Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Bifloofual (catfintion) – a person who likes cats and dogs without showing a clear preference for either.
In use: “With a Jack Russell, Border Collie, and two Maine Coon cats, all rescues from miserable situations, he’d proven himself to be bifloofual, sharing his home, interest, and income (and of course his food and bed) with both feline and canine four-legged companions without compromise.”
I’ve noticed people doing this.
I’ve notice that I do it.
After completely something, say reading a few pages of a book, people take a deep breath, let it out, and say, “Okay.” Based on observations and personal experience, it’s a psychological preparatory step. They and I have been putting something off that we planned to do, something we’re not really happy about doing, I think. We keep telling ourselves that we’re going to do it. We’ve have the conversation with ourselves that we can’t put it off any longer, that we’ve stalled long enough, that we are going to do it, and we’re going to do it now.
“Okay.”
I don’t know where this comes from, but I suspect that I’m mimicking someone in the past, or maybe my wife. I’ve heard bosses say it in this same way. I hear myself say it, and I hear my spouse. I hear people in stores say it to themselves while they’re stocking shelves, and I hear it from baristas in coffee shops as they turn away from the counter.
Deep breath. Release. (Sometimes a sigh.) “Okay,” so soft, it’s like they’re talking to themselves.
I’ve heard it from all age groups, including a young girl. She seemed like a six-year old by size and expression. She was standing about six feet from a car. I saw her take the breath. I heard her say, “Okay.” Then she turned and walked back to the car.
“Okay.”
Okay seems like a uniquely American expression, even if some claims to its origins begin in Germany, Greek, Scotland, and Haiti, along with Puerto Rico and French Louisiana. I have heard it used in foreign television shows made in exotic places like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the U.K. I don’t know if the residents of those lands use okay in this context, as a final acknowledgement to oneself, it is time.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Okay.
Walking today, I passed a red car. My thoughts were drifting, and seeing the red car, I thought, I’ve never owned a red car.
Dad had owned a red Thunderbird. That began a stream of recollections about Dad’s cars. He’d owned a turquoise Thunderbird (with matching interior), a maroon Monte Carlo (also with matching interior), beige Corvette and a blue Corvette (guess what color their interiors were?), and a white Chevy Impala, along with a white Thunderbird. Both of the white cars had red interiors.
I thought, what an eclectic mix. But then I reviewed some of my car colors. I’d had a copper Camaro (black interior) and brown Firebird (with a tan interior), a green Mercedes (with matching interior), a white BMW (blue interior), silver Audi (gray interior), orange Porsche (brown and black interior), a silver RX-7 with a red interior, a blue RX-7 with a brown interior, and a black RX-7 with a black interior.
In each case, I’d not consciously decided on a color. It was more of a decision, this is the car for me.
Today’s song, “Going Down/Love In An Elevator,” came out in 1989. I was stationed in Germany with the USAF when it was released. It immediately became a unit favorite.
The album, Pump, was a damn good Aerosmith album, equal to the task for rocking old rockers and stimulating some new ones to join the ranks.
Hey, all you hep writers out there in writing land. Hope this post finds you in the writing groove on this first day of the eighth month of the eighteenth year of this new century.
When does this stop being the new century? It’s still a young century as the age of centuries go, just in its teens, which could be why it’s rebelling against everything and challenging every word. Just old enough to vote in some places, old enough to marry, depending upon where you live, and not old enough to drink in some areas, the century brings to mind Alice Cooper’s song, “I’m Eighteen.”
I got a Baby’s brain and an old man’s heart
Took eighteen years to get this far
Don’t always know what I’m talkin’ about
Feels like I’m livin in the middle of doubt
Cause I’m Eighteen
I get confused every day
Eighteen
I just don’t know what to say
Eighteen
I gotta get away
h/t to Genius.com
Sure sounds like this year and century, doesn’t it?
I sometimes feel that I’m eighteen as I go through my writing processes. Each writing session offers its own challenges and rewards. When I measure it all, I hope the results are worth it, but there are times, man, there are times when confused, disparaging whispers echo in the chasms of my mind.
I prevail, in the same fashion as most writers, by venting, raging, sulking, drinking, reading, shrugging, and writing, and then writing more. I often wonder what I’d be like had I not heard the writing call, but then, I wonder about that with every area of my life. What if I’d not married the woman that I did, or what if I hadn’t joined the military, and so on, as billions upon billions of people have done.
In the end, August of 2018 feels a lot like January of 2018, a hopeful period that also looks daunting.
Time to write like it’s 1999.
Floofbeard (flooffinition) – an accumulation of hair on your face from your pet’s demonstrations of affection.
In use: “Quinn leaped up onto Michael’s lap and then marched straight up to Michael’s face. After mewing a greeting, Quinn began purring, rubbing his face against Michael’s cheeks and chin, and nipping Michael’s chin and nose. Within seconds, Michael had acquired a floofbeard.”
Michael Seidel, writer 