We Three Cats

With apologies to ‘We Three Kings’.

 

We three cats

are asking for food.

Nothing special,

just something to chew.

Kibble, wet food or treats will do-oo;

but not that bread,

noooo, thank you.

The Way Of Progress

the cave wall went away, replaced by stone tablets

stone tablets went away, replaced by scrolls

scrolls went away, replaced by books

books went away, replaced by computers

computers went away, replaced by the web

the web went away, replaced by the cloud

the cloud went away, replaced by AI

AI went away, replaced by

How to Use Different Methods of Time Travel in Fiction

I’m almost obsessive about time, time-travel (and the apparent inherent paradoxes), and the concepts of reality (and ‘now’). (If you doubt that, read my novel, “Everything Not Known”, in which realists and creationists compete to master and control reality in battles which we do not know are taking place.) I’m really excited about Kip Thorne’s work, but I’m starting to take it all way, way further. While I have in no sense understanding of time from a physics point of view, I like speculating that humans misconstrue time and its impact. The is the primary drive behind the novel in progress, “Long Summer” (sequel to “Returnee). Fun thinking.

A Normal Special Day

Cold drizzle glistened on the asphalt, darkening the cement, and dismaying the cats. Quinn and Meep ran for the door when I opened it. Tucker and Boo were already back inside. Pepper curled as sentry by a potted plant on the porch’s corner. Safe from the moisture, her thick black and rust coat kept her warm.

Gathering in the morning as I shifted and shivered through the forty-four degree dampness, collected the paper and hunted the gray shroud for signs of blue, I thought, the weather forecast is off. We will not reach the mid seventies today. Returning to my office in the house, I checked the forecast for updates. They insisted that right now, it was partly cloudy, so my eyes were deceiving me, because I saw no blue sky. The Weather Underground site also held firm it would be in the sixties by ten AM, with a high in the mid seventies. I didn’t believe them.

The weather had otherwise little impact on my days’ plans, except I wouldn’t be able to paint more furniture in those conditions. Exercising, cleaning, dressing, I went to the coffee shop, had a QSM and wrote. Instead of shorts, I was in jeans, and wore a sweatshirt, along with my Tilly hat. The sunglasses seemed like an optimistic statement but I kept them on.

Afterward, sunshine had shyly approached through some flimsy openings. The air had gained a little heat, if I was fully exposed to the sun. Shadows introduced chills, and the wind had a wintry bite. While it was now sixty, I doubted seventy was possible, but I was beginning to believe.

Dressed for the chillier air, my wife and I went downtown. Holding hands, we strolled through Lithia Park where the shimmering maples displayed split coats of red and green leaves, and enjoyed coffee at a table huddling in partial sunshine. Window shopping books, shoes, clothing and real estate in Main Street stores’ displays followed, and then we attended the mid-afternoon showing of Snowden. Long, the movie held our attention, with the usual acting expected of Joseph Gordon Levitt and the remaining cast, and Oliver Stone’s production values.

More walking progressed afterward as we discussed what we recalled of Edward Snowden and the press coverage of his activities. By now, the clouds had fled. A rich sun ruled and the temperature was seventy-six. I felt warm and overdressed. We dined at an outdoor table at a Chinese restaurant we wanted to try, and I enjoyed a Worker Ale. A drop in to a store to pick up a small dessert was last, and then the short drive home.

A clear sunset was falling when we turned into the driveway. And we both said as we arrived home and the garage door closed behind us, “That was a very nice outing.” Yes, low key, well paced, relaxed, like walking through a comfortable book.

More days so normal should be so special.

Fourteen Reasons Why Writing Sucks and You Shouldn’t Do It

A high percentage of people think there’s a book in them. Many think there’s a novel, or a memoir or autobiography. They think they can and should write a book, but they never do.

Then there are idiots like me. We write books. We gleefully leap forward with pens and paper, typewriters, laptops and keyboards, issuing a battle cry, “A novel in a month! Ten thousand words a day! I can do it. I shall do it. Give me a cup of coffee and stand back.”

There are reasons you shouldn’t.

  1. Writing is solitary. Writing is solitary. WRITING IS SOLITARY.
  2. Writing requires a soldier’s discipline and courage, but there’s no one coaxing you to go on. Few will do much to encourage you. Sometimes they’ll ask, “Oh, are you still writing that book? What’s it about again?”
  3. There’s not much reward in writing. Yes, sometimes a word, sentence, paragraph or chapter will launch you beyond the stratosphere with its sheer brilliance. You’re so far off the ground when you’re walking that you’re looking down on others’ balding crowns. You don’t need crosswalks because you’re above it all.
  4. But the next day, that brilliant diamond has become a turgid stool. Taking your head in your hands, you rub your chin, jaw, cheeks, temples, forehead, trying to erase it from your mind and thinking, “That sucks.” Nobody argues with you because YOU ARE ALONE.
  5. Money in writing? Yes, I received my royalty payments this week. Should I buy a cup of coffee or a candy bar?
  6. Writing is hard on your body. You need to stick your ass into a seat and hold it pressed there for hours as your buttocks slowly numb. Don’t think about what it’s doing to your circulation and muscle tone. Your hands cramp from clutching a pen and scribbling, or from moving a mouse and clicking as you copy and paste or highlight and delete. Or carpal tunnel syndrome inflames your hands, but you push on, writing, typing, whatever.
  7. The pursuit of writing can destroy your psyche and social life. Every spoken word heard, sights seen, glances exchanged, sulks, stumbles, confessions, cries and hugs trigger a sentence, scene, insight. The writer within you sucks you out of the moment and into their space. Others’ joys, triumphs, tragedies, deformities, abnormalities, accomplishment, history, hopes and betrayals burrow into your writing mind and festers with a new story arc, plot twist or character.
  8. Perhaps the worst aspect of writing is how addictive it is. Exploring lives, stories, tales, situations, and scenes infuse powerful highs. It’s mesmerizing to wonder who, what, how, why, when, and piece letters into words into sentences into paragraphs into moments into stories into novels.
  9. Writing requires unending segments of deep thought to consider all the things going into your work in progress. That thinking never ends, distracting you from life enveloping you. You awaken in surprise to discover the yard needs work, you need a haircut, it’s September, three fourths of the year gone, a new season upon us, the tsunami of the holiday season and year’s end climbing over you.
  10. It’s hard to quit.

These only apply to me, of course. Other writers don’t have these problems. Their thoughts are light as they type, and when they’re finished for the day, they stand and stretch, and go out hiking, dancing, singing, gardening, whatever. They have a solid, engaging life beyond the typing page.

I listed fourteen as the title because it sounded good, but I only have ten, the ten that count for me, the ten that really don’t matter at all. If you’re a writer, you can probably come up with four more. I would, but I need to go write.

7 Tips for Making Time to Write

Besides these intelligent tips, my #1 difference was deciding that I needed to make writing a high priority. I began treating it as a very important part of my day, and I told others that I couldn’t do things because I needed to write. Then, they became supportive and helped me stick to my schedule.

Before This

There were ice ages.

Dinosaurs.

Neanderthals.

Bone and stone tools.

Woolly mammoths.

Saber tooth tigers.

Tribes.

Hunters and gatherers.

Simple farmers.

Rising religions.

Emerging civilizations.

Slavery.

Cities.

States.

 

Steel swords.

Castles and knights.

Powerful rulers.

Empires and kings.

Bows and arrows.

Wooden sailing ships.

Daring explorers.

Wars and victories.

Death and plagues.

Nations.

NASDAQ.

Repeating rifles.

Gunslingers.

Horse and buggies.

 

Covered bridges.

Joseph Horne’s.

Sears, Roebucks and company.

The Model T.

Mom and pop stores.

Five and dime stores.

Movie theaters.

Nuclear power.

Pizza joints.

Record players.

Cable TV.

Shopping malls.

Sock hops.

Howard Johnson’s.

FM radio.

Men on the moon.

VCRs.

CDs.

DVDs.

The Internet.

Satellite TV.

WalMart.

Cell phones.

Organic foods.

 

 

 

 

Bird by Bird: Book, Blurb & Collage

I think most writers I’ve encountered have discovered Bird by Bird. It’s a powerful book, and helpful to struggling new writers. I recommend it to other writers. It may not resonate with you, but give it a shot. You never know which book holds the key that helps you move forward, and if you dismiss them without reading them, you may never find your key.

Corey Truax's avatarCorey Truax

bird by bird, Anne Lamott.jpg

This is a quote collage I tossed together to highlight some of the content from the book.  Clicking the image will send you over to Flickr where you can view it in high-res.  This is free to share and use however you would like.

I finished reading Anne Lamott’s, Bird by Bird, a couple weeks ago and am happy to share it with all of you today.  This is a call-to-action book about writing that I would highly recommend.  It was suggested to me by someone here on the blog, but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find the comment.  Regardless, it was a great suggestion (thank you nameless person!).

bird by bird.jpgIf you’re unfamiliar with Lamott’s voice and style, it’s witty and has some kick to it.  For me, that’s always a plus.  What she does amazingly well is talk from the heart about the struggles most writers face (more…

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The Cat Crew

The cat crew continues growing.

In the beginning…there was Quinn the Black Paw (a Quintessential cat), Lady and Scheckter. The latter two passed away. Arriving in that same period was Tucker, a tired, wounded and hungry black and white stray who exhibits some Maine Coon traits.

Meanwhile, Meep (aka, the Prince or the Little Price, the Orange Blade or Blade, Doppelganger or Doppel (because he so resembled a miniature version of Scheckter that we were sometimes confused)) is fed two or three times a day and given shelter. He is supposed to be Garfield (of course, other than being orange, he is not a Garfield) and belong to other people but they don’t let him into their home and he seems to prefer our company. He and Tucker have loud, angry clashes.

Living in the master bedroom and backyard (because he and Tucker have had a few skirmishes and are still adjusting) is Boo Radley, a big black cat with a small white cirrus cloud on his chest and belly, and no tail. Boo has behavior issues of his own. An older and intelligent fellow, he also has arthritis in one of his back legs.

Pepper is a brown and black calico. She’s lived next door to us for ten years. Yet, in 2015, she took up residence on our front porch, often staying there day into night into day, begging food whenever the op arises. She’s given the other cats’ leftovers.

That’s the primary stable of five. New to the program are Buddy and Princess.

Buddy lives across the street. A small, black, vocal and social male, he’s recently taken to begging food a few times a day. We accommodate him with kibble but more than anything else, Buddy just wants someone to talk to him, and pet and scratch him. So we do this.

Next and newest is a gorgeous little sweet gray and white kitty, Princess. Princess is supposed to own some people in the Ashlanders Apartment complex, located about a football throw away. But she started coming around with matted fur, begging for sustenance, and sigh, we could not say no.  Now she’s out there every morning in the 40 degree chill, and every night, at about seven PM, just as the sun descends.

So, as sevencatsandcounting would say, we’re taking care of seven cats in one way or another. Only three are ‘officially’ ours, but when a cat selects you to join their clowder, what choice exists? I have yet to learn how to gracefully abdicate that position.

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