There's a murder on my lawn.

 Dear Reader,

One of my Beloved's favorite type of birds are crows. There's a small murder on the lawn pecking at the cracked corn he scattered all over the place. It's been interesting to watch the birds while I'm stuck in writer's block. I have started looking over past posts in this blog to see what loose ends I can pick up and start working with again. The first one that stood out to me was the critical analysis of The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. My feelings towards this book are complicated. The first time I read through it, I found it highly inspirational and a source of encouragement. Subsequent read throughs, I started finding problems in it and places where Ms. Cameron is socially blind to the limitations of people who are disabled and who have financial security problems. I don't think this is intentional per se, but rather a case of someone of a certain social standing assuming that others have access to the resources that they did. 

To say this more bluntly, I don't think Ms. Cameron can envision a person attempting to write a novel on paper napkins that came with their takeout order, because they don't have access to anything else to write on. I had the good fortune of not being in that place, but there are many who are. Some people have the reaction of 'pish, a composition notebook is just a few bucks.' But when your budget is tight and that composition notebook sitting in your shopping cart is needed for your child who is going to start school in a few weeks, you don't pick up a second one because it will cut into how much you have to get that damned expensive graphing calculator that's perilously close to breaking your budget.

And then there is the question of time. A philosopher will tell you that time is infinite. A physicist may agree and have some fancy equations to prove it. But our lives are finite which means our time in this world is finite. People love to quote that we weren't born to pay taxes and die. But if you're working a grueling job and taking care of your family, including some relatives outside your household, you are going to have a hard time finding the time or the energy to write a few poems or sketch some doodles in a notebook. And quite often the people in this position are also on the super tight budgets because they're living paycheck to paycheck and praying that they're going to get a tax return to help pay off the car.

Just as people have the reaction that you can afford a cheap notebook, there are people who say if you simply organize more and use the latest fad organizational system then you will magically have time for your artistic inclinations. The closest to that which you are going to find me endorsing is creative time management. While dinner is cooking in the oven, take that 45 min time to work a little on your chosen craft. Allow yourself to skip leg day if it's healthy to do so and take an hour to do some kind of creative work. Also remember, creative work is more than cranking out art like some kind of machine. It requires fuel/food in the form of exposure to other's work. So, that cheezy romance novel that you read to keep yourself from smoking during your cigarette break at work is helping to fill the well of ideas even as it keeps you occupied for 15 min.

As Beloved has put it to me: how do you eat an elephant? one bite at a time. Each small task that you do towards your creative work is a victory against all the distractions. Stolen moments and creative engineering of your resources leads you to where you are engaged in the great work.

Craft of Writing: Bringing it Back to Basics.

 Dear Reader,

First, I wish to apologize for my lack of posts. My life has been hectic and I have been dealing with a fair amount of off-line trouble that has kept me from posting. Instead of writing inspirational bits for you, I am going to share with you what I am working on with my son as I am tutoring him this summer to get him ready for 11th grade. (Where the hell did the time go? It seems like yesterday he could barely scribble with a crayon. Now he's working on writing his own novel by hand.)

I will be breaking things down to a point that you may feel like it's a review of elementary school material. There is a purpose for this process. Writing anything is like making a building and you must know the fundamental tools and materials of your process in order to succeed. A special focus will be placed on figurative language's relationship to the rest of English. My sons both have difficulty with figurative language and I notice that there are others who have trouble with it as well as I am out and about. 

Before we get to figurative language, however, we're going to be looking at sentence construction and paragraph construction next week.

I have not abandoned this blog.

 Hello, everybody!

I want to first apologize for my extended absence. I have been having some rather severe health issues since that bout with Covid last year. Pretty much all of the impact my ability to write in some fashion. The persistent exhaustion and the brain fog are the biggest problems. I can not promise daily posts. I haven't the stamina for that yet. But I will attempt to post something on a weekly basis, at the very least. 

I have no new books to announce. I have no interesting developments for the Iron Lily or Dacia's War. As I mentioned, I've been having a hard time thinking clearly. It's made writing common words difficult and I have difficulty with getting sentences out while I'm speaking because of this brain fog. I'll be talking to my primary care doctor about all of this. One of the specialists that I see because of my disabilities brought up the prospect of Long Covid as I described what was going on and asked if it was possibly due to side effects of my medications.

This doctor's appointment on Friday is going to be a less than awesome experience if this is the case. It's bad enough to be discussing diabetes (which really sucks regardless of what type you have). That gets my nerves going, now I have this other potential problem on top of that to make me nervous. Ugh. 

I will do my best to have something more pleasant, interesting, and on topic for you next week.

Grinding your way forward does not match well with sickness.

 Dear Reader,

I was pretty seriously sick for most of the period that I wasn't updating here. I kept starting blog posts and then giving up because I couldn't think clearly to put together a sentence. Then I caught Covid. At first, I vainly thought that it was going to be a mild case because I'm vaccinated and I got my booster shot. Then came the dizzy spells that threatened to knock me down. There was a laundry list of symptoms that showed up over the first few days that I had it which made it harder and harder to function. No matter how strong your desire and will to do things, they're no match to dizzy spells that make you feel like you're on a tilt-a-whirl. And the exhaustion, oh good grief, I still have some of that fun lingering. (My go to solution for being tired in the morning did not work. I was drinking coffee because it soothed my sore throat it was odd.)

Sometimes, you just can't grind your way forward. The situation will force you to stop and rest. It will thwart your desires and possibly shake your confidence. In these moments, attack in the opposite direction and take cover. Rest, stay hydrated, and let the hellishness pass over you. Your work will still be waiting for you as you wait for the hallucinations stop. And, you never know, somewhere in the midst of the misery that you thole, you may find gold that you can use somewhere else, if you can remember it.

If you're not well, take care of yourself. The great work can wait until you're back on your feet.

Please forgive my extended absence.

 Dear Friends,

Life got screwy around here and I was having trouble being grounded enough to do my daily chores let alone my writing in any format. When that problem more or less resolved itself, I caught Covid and was sick for a month. To say the least it has been a trying experience. I am not going to make any promises that I'll be back in form for writing every day. But I am going to try. Some of this will mean preloaded blog posts that were written several days before hand and some of this may include reposting of old content (as a last resort). If nothing else, I may post a few funny memes that I have had sent to me.

I am still dealing with a lot of exhaustion and some other symptoms, but I am much better than I was last week. This has me hopeful that I can get writing done, possibly across all formats. Covid was an awful experience, even with the milder Omicron variant (which we caught at my house from school). The anti-viral medications are serious business but they taste awful and you have to choke down 4 pills per dose. I guess that's better than a horse pill, but it wasn't easy. Fortunately, I and none of my family lost our sense of smell or taste.

My eldest is making noises that he feels like he's caught a cold. Given that was how he felt when he caught Covid, I'm a little nervous. My youngest is just fine and had mild flu symptoms for his experience. And Beloved was taking care of all of us as he had the sniffles. It was a strange experience to have the whole household sick with the same thing and displaying different variants of how it manifests. I also envy the living daylights out of my husband's immune systems. It always happens like this, I get sick and I'm flat on my back for at least a week and he gets the sniffles. As he says "Well, somebody's supposed to take care of you." He's a sweet heart but I still envy his immune system. LOL

I could go on an extended rant about how my region has decided to treat Covid like it's the flu but I won't because that's a bit too far afield from the purpose of this blog. To say the least, I am not happy with it and my kids want to go to a school board meeting to demand the reinstitution of the mask protocol from last year. This is a big thing given how they dislike public speaking. But, we're all muddling by as best we can. I've finally turned something of a corner in my recovery as my congestion is clearing up. Now I just need more energy and I can get stuff done. But such is life when you get sick, right?

Editing is like pulling hen's teeth.

 Dear Reader,

I am currently working on line edits for a book in the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar series. It is slow going and exhausting. I have discovered places where one character wound up with three different names. I have found typos galore. It isn't pretty. And this doesn't account for the fact that I still have to reformat the page size and type font for the entire document. 

Some of you may say, "Deb, why don't you hire an editor?"

The simple answer is that I'm broke. The extra money that could have gone towards getting this professionally edited and proofread is going towards my son's braces. It's the same reason why I haven't done anything like those nifty book trailers that you've seen on Facebook or paid for advertising. I just don't have the cashflow to make it happen. It forces me to sit down and go through a document a good six or seven times before I deem it ready for publication. It can take months, especially when my depressive episodes sap my ability to think clearly.

At one point, my mother-in-law told me how I needed an agent. She was convinced that if I had an agent that one of the big traditional publishers would be interested in my series of books. I mean, it's not everyday that someone says "Hey, we've got the first third of a thirty book series right here and it's not half bad. We just need to put it to press and slap a better cover on it." The problem is, since I have gone independent publishing, they want to see big purchase numbers before they are even remotely interested.

I don't have big purchasing numbers. I'm a small fish in a big ocean in a market that's rather glutted. It requires me to push advertising and the money for that is going for household needs and my kids' needs. If I won big ticket lotto, maybe I'd throw money in this direction. I don't know. By now, editing myself is a habit. Finish writing a book, set it aside for a few months, and then start the long process of edits and read throughs. I've gotten halfway decent at it, despite the word processor's attempts to correct my spellings and such.

I am very 'type a' about my writing. It is part of the reason why I am an independent author. I want that creative control over pretty much everything. I've heard horror stories from some traditionally published authors about how the manuscript got butchered in the editing and formatting process until it no longer resembled what they wrote. It happens a fair amount of time from what I have heard. I may not sell well, but I am telling the story that I want to tell. Not something that is watered down and filled with hype oriented concepts that will make it more 'appealing'. It's a measure of freedom that I don't think I am going to give up. Authenticity in my writing is the most important thing right after making sure that I get character names right and I clean up all the typos.

Science Fiction: Rs = 2GM/c^2

 Dregan heard the old intercom crackle to life as the Librarian gave orders for security to assist the technicians maintaining the Archive, to open the seed vaults, and prepare for an evacuation of the station. At the same time, via the link in his brain that connected him to the data network, the ship, and Angel, Dregan could hear something like static and a high speed code being transmitted. "Aeolus," Dregan said, "What is that code?"

"Security in the fore quarters of the building are being ordered to seize me. They will not succeed. Remain on the level below, as per my captain's direction. She is coming to meet you."

"You are a research class vessel, Aeolus," Dregan thought, slipping into a darkened doorway to hide from security officers moving past him, "How are you going to hold off an army?"

"Plasma thrusters to forward position. Maeson, you're on my six. Once we breech the building, we're going to take over the data network and bring the Librarian to his knees. Dregan, hold on level two beneath the primary atrium. Be ready for a second wave of forces. I want you to tell me if they're bringing the goods or not." Angel's voice sounded in his head, "Observe and hold position unless they're about to drop you."

Dregan pushed the door at his back open and stepped into the room, allowing it to swing shut partially. As he watched the Librarian came striding down the hallway with a young child in his arms. The child said to the Librarian, "But, Father, I do not want to die." The Librarian set the child down in the center of the lower atrium. He looked around the room at the different hallways leading off to different parts of the complex. 

"You were born to die," the Librarian said, "As are we all for the greater good of humanity." Dregan turned and looked around the room. Finding a chef's knife in the tiny space that served as a kitchenette for the security officer quartered there, Dregan picked it up and slid back to the doorway to watch. The Librarian took out their own knife and looked about again. "I know you're here somewhere, Dregan," the Librarian called, "Come out or I start with this one first."

Dregan opened the door as the Librarian's black velvet clad back was to him. Dregan darted forward, holding the chef's knife in his right hand and reaching out with his left as he rushed past the Librarian with terrific speed. Before the Librarian could do anything, Dregan had grabbed up the toddler clone and rushed into a room on the opposite side of the atrium. Dregan set the clone down on the floor. "Hide," Dregan said, "I'll deal with him. You're not going to die today."

The Librarian's footsteps echoed in the room with the arched ceiling and elaborate murals. "Dregan," the Librarian said, "You're not going on that ship." Dregan looked around the room and spotted a filet knife in a sink waiting to be washed. Dregan took it up and held both knives along his forearms in a reversed grip. "You may be a brawler, Dregan," the Librarian said, "But I know hundreds of knife work techniques in an array of historical cultures. I'm going to carve you to pieces. I've been waiting for this day for a long time."

Dregan stepped out of the doorway of the officer's quarters. As he did so, the door slowly swung shut behind him. "You talk too much," Dregan said as he began to pace around the Librarian.

"And you don't talk enough," the Librarian answered, "I have tried for thirty years to get you to give me the key to synchronization sickness. You are the only one who has survived it. I will carve open your head and inspect your link. I will upload the data into the core system and I will learn what ..."

Dregan darted forward and brought his left knife into play. The Librarian blocked it with his own knife as Dregan's right knife buried itself into the Librarian's guts. The Librarian looked shocked. Dregan's knife ripped upwards until it hit the sternum. Then Dregan angled the knife into the Librarian's chest and through his heart. As the Librarian sank to his knees, he said weakly, "That's not cloak and dagger technique."

"Aeolus, hack the Librarian's link again and upload all usable data," Dregan said.

"That will require uploading his entire consciousness," Aeolus said.

"Surely there's a data stack he can be dumped into storage in," Dregan said as the noise of fighting filtered down from above.

Aeolus didn't reply. The ship began the data upload even as the first shot with the plasma thruster was fired. The blast doors of the upper atrium were scorched but seemed still impenetrable. The Librarian's last thought before the data transfer was complete was terror and the sensations of indescribable pain as he was ripped from his dying body. "Data transfer complete. Data is stable and the personality is intact. The Librarian is now in stasis," Aeolus said, "Incoming forces on your level. Processing. The majority are not hostile. The hostile forces against you number sixteen."

"Spec-fucking-tacular," Dregan muttered. The toddler clone opened the door and looked at the body of the Librarian at Dregan's feet. They then looked up at Dregan. 

"Are you Father now?" the child asked.

"Sure, why not." Dregan said. The child sat down, closed their eyes and concentrated. Through the neural-linked data network of the clones, the child sent them the image of the Librarian's corpse and Dregan with the message that Dregan was now Father to the clones.

"Father, should my brothers and sisters continue to try to take the ship?" the child asked.

"No, the should stand down and assist in the rescue mission. Have them open the blast doors before they're turned into slag."

Aeolus and Angel, by virtue of their synchronized link with Dregan's mind could hear this conversation. Aeolus rotated the plasma thrusters back into their usual position. Angel continued walking down the gangplank with Maeson at her back. "Get ready, we're going to see how loyal these clones are to Father," Angel said. The blast doors of the main entrance of the seed vault complex opened. The armed clones stepped back and formed a corridor down the center of the space to the elevator down to the second level. Maeson felt sweat trickle down his back as the red haired man hoped that no one had an itchy trigger finger.

"Come upstairs, lover-boy," Angel said. Dregan took the toddler by the hand and helped them to their feet. They walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors hissed open and they stepped in. When the elevator doors opened, Dregan's breath caught in his throat. She looked older. Her inky black hair now had streaks of grey and there were a few wrinkles on her face, but it was Angel. Dregan let go of the child's hand and rushed forward opening his arms.

Maeson brought up his rifle but Angel dropped her weapon. She let herself be caught up in Dregan's ferocious embrace. As he buried his face in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, he gave a single body wracking sob. "I thought they killed you," he whispered.

"Funny," she answered in a choked voice, "I thought the same. I went off world after the company scrambled my brain. Aeolus unscrambled it." Maeson looked around, visibly uncomfortable. He coughed and muttered something about the damned cold. "Shut up Maeson, let me have my moment," Angel muttered back at him. Dregan gave a bark of laughter and straightened, still holding Angel close to him. He reached up and touched her grey hair.

"Silver looks good on you," he murmured.

"Father, where do we put the seeds? Where do we put the food and clothes?" the child clone at his side asked, tugging on the hem of his shirt. Dregan looked down at the clone with eyes like his and sighed. He let go of Angel and stooped to pick up the toddler who spoke like an older child.

"Creche?" Angel asked. The child looked at her.

"I can run five hundred simulations of the Creche in my pod," the child said. Angel paled slightly. Things earthside were far worse than she had thought. "Will we be bringing the pods?"

Aeolus's voice came through the speakers of the intercom system and the neural-links of all cybernetically enhanced units. "The Creche is not in my system and the sleeping pods are not linked into my system. Once we go starside, you will be free to decide if you wish to remain linked. The neural-link system you have depends on the satellites. Education will be provided as requested about the neural-link systems and their functions. At this time, please begin loading the hold with goods."

~ Fin ~

This serial story was a fun ride into science fiction. It holds a couple of clues as to the scifi project that I have sitting on the back burner. The origins of this story go back to 1998 when I was bored in Calculus class. The neural-link concept dates to then. Sorry, Mr. Musk, but I've got dated paper records on this project and a list of people who can attest to it.