave.” Ian linked his hands around my waist and we blinked into elsewhen.

June 1, 2015

I credited Ian for landing us safely in a tight space – that maneuver showed at least an intermediate-level skill. I tried to assess where we were in the absolute darkness, but I couldn’t for one reason --

“Ian?” I said. “You can let me go now.” I must have twisted around in the jump, because I had buried my face in his dislodged bonnet. Historical garb didn’t mysteriously evaporate once you got – oops, I couldn’t unsee that mental picture.

Ian turned his back to me and pled, “Could you please unbutton those maddening little buttons down my back?” 

“There’s no light in here. I don’t want to have to grope to get your gown off.” 

Ian worked his way to the far wall, skirts swishing, then flipped a light switch. I saw his colors resolve, the subtle washed-out colors of a Traveller who had stepped outside his natural timeline.

“Now can you get me out of this evil dress?” Ian cajoled as he stomped back, holding his skirts off the floor.

I glanced around at the whitewashed stone walls and dark wooden furniture of the one-room cottage. I had fallen down a rabbit hole where little made sense. As I unbuttoned, I saw the white muslin and stays of a proper corset.

“Corset?” I asked him, stifling a giggle.

“I’m a Method actor,” he mumbled as he untied the laces so that I could tug the corset over his head. 

I intended to do more than release him from the fussy trappings of Regency women’s clothing. I pulled the back of his corset wide to make sure I saw what I thought I saw – coffee-colored, freckled swirls on his otherwise golden back, the irregular swirls of Blaschko’s lines. Although all people had Blashko’s lines as part of their embryonic development, visible swirls were a sign of chimerism, or of two embryos fusing; or an outward sign of a Traveller as if we came from fused embryos. Though the Travellers knew nothing of our origins, all of us had Blaschko’s lines dark enough to be seen without ultraviolet light. I had my own lines — light caramel swirls on milk-white skin, in contrast to my dark-haired, large-eyed waifish looks. My index finger, of its own volition, reached out to trace one of the swirls, and Ian caught his breath.

“I’ll give you till forever to stop that,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and stepped back. I wanted to lazily trace those swirls all evening. They mesmerized me, like bodily imperfections often did. 

Without warning, he dropped the dress and petticoats to the floor. Below the clothes, he wore black stockings with garters – black, of course, which he quickly dispatched. Then the pantalets hit the floor. I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or scream. 

Although it felt illicit, I enjoyed his casual nudity – compact, lightly muscled, the Blaschko’s lines undulating across his torso. He had let his hair down from its bun, and it was dark brown and wavy and touched his shoulders. My first impulse was to – no.

I did not know him. I had been burned by impulse before. I couldn’t go there.

Ian turned around, saw my face, and said, “I’m really sorry, but those pantalons were scratching me in a sensitive place.” 

“I don’t know you,” I snapped. “I know I sound like a total bitch here – whenever here is – but if this is an invitation, I can’t. I won’t.” I noticed I had clenched my fists. 

He crossed over to a large black trunk. I suspected he rummaged for clothes that weren’t black, scratchy, or feminine.

I asked him, “When are we?” It had to be somewhere between the 1970s and my present time.

“Modern time -- your time. The middle of uncharted Scotland, where I somehow inherited an ancestral cottage.” That explained the stone walls, the use of conduit to provide electricity to lights and appliances, and the tiny size of the space. The space held a kitchen and a wood-framed futon and a dresser and very little room to stand except the space we occupied. He had landed us both in that space in a time jump from 100 years ago without collisions – I upgraded my assessment of his skill.

After he had dressed in a pair of black sweats and a t-shirt that said “University of Okoboji”, he strolled back over to sit on the couch. For the second time that night, he patted the couch and I sat down next to him, heaven knows why.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I leaned toward him. It seemed natural, because he seemed unprepossessing, personable, and gosh darn nice despite flashing me. Then again, the last man who I’d thought that about turned out to be none of those things. I leaned back, thinking of questions.

“Sure. Be aware I can’t answer all of them. And in advance, I apologize. I truly can’t. I hope you’ll trust me despite this.” His shoulders had slumped and his eyes grown weary – I would recommend he never take up poker, because his face wore emotions so completely. 

“Love the freckles,” I said as I patted his cheek in an impulse.

“Woof!” he grinned and rubbed his head against my hand and buried it in his hair. Dangerous. I pulled my hand away from that thick, vibrant hair.

He looked sad, but he simply sat silently and let me ask the next question. “How do you know Berkeley?”

“He taught me advanced Traveller lessons. My parents were Travellers, but they died when I was fifteen in a time travel accident. They were not Voyageurs, not even on the Voyageurs’ radar, so you may not have heard about them. They hadn’t taught me all I needed to learn when they died, so I felt fortunate I found Berkeley when I did. He got me caught up.”

“He did more than that,” I replied. “You have higher competence than average – I haven’t assessed your full competencies yet, of course.”

“You can any time you want.” he replied softly.

“I have time, then?” This was danger, yet it called to me.

“All the time in the world.” I suddenly realized that I didn’t really know what competencies he wanted me to assess, nor which competencies I wanted to assess. So I leaned over and kissed him on his pale, freckled cheek. 

Before I knew it, we lay on the futon, his body on top of mine. He laid his hands on my cheeks as he kissed me open-mouthed. As I kissed him, I felt like I had jumped off a cliff only to have my wing suit catch my fall so that I could follow the lines to sometime new and unknown. But I dared not go further.

So I executed one of the most advanced maneuvers of all – I rolled out from under him and traced my steps back home via 1814 London.

I landed in my home – Berkeley’s former home, a well-preserved Painted Lady in 2015 Kansas City, Missouri. I landed prone, on my back, on the bedroom floor, like I had been thrown in judo.

I called out to Berkeley as I always did. The house was silent, of course.

Hi, my name is Marcie, and I am eight years old. I had my birthday two -- no, two months and seven days ago, and I'm counting down to the next one. It's only ten months and three weeks from now! Time flies like a dragonfly!

Aunt Laurie said I can talk about words today. Let me first say that words are very important, because without them, we would all just stare and wave our hands around and if that kept up, how would we get pie? It's easier to say, "please pass the pie", especially if it's that really gooey chocolate chip pie Aunt Laurie won't make anymore because it's too fattening. I think being fat just means you're very happy because you got to eat the whole pie.

Ok, words. There are little words like "please", "may", and of course "pie" and those are good words because they get things done. Then there are the big words like Aunt Laurie writes, like "flabbergasted", "preternatural", and "multicolor" and I have to look them up in the dictionary. Why can't she just used "frustrated", "spooky", and "pink and blue and green and orange"? Aunt Laurie says that you have to use the right word for the right thing, and preternatural isn't the same as spooky, although it tends to weird us out. Think of someone who can read minds, or who's thousands of years older than you. That's preternatural. Why doesn't she just say "spooky guy who could be your great-great-great-great-great a billion times over grandfather?"

Yesterday, Aunt Laurie told me I was right. Yay! I'm awesome! She said her beta-reader said her words were too big and if she wanted to be read, she would have to make them smaller words. Like "pink and blue and green and orange" instead of "multicolored". She said this would be hard for her because big words love her. A lot like cats, I think. And did I mention that Aunt Laurie has a lot of cats?

I think I smell pie. Bye!

Mood and writing status today ...

I need to write on Prodigies today.
I've been getting work done in other places -- taking the class is most important; editing what my betas are telling me about my books is important (I love fixing problems!); writing this blog is important, gardening is important ...

Writing Prodigies is important, So why is this getting none of my attention? Because it's been difficult getting my mind back into it. Yes, it still bothers me that I haven't gotten published, and I do lose my motivation to write, especially when there are so many more things I want and need to do.

But I finished my weekly class activities the first week of classes, and I've set up 1/3 of my internship visits up. I've gotten the basic layout of my renovated class together, and I have to wait till later in the summer to get the rest done. I'm antsy -- I don't want to spend all my spare time vegetating on the couch.

So I'm a bit cranky today. I'm working on it.

A happy note about bad things

Sometimes the things I need are not the things I thought I needed.

I needed the bad yearly evaluation, because without it, I would not have been able to talk honestly with my boss about what I had been going through for the last two years illness-wise. I would not have gotten the kick in the butt to do better, nor would I have realized that my boss cared about how I was doing.

I needed to have my writing rejected, because I would never have been pushed to get beta-readers on the job. Not only do they help me improve, but they are reading my stuff and that feels good.

I needed to feel like I was the most uninteresting person on earth (isn't depression grand?) so I would see the places where I am geekily interesting -- edible plants and herb garden, persistence in fishing even though I catch nothing, wanting to learn everything, moulage, the ability to talk to anyone about anything, addiction to coffee, dedication to writing ...

I needed to have that terrible school year -- two terrible school years filled with depression and illness. Even though I have a lot of work (writing, disaster mental health class, redesigning a class) this summer I feel relaxed because I can take a day to go off to St. Joseph and drink at a quirky old coffeehouse.

I needed to break my heart on that crush, because it showed me how understanding my husband is about my periodic idiosyncracies in looking for the muse, a person who subtly infuses my creative soul with energy. (Crushes would lose their power if one did anything about them, so they're supposed to go nowhere. Dear muse, if you are reading this, thank you.)

I needed to feel alone, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have realized how much it means to me that I have readers. I love you all!

Well, Kindle Scout didn't bite on Voyageurs, as I thought they wouldn't. However, I'm not too bothered because it's on the road to improvement. And I'd rather have a solid book than a published one, strangely enough. Although I would like to be read as well.

Going Back to School

Today is the first day of my Disaster Mental Health certificate program.  I can't believe I'm going back to school after getting a PhD and this late in my career, yet here I am. 

As it turns out, I have a good role model in my father. My father got his high school diploma and learned electronics in the military. I remember growing up with him taking a correspondence course in electronics with all these little paper booklets that were individual lessons. Later, he would go off to Dublin, Ohio to take various courses on the changing technology of his job, installing telephone switching equipment. A lot of his colleagues didn't take the company up on their training, believing that the union would protect them. The union did not protect them, and so they slowly got transferred and laid off. Eventually, my dad was one of the few remaining workers in an increasingly automated system. AT&T would hand him a building full of equipment and a 32-page schematic and tell him to throw the switch and lock the door when it was done. In addition to this, he took a pastry chef class at the community college, and my family let him make the pie crust from then on out.

I did my first lesson this morning, and I found the material engaging and worthwhile. Maybe I haven't forgotten how to be a student!

A different tribute to my mother.

I look like my mother looked, or so people tell me. I think they're cluing in on the structure of my face, my not insignificant nose, and my overabundant mouth. (The deepset almond-shaped eyes and the strong dimpled chin come from Dad.)

I act like my mother acted -- somewhat. I have her extroversion, her enthusiasm, sense of humor, and intelligence. I also have some of her dark side -- the weepiness the relentless pessimism, the neediness, the rage, the hatred of getting older.

I try my best not to have her dark side, knowing that it probably came from untreated bipolar disorder. She tried her best, hampered by wrong diagnoses, inferior medicines, and the lack of awareness that comes with bipolar disorder. There were times she couldn't mother, and there were times she embarrassed us.

I loved my mother. I still do, despite all her flaws. At her best, she was a creative whirlwind, a storyteller, a sparkling woman with a flair for the dramatic (the latter of which I did not inherit). At her worst, she was betrayed by her own mind -- it's hard to realize how much your feelings dictate your sense of reality instead of the other way around, and that's the curse of bipolar disorder.

My mother died -- what? Eleven years ago? Has it been that long? I have dreams of her sometimes where I'm told she's dead, but then I visit my parents' old house, and she's there, wearing her nightgown. She's sick, as she often was in her depressions, lying on the couch, but she's not depressed. She's not dead. She tells me, in a matter-of-fact voice that she'll die soon and she's hiding from the world who thinks she has already passed away.

But she's not dead yet. Not in my mind, eleven years later. She's in my mirror and in my mannerisms and in my stories, and in the voice in my mind that is her best self as she spins among the stars. She's not gone -- I merely can't speak to her.

Redbird

I was 25, and I was going through a hard time in my life. I faced waves of agitation and depression, flashbacks, a relationship in flux -- and a persistent feeling that there were evil influences lurking in my life. The latter may have been the fact that my bipolar was not at that time treated, or it could have been that I believed in those things at the time. Or those could have been one and the same.

One day, I was in a neighborhood in Champaign I hadn't been in before -- it was a sleepy boulevard, complete with mini-park tucked into the median. I had gone there because I had a bad crush on someone even as my maybe-boyfriend gave me mixed signals -- and I wanted to see where he lived. (I don't think I ever devolved to the point of being a stalker, but I worried about it some nights.)

I was sitting on the bench in the mini-park, watching the occasional car drive laconically by, and suddenly I felt a feeling of dread, ominous dread, blossom from my stomach through my body. Something bad was going to happen -- I could imagine the strains of foreboding music in the background.

And then a cardinal called. I looked up, and he sat on a phone line directly above me, flame red and stalwart. I felt a flush of calm pass through me. He launched himself in the air and landed on a tree branch a few feet away, then stayed there. I followed him there, and this dance continued until I was away from the boulevard. 

I was safe.

**********

Almost thirty years later, I don't know what to make of this still. Yes, the feeling of foreboding may have been from the tricks that bipolar plays with the body. Remember as well that mania triggers the religious/mystical elements of the brain. 

But the bird was real. Whether it was a cardinal acting peculiarly or a flame-feathered spirit guiding me to safety, I will never know. I will not pretend to know -- there is no certainty in mysticism. But there is one more story:

During that same time period, I left a party because I felt like I was barely holding myself together inside a great glass bubble that distanced me from everyone. My heart was breaking, and at the same time, I was afraid that I would be taken advantage of by someone or something malign if I opened up. A friend of mine walked me home from the party to protect me from what I felt was out there (Scott May, if you're reading this, thank you. I never appreciated you enough).

I got home and was lying in bed shivering and hugging myself. All of a sudden, I heard a commotion just outside the window and saw a cardinal, male and shining red against the lowering clouds, fighting a starling with its black, speckled wings. 

I heard a voice in my mind: "Do I have to knock you out to help you?"

"Yes," I thought back.

I instantly fell asleep.

*******

I have to wait for dreams now to have these experiences, possibly because of the medication, possibly because of the fact that I'm older and busier and not accustomed to living between worlds anymore. I don't know what the "real" interpretation is, but the belief that the redbird was a kind spirit that protected me against malign forces makes for a better story.

Flashbacks

My beta-reader told me I need to have some more character building of the villians, Harold and Wanda. This, I admit, is hard for me to do, preferring shadowy threats. By the beginning of the book, my main character and the villains are not as good friends as they'd been -- it's actually probable that they'd never been close friends, even though they were Kat's friends at a vulnerable time.

So Kat has only three direct interactions with the villains during the book, and when someone's trying to kill you, there's not much time to build character. So how do I do this?

Flashbacks!

I like writing flashbacks, but I usually reserve them for scenes that would ordinarily be one big information dump so that I can show, rather than just tell, the audience what had happened. But I hadn't thought of writing flashbacks for Kat's interactions for Harold and Wanda.

But my readers can't react to what's in my head if it never makes it on paper.

(Wanda and Harold met me just outside the soup kitchen -- 

"Hey, I've just had lunch," I groused, "Do you expect me to jump on a full stomach?"

"Don't be a bitch," Harold said loftily, as Wanda looked down her nose at me as if I'd crawled out from under a rock. "We've got an experiment we need you to do."

"Why me? I'm a Junior Birdman. You're the King." I knew, deep down, that i would do whatever he asked me to, because they were my friends. And Harold -- Harold was special. I would probably do it for him.

"You're faster than I am. I need someone fast to do this. I bet you can't do it, though." Harold examined his hands, probably for invisible dirt specks, as I'd never seen him with his hands dirty. 

"You bet I can't do what?" I demanded.

"Change the outcome of that game over there." Wanda interjected in her haughty voice. 

"But that won't work!" I groused. "The rock principle will keep it from changing."

"I'm going with you," Harold reassured me. "We're jumping into the past to that shell game over there and you're going to tip over the right cup so the mooch sees he's getting conned ."

I protested. "By "we", you mean me. How would I know where the ball landed?"

"You know," Harold gritted his teeth. "You always know. I've seen you run that game."

"You can't change time. I try to change that and the cup won't tip over. It always works that way."  I'd tried it -- I can win the game myself, but I can't change the outcome of the game itself."

"But what if I change one or two other things at the same time? The rock principle only maintains one material fact at a time. With one or two other changes at once, I hope to confuse things so that the rock principle doesn't change the shell game."

"But what about crossing ourselves?" I demanded. "I only have what -- four minutes before I die?"

"You'll have to do it quickly, I guess," Harold shrugged. "Unless you don't think you can -- "

"Alright. I'll do it." I always knew I would.

We jumped to three minutes before the start of the round, and Wanda came with us as witness. She and Harold stepped back while I walked up to the game, which involved a mooch and a grifter (as we called victims and fraudsters on the street). 

The idea was to reach in and tip the cup with the ball under it at the exact moment that the mooch was to guess the whereabouts of the ball. He wouldn't -- the sleight-of-hand of the operator guaranteed it. The big trick was to tip the ball and jump before the grifter caught my wrist and took me behind the nearest building to beat me to a pulp. I wondered why Harold would subject me to that risk, or the risk of crossing myself and being crushed, if he was my friend. But he trusted me...

One exhilarating moment later, I had tipped the cup, revealing the ball to be in a different cup than it would have appeared to the mooch, and I jumped back to my present time without dying. I bent over, gasping and laughing.

"You're the best," Harold clapped me on the shoulder. "I knew you could do it. I think we should make a game of this. Call it -- Voyageur. Like Traveller, but provocative."

Then we blinked out of sight before the irate con artist reached us.)

Little Pieces of Psychology for Characterization

I use psychology to help my characters to sneak into the reader's mind at a subliminal level. Here's a partial list:

1) The character who dislikes the protagonist the most has the same character flaw as the protagonist. In Prodigies, the book I'm currently working on, Romak Matusiak, Minister of Culture in Poland hates Grace presumably because she's black.The issue may be that she's black and cultured, which he feels is the province of upper-class whites.

2) People have "tells" when they're lying and withholding information. Pursing their lips, closing their eyes for longer than necessary, blinking rapidly, sweating, and looking away (purportedly to the right if they're right-handed) are all different "tells". Sprinkling this into descriptions of people lying gives a heads-up to the reader that something's up. Related is the extensive focus on body gestures of two Japanese characters in Prodigies -- much of Japanese communication is unspoken.

3). Archetypes -- or more correctly -- archetypes in the Jungian sense. Joseph Campbell believed in a universal story, and in his story, roles that correspond to Jungian archetypes such as the hero/heroine, the mentor, the trickster, the innocent, and the magician. To some extent writing archetypes comes subconsciously, but it helps to be conscious about it.

4) Dreams and visions. I'm a Jungian at heart, I'm afraid, and that means that I impart important information about the psyche of my protagonists through their dreams. As is true to dreams, the sequences are symbolic, fragmented, and often mystical.

I have fun with psychology; my characters have no idea how much psychology goes into them.

Of course we want to be read.

I feel invigorated, simply because I'm being read.

I have three beta-readers now, and I'm getting constructive feedback that's helping me make good substantive changes to Voyageurs. And, occasionally, expressing what they like about the book.

You, the reader, have read excerpts from this and other books here online, but it's different. I don't know if any of you are real or just bots. I assume some of you are real, or else I wouldn't be talking to you right now. But its murky, and since I know only a few of my readers, and I know nothing about whether you're enjoying what you read, it hasn't been like being read.

As a result, I am becoming increasingly convinced that writers don't write just for themselves.

If they did, there would be no self-publishing. There would be no Wattpad. There would be no FanFiction.net. There wouldn't be a whole industry based on improving writers' skills if writers didn't want to be read.

There would be no hashtags on Instagram like #writersofig. No writing-related memes on Facebook that the writers (usually the unpublished ones) reblog. There would be no shirts like the one in my closet that says "You're coming dangerously close to being killed off in my next novel".

There's enough of us who want to be read that there's a multi-million dollar industry who wants to make money off us.

Therefore, I will quit apologizing for wanting to be read, and for agonizing over rejections. I write for myself, but I want to be read, and I am willing to craft my message accordingly, even if I won't change my themes or characters.

A Sense of Purpose

Having a beta-reader read my work has been a revelation.

All the frustration at not being published has dissolved in a sense of purpose I hadn't expected to find. It seems I want my writing to improve more than I want my writing to be published. I actually anticipate the latest chapter report from my beta-reader as an opportunity to refine the book, to allow its message to shine.

This is who I am. At least this is closer to my self-image than the frustration I felt when getting rejections that gave me no idea of what to improve. With my writing, I don't want to be told "It's not you, it's me," I want to be told what didn't work. (On the other hand, in relationships, I'd rather be told "It's not you, it's me.") To tell me what's wrong and what needs improving communicates that my work is worth improving.

So I welcome my beta-reader making comments on "This scene goes by too quickly" and "What's all this focus on smashing his eggs?" and I'm taking her out to dinner when this is over. Thanks, Sheri!

****************
I know my blog posts have been really short lately; I hope that isn't a problem. revising a class of mine from the ground level. All my deep thoughts are going toward family resource management, poverty, and basic financial skills -- which is my field of study, but still requires wrestling up a lot of material to inform the class.

I'll keep writing because I enjoy talking to you, and I hope you enjoy reading. This too will pass. And if you want to be a beta-reader (or just want to say hi), drop me a message!

Seeking beta-readers

I would love to invite you to be beta-readers, now that I understand how absolutely invigorating they are to the writing process.

I know this is a little bit of work on your part, but on the other hand you can say "I knew her when..." someday (ha!)

All I would need from you:

1) read a manuscript
2) comment on it honestly (at least chapter by chapter).

You'll be recognized by name in acknowledgements if it gets published.

Please let me know!

A Pattern to my Days

As a professor, summer has a different pattern than the rest of the school year. The belief is that professors are "off for the summer", and that's generally not true for the faculty I know. The focus of our work changes, and we teach more concentrated courses and hold our office hours in Starbucks. We do research projects and revamp classes and write, and we may supervise internships and field experiences.

I'm currently splitting my days into three parts. Early in the morning, instead of writing this blog, I work on the next week in my drastic revision of People, Money, and Psychology. Instead of running it as a cognitive psychology class about money, I'm creating a class about poverty and all the ways it's not just about lack of money. I'm two-thirds the way through the lesson plans. The rest is easier once I have a shape to the class. 

After that, I write the blog. Not that I don't love all twenty-something of you, but I have to give my freshest coffee-fueled brain cells to the classwork first. I haven't felt too inspired lately on the blog front, and I apologize.

Finally, my day is split between getting some sort of walk in, editing Voyageurs, and planting plants in my soon-to-be amazing garden. 

So what are you up to today? 

Pushing toward growth.

I have one condition I need to fulfill before I keep writing -- well, maybe 2 -- a developmental editor and beta-readers for my finished books.

I need to find beta-readers. This is a difficult task, although my beta-reader for Voyageurs, Sheri Roush, is doing a wonderful job of pointing out where my book gets confusing and where it's really working.

I need to find money in the budget for developmental editing.

I need to find beta readers.

Would you like to be a beta reader? Let me know!

Well, Tor rejected my novella of Gaia's Hands.

The myth of becoming a recognized writer goes like this: a writer writes original work, writes what they love as their friends exhort them to, and after a double-digit number of rejections, finally gets published and makes big splashes in the publishing world. You may recognize this as the storyline of J.K. Rowling, but it's been told about almost every big writer ("Do you know that Big Name Writer got rejected 23 times?").

I'm not feeling very optimistic right now. I've been rejected somewhere over 100 times; I've lost count. I write, revise, submit, and fail. I cling onto the hope that this time would be the time I get published.

You've heard this all before. I've said it all before.

I'm supposed to write for just myself, and that makes no sense to me. Why would someone write several novels -- 80,000 pages apiece -- and edit, and polish, so that nobody will read it? If I did this all for myself, I'd write short romances with damn near zero for plots. I'd never get them published because by "romance" I would mean "romance" and not sex.

The optimist in me feels crushed for trying something new. The pessimist in me says "I told you so." The realist in me can't figure out how "writing for myself" justifies writing novels nobody reads.

Realistically, I may have to stop writing novels. I don't know if I will have the motivation to write much if I give up novels, because the possibility of being heard (an antidote to a childhood of not being listened to or believed) was my major motivator, and the reason that not being able to be published is so heartbreaking.

I know I've come back before, but right now the thrill is gone.

The Optimist vs the Pessimist

I'm discovering that I am an optimist.

I'm waiting for a few things in the pipeline as I explained yesterday, and I feel good about my possibilities, despite all the times I got rejected before on these very same writings. This is why I keep submitting to agents and publishers. I fantasize about getting published. Again and again, I'm drunk on possibility, captured by potentiality, suspended in rosebuds, surrounded by perpetual spring.

The pessimist in me tries to shut down the optimist to no avail. Optimism provides a kind of high that pessimism can't compete with. The pessimist in me is in its full glory when I get rejected, and feels no obligation to commiserate with me, preferring to kick me while I'm down.

I'm trying to find a way around the Pessimist's great timing when I get rejected again, which I suspect will happen (despite the optimism), because realistically, there are a lot more of us writers than there are agents and publishers.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Ther eis one phrase that shows up in every novel I write -- "hiding in plain sight".

This phrase refers to the fact that every novel of mine involves people with some sort of preternatural talent -- the strength and teleportation of the Archetypes, the time travel of the Travellers, the Gaia-given talents of those who eat of the Trees, and the inborn random talents of the Prodigies. All of these beings, human and other, live in the world of ordinary people, and all of these people deal with what "hiding in plain sight" means.

Josh, poet and Keeper of the Garden, believes that one can do anything in the open and people will re-explain it as something plausible. He is the only human who believes in humans' obliviousness to this degree. It could be because his given talent is to have visions, which are not very obvious to other humans.

The Archetypes, immortals in human form, are reluctant to "out" themselves to humans, and so generally don't teleport or lift objects, nor do they transport themselves in view of others. Usually. Lilly (who lived as a human for 30 years) once teleported a car -- with her husband in it.  Archetypes even carry themselves differently around humans -- their natural state is to look like superlative examples of humans, so they shake themselves into less beautiful forms of themselves -- a kind of reverse glamour.

Meanwhile, the Travellers are the most hidden -- they don't hop out of rooms when non-Travellers are looking, and they stick with their own kind complete with secret societies. If humans understood that the Travellers could manipulate the future by changing the past, Travellers' lives would be endangered, and they have no non-human strength like the Archetypes.

Prodigies' talents are most often subtle, and so are often practiced in public. A little emotional manipulation here, a little polyglot talent there -- nobody catches on. Except for the man who can cure or kill by touch -- he's very guarded by his talent.

There's a logic here -- a risk/benefit analysis. What is the risk of disclosure versus the benefit? It's the type of thinking I don't see in superhero movies, where the heros don't understand why there's so much anti-human sentiment.



*******
*Lilly tends to be impetuous and imperious, like her namesake.

What am I waiting for?

I'm waiting.

What am I waiting for?

The first thing I'm waiting for is 8:00 AM Central (US) Standard time, which is the point at which I can submit the novella of Gaia's Hands to the Tor Novella program. Remember that Gaia's Hands is the first book I wrote, the "problem child", and I took a metaphorical chainsaw to it and reduced it to a little over 20,000 words. I will submit it and then wait some more.

The second thing is the outcome of my latest (and last) Kindle Scout campaign for Voyageurs. I don't have much faith in this, as Kindle unceremoniously dumped the program on April 3, two days after I got in. They immediately dismantled much of the infrastructure, quit collecting votes, and belatedly let us know that they would choose the winners themselves. Nothing I've seen assures me that they'll choose any of the books, much less mine. 

The third thing is results for a blood test. Nothing scary, I assure you. The test is the HLA antigen test, and if it's negative, I can become a platelet donor for my local blood bank (apparently I have a dreamy platelet count.) If it's positive, then I was definitely pregnant at one point in my life. The time I could have been pregnant was 40 years ago, when I was 13, as a result of a rape. (If it's negative, it doesn't mean I was never pregnant.) So the blood test has the potential of solving a mystery, one that I'm not sure I want to know the answer to.

Waiting has its advantages. It is ripe with potentiality, a period of time where the optimist can imagine big things to happen. However, I prefer knowing so I can know where to go from here.