Month: May 2016

The Kibble Beast

Poor Tucker. He loves kibble.

Kibble despises him.

Kibble is not a creature, but the hard cat food. Sadly, Tucker, a large black and white cat with an injured eye (who may have some Maine Coon in him) suffers from an auto-immune condition, gingivitis stomatitis. He came to us in this condition, someone’s pet lost on the streets, looking for food, shelter and affection. We stopped up because we’re suckers like that. He was not in good shape and it took almost a year for us to discover the terrible conditions of his gums and teeth. Bleeding, infections, bad breath, ulcers, inflammation, pain and sensitivity, he had it all.

We started him on medications and steroids to contain the problem. Our vet recommended we pull all his teeth. No, no, no, no, no, we replied, no. Instead, we sought methods for containing and reducing the problem. Through reading and testing, we found he can’t eat kibble, period. So all kibble was taken from him. He eats wet food only but not just any. I’ve found that those wet foods with carrageenan causes swelling, ulcers and inflammation in him so they’ve been taken out of his diet. This finding of mine is contrary to the pet food industry’s findings, that carrageenan doesn’t contribute to these issues, but since restricting him from them, he’s doing much better, so I’ll accept my findings over their findings. Then, after reading of others’ success with L-lysine, I initiated a daily practice of dosing him with L-lysine. Buying it in capsule form, I dilute it a little water and squirt 100 CCs into his mouth before his morning and evening meals.

These practices have worked well with him, and he’s not needed any shots in four months. A year ago, he was going every 30 t0 45 days.

Sadly, though, Tucker is a huge kibble fan. We also feed it to our other cats (we have one, but ‘take care of’ two others). So Tucker remains on a perpetual quest to get to the kibble and gobble it up. He’s also a fighter. Although amazingly sweet and docile with humans, when it comes to other cats, he wants to fight, not chase or hiss or yowl, but launch himself fangs and claws out and battle! So we segregate the four cats. The matter is more complicated as Boo Radley, the big black tailless stray, taken in to protect him from the frigid winter but now probably also our pet, fights with Meep, the ginger cat that isn’t allowed in his house. (We bring him in to feed and offer shelter from foul and cold weather.) Only Quinn, our black paw buddy, gets along with the others. It’s trying, to express the most minimal impact, to deal with the fights when Meep, Tucker or Boo encounter one another and unsheath their claws.

It all works in a way, but we need to find a way to end the fights. At least we’ve mitigated many of Tucker’s problems. Maybe someday we’ll find kibble that doesn’t cause him issues. Then he’ll be one purring kitty.

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Basking

Pardon me, everyone, but I am basking today.

I have at least reasons three for basking, all related to my writing endeavors, and by basking, I mean enjoying the glow of accomplishments.

The first is that my ebooks are doing better than I expected (although not better than fantasized…but, come on…). Their buying patterns are so different so I’m curious about whether that will continue. My mystery novel, Life Lessons with Savanna, a KDP exclusive, shot out and up for a few weeks, but then dropped to nothing. On the science fiction side, Returnee (also a KDP exclusive) began with slow sales but has consistently built and grown, now accounting for all my sales and reading activity. Either way, someone out there is looking at them, and I’m basking in that.

More importantly and satisfying for me is completing the second book in the Lessons with Savanna series, the sequel to the previously mentioned Life Lessons with Savanna. This one is Road Lessons with Savanna. I finished writing it yesterday and completed the cover design last night, presenting me with double basking reasons. Some people are impressed that I took Road Lessons with Savanna from concepts to novel in less than four months (I began writing it on March 3rd, 2016, and finished on May 30, 2016), which is decent for 100,000 words. I attribute that to becoming more comfortable with my conceiving, writing, plotting and editing processes. I hope I’m right and that I’ll successfully duplicate that performance.

My third basking reason is perhaps more profound. While writing Road Lessons with Savanna and conceptualizing the next in the series, Personal Lessons with Savanna (and even writing two chapters), I discovered I grew more into my writing skin. That means I more easily put it on. Writing sessions are typically 90 to 120 minutes. I generally achieve 1,000 to 3,000 words in that period.

After basking today, I’ll update my Booklife profile and work on preparing Road Lessons for KDP processing and release. Road Lessons will also be a 90 day KDP exclusive. Returnee will come off the KDP exclusive list in June, and I’ll then take it to Smashwords to provide it with more publishing venues. I plan to keep Life Lessons with Savanna and Road Lessons with Savanna on the KDP exclusive list until I write and publish the third book in the series, Personal Lessons with Savanna. Personal Lessons will also spend 90 days in the KDP exclusive club. Then the three will expand to Smashwords.

Meanwhile, for June, I’m completing the final edit on a science fiction novel, Everything Not Known, targeting an early July release. It’s been edited several times but it’s a complicated, 200,000 word tome, so I want to go through it one…more…time.

So, yea! I’m basking. Now, I have my quad shot mocha. To work.

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Dream Elite

Today’s Dream Begins….

What does snow and darkness in a dream signify? In this dream, there was a steel and glass building that was warm and lit, a haven against the darkness and nasty weather, but otherwise, this dream had no sunshine, no light outside. It was always cold, windy, snowy.

It began with my selection as part of an elite element. We were drivers. I don’t know the dream background but everyone had a role, either as part of management, as someone attending the cars, someone working in the world, or as a driver. I was pulled from the masses to be a driver.

Then, from the driving group, I was selected to drive a unique car, literally the only one we had like it. Turbocharged, it was started differently – you had to select fifth gear to start it – and I drove it on different missions than the ones the other drivers did. This car had more power and capabilities than the rest. I was pleased, flattered and honored, but I didn’t recognize what it did to my relationships. I no longer had to go outside, into the cold darkness where wind blew falling snow, and the accumulation, which never melted, created frigid, difficult decisions. That’s where I’d originated, and it was the place of my friends and co-workers, yet they always had to go back out there and never had time to stay and visit with me.

As for the other drivers, the other ‘elite’, they also had missions, but they did their missions in large groups. I always went out alone so I never really associated with them, either. They knew me, and mildly resented me, because I was elite among the elite.

So I was often alone, in the warm, lit building, surrounded outside by darkness and snow, where people waited, watching others go off on missions in their cars, while I drove my car alone.  Management was always busy, rarely glimpsed, with few interactions. I’d been given my assignment and was expected to do this.

Tiring of this, not liking this situation, I tried breaching the groups, inviting friends to come in from the outside and talk, trying to join them outside, but not fitting in, resented because I didn’t really have a reason to be there, giving my car to another to drive. But he couldn’t drive it, which exasperated me. It’s easy. I shifted to shunning my friends on the outside because they shunned me. I gave management little time because they gave me little time. And I looked for a newer, better car. It was out there, and I knew it. I just had to find it.

So the dream ended, on my determination to find my new, more powerful vehicle, certain it existed and certain I would find it, recognizing as I did, that I couldn’t go back to being one of the others.

I had gone on.

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Going Backwards

I dreamed I was going backwards last night.

It wasn’t a bad feeling, going backwards, although I was in a car, actually occupying the driver seat, and it wasn’t my car, but belonged to my late father-in-law, and it was a Prius, which I think is beyond what he would own. He was a Jeep man, fond of hunting and fishing.

But let’s step back to the dream.

I dream a lot. I don’t know the averages for people. Dreaming is a self-reported matter. According to people who study people, people aren’t reliable about self-reporting matters, and those are the people who would know.

My pa-in-law died in December of 1991, an intelligent, personable man from southern WV. A friend recently died, prompting me to think of friends, pets and relatives who have left one plane for another, but I don’t think that’s what this dream was about.

I was visiting him at his home, which, being a dream, wasn’t the home where he usually lives. I think dream experts tell us that dream houses represent ourselves. So do cars.

Which brings me to the car. Visiting my in-law, Jim, I gathered I was to drive his silver Prius (not the latest generation, but the last generation of car…an interesting side-bar, which could merit more inspection for its meaning in the dream), following a person driving another Prius that belonged to Jim (and, huh, also silver, it WAS the latest model). I thought we were going fishing. Fishing with Jim was a relaxing, meditative pastime, and a favorite. I miss fishing with Jim.

So I’m sitting in the Prius driver seat, waiting for the other fellow, when the car starts rolling backward. Jim and the others notice, frantically motioning for me to stop it. Of course, that’s what I want to do, but I’m unfamiliar with the car and don’t know where the brake is.

Can you believe that?

I think that confusion over something as simple as braking a modern car could be something to ponder.

Meanwhile, the car rolls down the driveway and into the street as I attempt to figure out what to do. Then, it stops.

That was enough for Jim. Like a TV sitcom, the next scene shows me being driven in the other Prius, indignant about being stripped of my right to drive another’s car. And then I arrive at a business and discover that I’m to intern there. Mildly astonished, I’m dressed in the sort of California Silicon Valley business cas that I wore for years so that’s not a problem. I also brought another pair of shoes, so I can take off my Nikes and put on something dressier, which I do. Wow, what strange forethought.

This isn’t a start up but a plush and modern office space. A guy is there, playing with a radio controlled electric car, racing it over the carpet. I watch him for a few moments before deciding I need to pee. Going to the first bathroom, I realize that their symbols for the bathroom’s sex are foreign to me (and they’re symbols, not letters). After looking at one, I go to the other restroom. There, I hear someone urinating. I think it sounds like a man so I begin entering. Two women exiting the restroom jokingly re-direct me. One knows who I am and why I’m there, and tells me she’ll inform HR that I’m there.

An HR woman arrives and tells me to go with her. But I can’t, I want to get my shoes, and also, where are my sunglasses? Ah, my shoes are on my feet and my sunglasses are in my hand.

A dream trend is developing.

I apologize for being there, explaining that I didn’t know that my father-in-law was going to set me up to intern, and get ready to tell my work history – twenty years in the USAF, a few years with different medical device start-ups, and then NetworkICE, ISS and IBM that culminates in another twenty years of work. The HR woman asks if my wife is coming. No, why would my wife be coming? She’s hoping she was because she liked her the last time. What? There’s discussion about my wife and her name and when she was there. That’s when the dream slides out of my awareness.

And now I see it all. The dream is about my confusion. What confusion? I’m not certain. See, the essence of being confused is that you’re unclear ’bout what’s going on.

I bet why I’m confused will come to me later, after I sleep on it.

 

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Love Story

In retrospect, I’m recommending a movie that came out in 1970. I’m speaking with people born in 1990 or later, because, see, they’re less than 25 years old. It’s thought arresting for me, that thes…

Source: Love Story

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Love Story

In retrospect, I’m recommending a movie that came out in 1970. I’m speaking with people born in 1990 or later, because, see, they’re less than 25 years old.

It’s thought arresting for me, that these folks, now 20-25, were just exiting the womb as I finished my twenty year military career. And the movie I’m recommending, ‘Love Story’ was released 20 years or more before they first breathed. Full disclosure: I was a ninth grader when the novel and movie exploded into my cultural sphere, entering mostly through the girls (like Melissa in Science, and Vicky and Joy, who lived up the street) in my classes in Penn Hills, Pennsylvania. For some reason, I was paying close attention to their opinions.

Gosh, darn, I’m not feeling old from this, just philosophical. I don’t think of it as proof I’m old but that I’m different from them, and born in an earlier year. I recall going through similar things with others. Those older than me were astonished I’d not heard of certain people or events. They were WWII vets who remembered hearing their grandparents’ stories about new inventions and stars of their day. Each generation has passed over this ground. We believe here and now imposes its will on all equally, that pop culture is homogenized for everyone’s intake even while we know we all have different tastes. But through repetition and mass exposure, we become conditioned to believe we’re all for one and one for all, watching DWTS, MNF, or TBBT. I remember asking a co-worker ten years older, “You haven’t heard of the song by David Bowie, ‘Fame’?” He, shaking his head, answered, “No. I don’t recognize it. Maybe I’ve heard it but I don’t know that title. I know who David Bowie is, of course, but I don’t know that song.”

He astonished me, that he didn’t know this song, which was being broadcast everywhere as part of the Top 40. Not everywhere, I know now.

Now, a few years ago, I heard joking references to this new phenomenal singer, what was his name, Justin something? Beaver? What?

(Just to clarify what I mean, because that’s how I am, I’m referring to Justin Bieber, and I enjoy his song, ‘Love Yourself’, learning of it through the car FM, enjoying the lyrics and mellow melody before discovering it was him.)

So, it isn’t surprising that I’m asking them, “You’ve never seen ‘Love Story?’ Based on the Erich Segal novel, with Ryan O’Neal and Ali McGraw?” (And it’s striking to me that I remember those details so vividly, when, while watching ‘All the Way’ on HBO the other night, I was asking myself, “Who is that actor? Where do I know him from?”)

And it’s not surprising that they’re shaking their head and replying, “No, no, who? Who?”

No, it isn’t surprising. And in twenty years, they’ll probably be asking someone something of the same thing that I asked them, as others asked me, inserting the event, movie, person, whatever.

Of course it won’t be the same as me asking them, or the older people asking me. After all, neither of them had the great rock music, television shows, movies, books and actors that I had when I was growing up.

Things were a lot better…then.

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I mark the small firsts

The first story I wrote. Shuddering and shaking my head, I recall it was just yesterday, sitting in sunshine, that I attempted a memorable first sentence, a yesterday that’s 37 years back on …

Source: I mark the small firsts

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I mark the small firsts

The first story I wrote. Shuddering and shaking my head, I recall it was just yesterday, sitting in sunshine, that I attempted a memorable first sentence, a yesterday that’s 37 years back on time’s circle.

The first joy from creating and telling a story.

The first rejection. Yes, that first form letter from Issac Asimov’s Science Fiction and Fantasy.

The first dejection and introspection on what went wrong. Introspection – another way of saying that my heart and soul were torn out of me, leaving burnt, shadowy images of my existence. Really.

The first book purchased on short story writing. Damon Knight’s book. Bought it through Writer’s Digest. It’s still up here on my bookshelf, to my right.

The first decision to try again. Not really a decision. Hurt and angry, I was certain I was a writer. Still trying to prove that, but I think most writers are always still trying to prove that in myriad ways.

The first pilgrimage to a writers’ conference to figure out how others do it. That was in the late 1980s, when I attended a writer’s conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio, chosen as much for what was being offered as its close proximity to home. I was in the Air Force and assigned to Germany then, so if I was going to the United States to attend a conference, I’d also visit Mom in Pittsburgh, PA.

A personal rejection from an editor or publisher, instead of the form rejections. I never met George Scithers, but he wrote me a beautiful rejection letter. I was upset because I was rejected but my wife pointed out the positives in the letter. TYVM, George Scithers.

The first critique group, and the first insights into the creative writing reading publishing editing marketing selling labyrinth. Some people like everything explained. Others want to unravel themselves. Some enjoy happy or Hollywood endings and some think life is gritty and there aren’t happy endings. After a while,  I recognized, just write what I enjoy. I know that what I enjoy is far of the mark for most people, but I’ll have one happy reader.

Finally, the first sale and publication. “Marketing Wars”, Abyss and Apex Magazine. Yes, I remember.

A fan, the first! Sure, it was my nephew but he’s smarter than me and effusive in his praise.

The first glimmer that I wanted to write a novel.

The first draft of the first novel.

The first overwhelming sickness when reading the first novel and realizing I’ve written a piece of shit. Still have it, with the promise, I will edit it. Yeah.

The first realization that every almost writer experiences this.

The first jealousy of other first writers’ debut successes. Yes, I get jealous of them, of their writing, their talent, their success, their interviews, their big money. But I hunt down information on them. I learned that Andy Weir wrote and was rejected and gave up for a while before The Martian. JK Rowling went to being an overnight sensation after years of efforts. Kathryn Stockett endured five years of rejections before The Help was published.

The first time that I sucked in my breath, grit my teeth, and told myself to keep writing. I don’t recall the exact date/time/space or the events surrounding it but I do recall sitting, fists clenched, sighing with dejection and thinking, do I want to keep trying?

And the first time that I realize that I don’t want to, nor stop, writing, no matter how hard it is. No, because writing is fun, satisfying, intrinsically rewarding. Concepts, ideas, stories  and characters wash in, an ocean that never stops. Many hit the beach and I wander along, picking them up, adding them to the collection. Some grab me tightly and don’t let go.

So I write.

By the way, Returnee, up there at the top, is the first novel I decided to self-publish. It’s available over on Amazon.

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