An Editor Tackles the Topic of Deadlines…a truly scary word

By Stacey Rhodes Birkel (Guest Blogger)

Lisabet was kind enough to invite me back today to talk about deadlines. Of course, writing this post was an exercise in meeting one, since it was one of those unfortunately frequent, odd little to-do’s that pop up often enough to mess with any sort of schedule I try to adhere to. Lisabet even gave me a deadline for getting this post to her…and if that’s not ironic, I don’t know what is.

So the word “deadlines” has been flashing in my head all week. However, it wasn’t until I sat down to write this post that I really looked at the word “deadline”.

Dead. Well, we all know what that means. Rather ominous, isn’t it?

Line. Likely from the proverbial line in the sand, which in and of itself can have two meanings. Either it’s a point not to be crossed without dire consequences, or it refers to an act after which there is no going back. No do-overs.

Huh. Yeah. Not a very friendly word to say the least. It actually seemed rather tame to me until I broke it down just now. Now, it just scares the pants off me. It also makes me think about the power I wield. Because not only am I a writer dealing with inevitable and multiple “do-not-pass” dates for submitting, returning and approving of my own work, I also dole those dates out on a daily basis.

Yes…I am one of the dreaded editors.

Right now, I edit for over fifty authors, both for a publishing house and freelance for authors who self-publish. This means that I have literally dozens of manuscripts in various stages of the editing process to keep track of and “chase” at any given time. And I’ll tell you right now, without deadlines, it would devolve into utter chaos (as opposed to controlled chaos).

Now, I’ll tell you right now—I’m a born procrastinator. Fortunately, I also hate conflict, which means when the chips are down and something is looming that will cause a hot mess if it’s not completed, I will pull out all the stops to get it done. Very tough to do on the creative side, I know. Believe me, I feel you. I have wrestled with my muse over something that has to be in, but that I just can’t seem to finish, often enough to have real empathy for my authors when it’s just not flowing.

Unfortunately, time just keeps marching along, and when you have a long, involved process to complete that takes multiple people, at some point—this is where the deadlines come in—you have to begin or it will never get done in time.

The ultimate deadline that we all have driving us in this industry is the publishing date—the release date. Everything works backwards from that sought-after point at which the completed product is available to the public. Allowances? Can occasionally be made. Shortcuts? Sure, we have them and we use them. But they only really work if it’s an exception, and not happening with more than one person in the process.

Here’s a (mostly) fictional example. An author has promised a completed manuscript to me by a certain date. Life happens, the muse takes a vacation, the author gets sick…whatever it is (and sometimes more than one thing). Of course, I’m going along and working on dozens of other manuscripts with dozens of other authors. But I keep looking at my tracking sheet. Missing Title isn’t in to me yet. I email for a status update. I get a response, promising it by another date…past the deadline, but the author is soooo close to finishing.

I’m understanding. I give the author a bit of leash. Then I turn around and tell the publisher, yes, Missing Title will be coming, please bear with us.

Time passes…as does the new date. I get an email from the publisher, wanting a status update on Missing Title. I contact the author once again. This could go on for some time. And yes, it could result in the “ultimate deadline” ie the release date, being pushed back.

This is why: without the manuscript I can’t evaluate and approve it for contracting. It is only at that point I can have the author fill out the paperwork to start the contracting process. Then someone else has to get the contracts out to the author (and the editor and the cover artist), so if that typically happens in a batch once a week, there will either be a wait, depending on where in the week we are, or the person who does that part has to stop what they’re doing and make an exception, which throws them out of their routine.

Then once contracted, we can actually “touch” the book. I can start edits. The cover artist can start their job. The website person can create the book page. That’s a lot of people waiting to start work and possibly having to do things out of synch or out of order because a deadline wasn’t met. Keeps going on down the line. Until I finish the editing process, the proofers can’t do their jobs, the person who creates versions for release can’t do their jobs, pre-sales can’t happen, etc.

(Believe me when I say, I have a lot of respect for my own editors and their time now that I know everything that happens behind the scenes.)

Now…imagine that perhaps the author doesn’t turn the second round of edits around quickly because they’re out of town. Or the cover artist has a sick kid. Or the formatter has a two-week holiday planned.

Imagine there are two or four or ten authors asking for extensions or ignoring emails. (Because it’s never just one at a time. Oh no.)

Yeah. Welcome to my reality.

Which is why, in retrospect, the frightening aspect of my breakdown of the word “deadline” fits pretty well after all.

When Stacey isn’t politely emailing her authors or working on their edits, she occasionally manages to crank out a few pages under her pen name of Devon Rhodes.

My first...and last...poem

My apologies for piggybacking on Garce's Wednesday....I swear it's still Tuesday where I live!

This is a poem I wrote for a magazine contest when I was in elementary school. It didn't win, but it stuck with me as the only poetic effort I've ever been able to pull off. Unfortunately, it's one thing to write something like this as a kid. As an adult, though, my poetry still comes out sounding like a fifth grader wrote it!


Written here from memory....


I won't forget my days with you.
Your memory will not leave my view,
For you have changed my life, you see,
And in my heart you'll always be.

Your friendship is my greatest prize.
It warms my heart like summer skies.
In darkest shadows of the night,
Your friendship brings a guiding light.

And now I see through all my tears,
I'll never lose you through the years.
No matter what, we'll never part,
For I have locked you in my heart.


On that very relevant note, it's with regret that I'm announcing my "retirement" from OGG sometime this month. I've been struggling to find my centre during some personal upheaval, and it's clear to me that I need to reduce my commitments until I get my feet back under me. It's been wonderful, and I'll definitely still follow along with the Grippers, and hopefully be invited back once in a while for a guest post!

A Tale of Three Moms

It's hard for me to write dispassionately about 'Motherhood' or try to be creative with the topic at this point in my life, so instead, I'll retell a story about what was foremost in my mind this Mother's Day and explain why it is a sobering topic for me.

Around the holidays, a year and a half ago, Mom was literally fighting for her life... and hanging on by a thread. She had been diagnosed with leukemia in May, fought a losing battle with chemotherapy over the summer, and nothing was helping to stem the advance of the cancer in her blood and bone marrow. With the classification that she fell into, her prognosis at the time of diagnosis was well short of six months.

Then a miracle happened...her doctor was able to convince the insurance company to approve a bone marrow transplant despite her age at the time (63) being beyond their normal range. That was followed closely by a second miracle...she didn't have to wait for a donor match. Her own brother, who lived 4 miles away from her and was still in good health at 65, tested to be a perfect match for donation. Sibling donations have the highest success rate, and we crossed our fingers that Mom could hold out long enough to stabilize for and undergo the god-awful pre-procedure chemo and radiation.

So just before Thanksgiving the year before last, she was given the transplant, and we waited while her body fought both the cancer and the 'invading' new bone marrow cells. That Thanksgiving holiday was filled with worry and hope.

As December began, she started slipping away. Her counts were proceeding 'normally', but she was becoming delirious and eventually unresponsive. An unexpected allergic reaction to her anti-rejection medication sent her into a coma due to fluid buildup in the brain called PRES syndrome. 1700 miles away, I could only wait for news. She was moved to intensive care and the second week of December I received a call needing permission to place her on a ventilator as a respiratory infection set in.

At that point I could wait no longer, and scheduled my flight to South Dakota. I hadn't seen her since August, and barely recognised her; her hair was gone, she was 30 pounds lighter, and she was hooked up to every piece of medical support equipment you can imagine. I walked into her empty house alone that night and the utter silence was the strangest sensation, looming as an omen, as if she was already gone.

They showed me the MRI's of her brain, dark and while areas everywhere...awful looking to even my untutored eye. They started talking about comfort measures and it was universally assumed that she would never go home again, even if she survived, which was looking less and less likely.


I sat by her bed for nearly a week with no response. I'd had the childishly hopeful but irrational thought that once I was there, she'd hear my voice and magically open her eyes, but that only happens in fiction I suppose. I lotioned her feet, tried in vain to keep her bloody tears from drying on, and tried to talk. It was hard to know what to say to someone not speaking back or giving any sign of life---again where the movies and fiction have it wrong. Her hand was warm but dead in mine.

During this time, her only movements were occasional gagging motions, and I asked, begged, pleaded, and finally flat-out demanded they remove the breathing tube. Their response was that she'd met every protocol except one; she had to be responsive before removal.

I was stymied by ICU staff and resp therapists at every turn until one day I finally spoke to the Pulminologist on the phone and reminded him that she's been unresponsive for days before insertion. After securing my permission to reinsert if she went south, he approved the removal, much to the dismay of the resp therapist who'd smugly handed me the phone in the first place, sure that the doc would support her instead of me.

She and the ICU nurse went through the shut-down and pulling of the tube. It was awful watching my mom's body fighting and gagging. But it was finally out.

Then her eyes opened...

After nearly three weeks in a coma, when that tube came out, she just...woke up. The nurse asked if she knew who I was, and she said in a raspy, but clearly disgusted voice, "Of course! That's my daughter." Oh, that's my mama. Give 'em hell, Mom. Later she confessed that she hadn't been able to remember my first name for the first week, which bothered and discouraged her more than anything else.

While she'd been laying there, her body had been accepting the transplant. They moved her back up to oncology the next morning (that was a jolt, coming into her ICU bay and having it be empty!), and I flew home the day after, on Christmas Eve, to be with my girls for the holiday. I was loathe to leave, but I had my own mothering to do.

Only two weeks later, she went home after a total of two months in the hospital. Her mom, my grandma, who was 87, moved out to the farm to spend the rest of the SD winter with her and take care of her 'little girl' during her recovery.

Being a mom doesn't stop, apparently, once your baby is grown. Even when they're in the their sixties and have kids and grandkids of their own.

This Mother's Day, she is 100% donor cells and cancer-free. Her vision is still somewhat affected, probably from the radiation or possibly the PRES, so she can't read like she used to ...a huge blow for the person I inherited my bookishness from. But her hair is finally growing out. And she is back driving again and doing for herself.

Moreover, she's still herself, still Mom, still Mimi to my two girls and my brother's new baby boy we didn't think she'd live to meet (here she is pictured below with my brother and his son, on his first birthday just last month). I had almost, almost given up hope of her still being...her during my vigil last winter.

This Mother's Day, I have the pleasure of planning a trip for her to come visit us here in Oregon this June. It's been three years, and for most of that time I thought she'd never be able to make the trip again. But through what I believe is sheer willpower and stubborness, she is ignoring any lingering souveniers of her battle and actually living her life. We'd had every reason to expect that she could be gone by now, but a few miracles later I have something very real and concrete to be thankful for...my mom's future and all our Mother's Days yet to come.

Which Came First??

Ah, titles. Almost every author I know kvetches about them, getting them right, searching for the perfect one. I don't count myself out of that number. There's been many a time I've thought of the "perfect" title...only to discover that five authors before me thought the same thing. So frustrating.

But I have shown a propensity for writing a story after thinking of the title FIRST...and not just once, but several times. Let me do a quick recap....

A Pint Light was my first title-before-the-horse, and it was a doozy. I saw the call for vampire submissions three days before the due date (which was also incidently the day I was leaving on a three week road trip with my kids). And thought to myself, since most of the genre is dark and angsty, wouldn't it be fun to do a lighthearted vamp tale? The title then popped into my head, which then conjured the opening scene...and I was compelled to write it (and finish it..in two days).  I now have a series arc of 5-6 stories, all from that little title. And all the subsequent titles were very easy to come up with as well, thankfully!

Soon after, I was contemplating writing a holiday themed story, and began trying to think of a plot, to no avail. So turned my mental energy to thinking of a theme by using holiday songs. When Silver & Gold came to mind, I stopped the search. I could immediately picture Silver (the older guy discovering to his horror he's going grey) and Gold (the young, hip blond colorist who refuses to fix it for him). It practically wrote itself after that.

My almost-done current WIP was another title randomly popping into my head...that took me into a completely different genre! One day I was letting my mind wander and thought about how sometimes titles are overly cerebral or clever, and why not just put it out there right off the bat, with SEX in the actual title?? Sex On Sabbatical had a fun ring to it, but to my surprise, it conjured up, not two guys (as I had been writing to that point) but an older professional woman having a fling with a young guy. Huh? Okay...back to girl parts, and as long as I'm going to be there, might as well enjoy...built a four story series, Seasoned Women, from that single title idea.

Another in that series was a no-brainer once I'd decided on the "seasons" approach. Let's see...spring. Spring Training, of course. And that would mean a ballplayer and a teammate's mom. ;)

I'm a sucker for submission calls, love the ideas that spring to mind when I read them (whether I end up submitting there or not, they are inspirational to me for some reason). The second book I wrote came from on of those. Last spring, I had read a publisher's call for "Drink" theme stories, and in another of those weird mental synapes connections, the name Wet Your Whistle flashed neon in my head. Wrote it, finished it, and sent it off on April Fool's Day 2009. Quick rejection. Mothballed it to write more polished stories and just went back to revisit it around the holidays. Added 5K and did a LOT of cosmetic work on points of view, and lo and behold, got a contract offer for it on...karma drum roll please....April Fool's Day 2010.

Unfortunately, all my titles weren't so easy peasy. A few I was pulling my hair out over, pesting my friends and betas, and generally driving myself and everyone around me crazy over.

My latest release, A Detour Home, went through several working titles including Rough Road Home, before I realized that, oops, I already have a "Rough" title. Literally came down to, what do I put on the contract paperwork? before I settled on the final title. Even then, I put it to a vote between my editor, my beta, and an author friend. It was 2 out of 3 for ADH, so my editor and beta prevailed. ;)

Sometimes I know what I want to have the title be, in theory. But coming up with the particulars can be difficult. For example, in this summer's paranormal release about a were and a rocker, I wanted the name of his band in the title. But coming up with a band name that's, a) interesting and catchy, b) not taken in real life or in fiction, and, c) something that also works as a title, is VERY difficult! After much angst, I finally settled on One Wish for the band and One Wild Wish for the title.

Another along these lines was my story in the Gaymes anothology. Wanted to name the story after the team the guys played on...just had to come up with the team name. After an unproductive brainstorming session with my hub (who stuck to the "normal" team names), I finally settled on the Rough Riders. My usual search revealed that there was a series in the erotic rom genre by that name, but since it was the series title and not indivudual title, plus m/f as opposed to my m/m, I figured I'd be safe.

After all, there's very little new under the sun, and, along with character names, pen names, plot devices, and physical descriptions, titles are also hard to keep strictly original. But it all how you weave it all together, and a good title provides the perfect frame for your creation, whether you wander about with your art, looking for a frame, or carry around the frame, looking for something to fit inside...

Confessions of an average housewife

Sounds like the heading on a supermarket rag. Here are a few of my confessions:

1. I've never had m/m sex.

So many of the things I've written about? No actual experience involved, which is probably a given since I am, in fact, a woman. All my published work to date is m/m (I have some m/f and menage stories contracted for later this year, but the meat of my work is gay), and the single question I'm asked the most often is:

How can you write about gay sex?

This is meant one of two ways: the homophobic way, and the interested way. To the interested way, I've boiled down my answer to: imagination, after all, it is fiction. I'm not writing a how-to-guide or a memoir.

The homophobic form of the question doesn't deserve an answer.


2. Like Lisabet, I wish I could actually see m/m sex in the flesh.

One of my fondest fantasies. Does that make me a fag hag I wonder? No, I don't think so. But for some reason, it's a compelling thought.

3. Experiences I've had have found their way into my books.

Aha! you say. She just said it was imagination! Well, yes, some of it. Obviously I've never stuck a penis into someone else. But...

(My relatives and innocents, please leave the room)

I have given head. Many times. To many different people. I've been penetrated anally and have done the penetrating with my fingers. Yes, I have found the mysterious prostate.

********

I just finished a short story, which will be coming out in May, in which I have a hero who sleepwalks naked and climbs into bed with his neighbor. Not to give anything away, but this is entirely based on my own experiences sleepwalking. I didn't have him do anything under the influence of his subconscious that I hadn't done myself. Even so, I bet there'll be someone who claims, oh that could never happen. I beg to differ! And I have witnesses. :)

*********

There's a line from a country song (I'm sure I could Google it, but I'm pressed for time), that goes something like this:

"I ain't the woman in red, I ain't the girl next door.
But if somewhere in the middle's what you're looking for,
well, I'm THAT kind of girl."

And that sums me up perfectly.

The Cougar & Cub Club

Cougars are all over pop culture in the past couple years. But the first time I noticed the phenomenon was several years ago, at my own book group, of all places.

Of course, we're one of those book groups where it's more about drinking wine, having dinner and chatting about whatever we like than actually dissecting books. So when the chat one night turned to age (in the context of ourselves versus our husbands), imagine my surprise at being one of only two in the group with the "traditional" configuration of being younger (by 4 years) than my husband.

The one other "younger" wife was really younger, by a full two decades. So I really didn't feel like I had any company in the traditional role.

A couple of the gals were only a handful of years older than theirs. But the other age differences were more significant. 9 years, 13 years, 15 years. I knew about the 9 year spread, but how did I miss the other two?

Simple. It just hadn't come up, since to the participants, it wasn't an issue.

With the 9 year couple, how they met was interesting. It was New Year's Eve in San Fran, where they were both visiting at the time, one from LA and one from Boise. They ran into each other in a dark club, danced, hit it off, and at the end of the night had nothing to write phone numbers on to keep in touch. As they parted, he joked that all she had to do was remember his last name...he was the only Jew in Boise. 

She called, and long story short, even in the bright light of day, all their age and differences in social situation laid bare, they each saw something special in the other. Eventually, they both moved to yet another West Coast city, sight unseen, to live together, married, and are happy owning a business together. Their ages are irrelevant, except in one aspect:  When they first met, he was young and had no desire to start a family, whereas she was quickly running through her prime fertile years. When they finally did get to the point where they considered having a child, they found that nature had made that difficult to impossible.

*****

The popular tenet of cougar/cubs is that it throws together both sexes more closely balanced in their sexual prime. Another frequently trotted out observation is that the women look ridiculous "chasing" after young guys, while the men are applauded for landing a MILF.  I'd love to hear readers' thoughts on these "truisms".

*****

Beginning in August, I am publishing a series of four stories involving cougars and cubs, called Seasoned Women.

Forget about calling it May/November, these mature women and their hot, young men bring a spark to every season, all year round...

Here's an excerpt from Spring Training:


The sight of the player’s hand about to touch hers set off a clamour of anger in Aaron, but before he could react, Teri withdrew her hand to a safe distance as Emery spoke up.



“What the hell, Chet? She’s my freaking mom. Get your paws off her.”


The other two guys were laughing hysterically as Chet backed off, scowling at Emery for a moment before turning the charm back on. “Fine by me. I like older women, and I’ll even forgive you for having this joker for a son. I’m sure you did all you could in raising him.” He sent a practised, smouldering look her way that had Aaron rolling his eyes.


Teri smiled sweetly. “Nice to meet you, Chet. If I see any desperate older women, I’ll definitely send them your way.” She turned to Aaron and Emery. “Are you guys ready to head home?”


Mitch protested, “Hey, it’s early. You guys aren’t calling it a night already? We’re on our way to The Billboard; they have a live DJ tonight.”


“C’mon, Mom.” Emery encouraged. “You know you want to go dancing.” He nudged her playfully.


Aaron and Teri locked gazes, and he shrugged, wanting to leave the decision up to her since he was their ride home. He really wasn’t up for a night of babysitting this motley crew, but had to admit the idea of Teri moving on the dance floor held undeniable appeal. Her sparkling eyes searched his for a long moment before she turned to her son. “Okay, but remember I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”






The Billboard was warm and packed, and Aaron wedged his way up to the bar while the other players disappeared into the crowd and Teri and Emery headed straight onto the dance floor. He ordered a bottle of water then took it to a vacant spot along the railing surrounding the dance area. With the height of the players, he was able to immediately spot Emery and, less visibly, Teri among the gyrating forms. He slid along the rail, trying for a better view.


There.


Teri was lost in the rhythm, swivelling and swaying with the music. Aaron’s mouth went dry as he ran his gaze down her slender back to those curvaceous, circling hips, effortlessly keeping the beat as she danced in front of Emery. They moved around, and now Aaron had a look at her joyous face, laughing up at her son.


Suddenly her eyes lowered from Emery’s and locked on Aaron’s from across the room. If anything, her smile got wider and his pulse leapt as she crooked her finger to beckon him. He was sure the gesture was meant to be convivial rather than sexual, but his increasingly interested body made its own interpretation. Without conscious thought, he set down his water and threaded his way through the gyrating crowd, receiving a few blatant touches and even more looks. Aaron disregarded them all, completely focused on Teri, and he began to dance as he reached the pair.


Aaron loved to dance and it was easy to give himself over to the pounding music. If anything, Teri looked even smaller in the midst of the chaos on the dance floor, and Aaron glided closer, until there was barely air between them. Emery had turned away and had his arms wrapped around a tall blonde from behind, grinding into her. Aaron was left to partner Teri, and they moved together well into the next song before he finally gave in to his rising need to touch her.


The first contact was three fingers lightly resting on the waistband of her jeans, just above her hip. As she raised her arms above her head, her shirt lifted just enough so the tip of Aaron’s finger found bare, warm flesh. Awareness sizzled through him, and he could feel his body react, his cock thickening slowly, inexorably.


Teri’s eyes were upturned to his, her lips parted, and he knew she was sharing his arousal as they moved together in public foreplay. She placed her hand on his forearm and he recalled how her touch in the kitchen earlier had taken him right out of his funk and ignited the first spark of attraction for her. Not as the mom of his teammate, or ally in his fight to keep Emery on the straight and narrow, but as a vital, desirable woman.

The Renaissance Man

I thought long and hard about his week's topic since I first read about it, to no avail. Most unsung historical figures I could come up with were...well...sung. So I decided to go with an archteype of a person long admired and held up in high regard...a mysterious, nebulous figure still heard about today: The Renaissance Man.

In writing, the author considers character traits for their heroes, and I would imagine that most of the time, the Renaissance Man is wistfully debated, then discarded. Too perfect, and it wouldn't do to have a hero without fault or good at, well, everything. I've read those stories, where the author has given in and created a hero that is literally too good to be true.

The ideal came from the Renaissance period and put forth the standard to be sought as a "man of the world", educated and accomplished in a variety of disciplines: multiple languages, without a doubt; sciences; music; debate; history; social graces. Moreover, having a expertise in one, if not many, of these areas would give one a "universal" appeal, so to speak. And where did the young gentleman (and yes, this is for men only...you've never heard the term Renaissance Dame, have you?) go to acquire knowledge in all these diverse areas?  Why, University, of course.

Of course, the prototypical example of The Renaissance Man is Leonardo da Vinci, with his lasting and profound impact in the fields of art and science. However, could the Renaissance Man really exist these days? To become proficient to the point of having a lasting effect in even one dicipline in modern times is rare, much less being well-rounded. One example whom consider to fit the definition is Howard Hughes, and we all know how well he was able to cope with his tangents.

I love the Dos Equis campaign with The Most Interesting Man In The World, a caricature of our Renaissance Man. So from either fiction or reality, in modern times, who are some Renaissance Men these days? Or can he even exist?

Kim and Abe

Me: Ah yes, Kim and Abe. It's a dead heat for my favorite character, and since they are close friends, I've decided to talk about both of them. Or rather, let them talk about themselves.

Kim: And just so we're clear, Abe and I are not together. He's into outies.

Abe: Or they're into me.

Me: Okay then. How did you guys meet?

Kim: Um. Why does he get a picture and I don't?

Abe: Sweetheart, you're a secondary character. That means you don't get on the cover. If it makes you feel better, it isn't my most flattering look. That shirt? Please. Grey is so not my color.

Kim: At least people get a visual of you! I'm just this nebulous image floating around.

Me: Would it make you feel better if I put up a picture that looks like you? I had an interviewer ask me this week if I could cast a movie of this story, which actors I would pick to play you guys.

Abe: *claps hands* Ooh, who did you pick for me?

Kim: *gasps* No you didn't. Now you want a second picture? You bitch.

Abe: Okay, okay, just curious, so shoot me. Who did you pick for Kim? There, is that better?

Kim: *pouting* Depends on who it is. Duh.

Me: Okay, here you go:

Abe: Now girlfriend, you've gotta be happy with Eva Mendes.

Kim: She'll do. But that's a bit tousled for me. I'd be into your salon like yesterday.

Me: And since we're on the topic, here's Abe. And Kim, he's the main character, so can you let the whole two-picture thing go?

Kim: You know, I hear her talking to me like I'm totally unreasonable, and I have no idea where the attitude came from.

Abe: Much better, and see? Look how much bigger yours is. And you call me the size queen.

Me: Let me give some examples of what great friends you are? Like from when Geoff still hadn't clued in to how lucky he was to have Abe fall into his lap, so to speak, and was still living in the past.

********

ABE gratefully accepted the huge latte from Kim and tried once more to convince her to leave. He had thought he’d been successful on the phone in persuading her not to come see him, but she had bribed him with an “extra” coffee that she just happened to have.


Abe, you’re such a slut for coffee, and apparently everyone knows it.


“I’m fine,” he repeated yet again. “Really.” And he smiled to emphasize how “fine” he was.


“Abe, get that ugly excuse for a smile off your face and tell me what’s wrong. What happened with you and Geoff?”


“Tenacious little thing, aren’t you?”


“Tenacious, yes. Little, hell no. Thing?” She gave him an arch look.


“Sorry, babe. You were the one who insisted upon seeing me before I’m caffeinated.”


“Meow. That actually almost sounded like the real you.” She softened her expression. “What happened, Abe?”

********

Abe: Yeah, that was a tough day. Kim about burst a blood vessel when I told her what happened with the phone call I overheard. She threatened to quit.

Kim: I knew right away that wasn't the best move. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And, boss of ten years or not, he was so going down if he fucked you over.

********

“Well, all I can say is my former boss won’t be getting any ass from you if it takes having to duct tape you to my bedroom door.” She pulled out her phone and dialed, her eyes flashing.


“Shit, love, don’t quit on my account!” Abe was regretting ever picking up the phone this morning.


“Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. I’ve decided I’m going to stay and make his life a living hell while I run his business into the ground.” She gave Abe an evil smile and left a terse message saying that she would be using a sick day and hung up.


Abe watched her warily. “What are you doing?”


Kim smiled more naturally. “Just going to help you pack for your trip and keep you company until you leave.” She waited a beat. “And keep you from going to his office, and him from coming up here,” she admitted.


Abe gave her a hug. “You’re a good friend, my dear.”


She hugged him back. “You don’t hate me because I fixed you two up?”

********

Me: That was so sweet.

(They both look at me in horror.)

Kim: Sweet?

Abe: Let me take this one, babe. (To me) Kim doesn't do sweet. She's more scary, hell-on-wheels, true-blue. Loyal as shit, but evil. In a good way.

Me: Do you guys still hang out now that Abe and Geoff have worked through things?

Kim: Hell, yes. Closer than ever. *smiles dangerously* I've got his back, especially since I know everything that's going on with the boss.

Abe: And I've got hers. She was insultingly underpaid until I spoke up.

Me: A lot of readers want to see more of you two. Do you think there will be another book in the future?

Abe: Babe? Isn't that up to you? You're the writer.

Me: Well, yes, but I can only write the stories you guys share with me.

Kim: Oh, you want more? Abe, get us some coffee...

********

Read more about Kim and Abe in Silver & Gold, available in e-book from Dreamspinner Press.

The Sullivan Ballou Letter

I love words and I love history. And when I think of love letters, what immediately springs to mind is this lovely missive. This well-known letter was written by Sullivan Ballou, a Union Major, to his wife, Sarah, a week before being mortally wounded in the (1st) Battle of Bull Run.

There are some fascinating insights into what was happening in the day to day life of a solidier waiting between battles, as well as a thoughful look at where his sense of duty springs from, and how he justifies his eerily precscient knowledge of his permanent separation from his family.

His words of love come through so strongly, they just leap off the page and have lost nothing in the passage of time. What is particularly poignant to me is his absolute faith that he will see her following death and will eventually be reunited with Sarah and his boys. Gets me every time.

(On a personal note, a distant cousin of mine, Elisha Hunt Rhodes, who is also well known for his wartime writings, fought with Sullivan Ballou in the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers.)

*******

July the 14th, 1861

Washington DC




My very dear Sarah:


The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.


Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure - and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.


But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows - when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children - is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?


I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.


I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.


Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.


The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.


Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.


But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.


Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.


As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.



Sullivan

Human = Love, & Vote For A Quote

In many paranormal erotic romances I've read, there is often frequent, non-monogamous sex, especially early in the book and often in the first scene. Sometimes even gratuitous sex. Complementary body parts flying around, diving into whatever orifice is readily available, because that's what shifters or vamps or demons "need".


Don't get me wrong. I love to read and write paranormals. I always get a kick out of this truism of the genre though, not only because it's sometimes fun to read a down and dirty scene without a bunch of emotional baggage, but also because it's a somewhat obvious trope. They aren't human. Therefore, sex is just that...sex.

Paranormals aren't the only place you see this play out. You could also insert other genres here, including macho men occupations such as military, or ex-military special forces types (lots of those running around apparently), cops, etc, where the 'humanity' has been stripped from the heros, the better to do their jobs, which usually involves the need to kill without qualm.

However, don't forget this is a romance. So sure, there will come a time in the story when love begins to rear its ugly head, and won't THAT be a fight for all involved. The protagonist will be disparaged by another non-human entity (or fellow macho man...or their own subconscious...or sometimes even the object of their affection), will be sneered at for being too human. Love is seen as a weakness, a failing, a vulnerability to exploit.

Ah, but love will triumph. And while the no-strings rampant sex always reads like it's on fire, there is no comparison to the incendiary sex immediately following the realization (and before the end of the story, the declaration) of love. The tenderness, the emotion, the connection between the participants is unprecedented, unparalleled, unrivaled. A satisfying completion for all involved, including the all-too-human reader...

*********

Some thoughts from people who say it much better than I ever could. Vote for your favorite; the winning quote will be used in my future book, Sex On Summer Sabbatical.


"Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex."
— Hunter S. Thompson
 


"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love."
— Gabriel García Márquez
 
 
"We can live without sex, but we can't live without love."

— Shane Claiborne
 
 
"If Jack's in love, he's no judge of Jill's beauty."
— Benjamin Franklin
 
 
"There is a no man's land between sex and love, and it alters in the night."

— Norman Mailer
 
 
"Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit

With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit,
And, in strong proff of chastity well armed,
From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.
O, she is rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with dies her store."


Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197
— William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)

To Quit Reading...Cold Turkey

A woman I know sees this when she casually looks at a book.

Not because she lost her glasses.

She didn't used to. Once, she was an even more prolific reader than I am, every spare minute curled up in the corner of the couch, a mug of cooling coffee next to her, finger holding her place when she looked up. Not a bookmark user, she would leave her books upside down, or memorize (roughly) the page number, flipping back through until she found her spot.

She doesn't see this every time. She can screw her eyes up six ways to Sunday and with the help of her not very helpful glasses, she can do just enough to write a check or review a bill. That effort costs her, and afterwards, she has to "rest" her eyes for a while, leaning back with her eyes closed, battling vertigo.

I would estimate she has a couple thousand books in her house. Stacked haphazardly in bookshelves, closets, her nightstand holds an increasingly dusty stack of brand new books slowly getting older. I think she's managed to slowly work her way through a couple paperbacks... especially heartbreaking to me, as I used to watch her whip through at least one book a day. It's from her I inherited my love for books and freakish speed at reading.

It wasn't even the stroke that did it, although she has a permanent and random case of vertigo from that. No, it was the chemo and/or radiation, exactly which I'm not certain. The treatment that spared Mom's life cost her a huge part of it.

She misses them, her books. She refuses to discuss it, in mourning, I think. People still give them as gifts, and she's gracious, but doesn't share her pain. Her favorite (and only) hobby...cut off completely.

She was the first person I thought of when this topic came up. How to choose? Lisabet very neatly summarized my own feelings on the topic. I'm probably up there close to her 5K books, while 10 years behind in age. I racked up over a thousand on Goodreads in 6 months, so it's most likely even more than that. And to choose one... a Sisyphean task to debate the merits of each one I've read..and haven't yet read.

So the choice of one to save, I would defer to my mom. In hopes that someday, she'll again be able to pick up her choice, and read.

...But At Times Widen Your View

Charity may begin at home...but for me, sometimes I need to widen my view.

Like Lisabet, I had been prepared to come into this topic discussing my own fashion of contributing back to the society in which I live. And I discovered an interesting thing about myself; almost all of the causes to which I've leant support have been ones with mostly a local or regional impact.

I've contributed my time to tutoring children who need help with reading, volunteered to SOLV (Stop Oregon Litter & Vandalism) clean-up days, and planted trees on Earth Day in local parks and wetlands. I've donated food to the Oregon Food Bank, donated blood to the Red Cross, and supported local women's shelters with donations of interview suits and clothing. I've given computers to be recycled, revamped and sold. I provide coats in the winter, toys at the holidays, and stuffed animals to the police and fire departments.

All good causes, and I don't regret a single one. But sometimes I "forget" there is a whole world full of people who endure a daily struggle for basic needs. And a tragedy like the the ongoing recovery in Haiti just knocks me off my safe and secure stance. Very humbling to remember how blessed I am and that I can extend my help to outside my own little sphere.

Is there an event or story that really caused you to do some self-examination? Like Lisabet, I am going to add $1 to my Mercy Corps donation for every answer or observation I receive in reply to this post. Thanks for the idea Lisabet, and thank you in advance to commenters.

Overcommitted and out of time

For me, commitment is the flip side of the coin of guilt.

I am impossible to live with in my own head when I falter on something I have assured myself or someone else I will do. Drive myself crazy with guilt.  Therefore I am one of those perpetually early, hard-working, if-I-say-it-it's-as-good-as-done folks.


Since this is my topic, you should know that I'd had a very lengthy and in-depth treatise on commitment planned for you. Instead, what you will get is my analysis of what happened to my commitments when a nightmare of epic proportions (in my life) bloomed last Wednesday:

My daughter got sick.

In and of itself, it was "only" a stomach virus. You know, one of those gut wrenching, purging, awful nights where one should just camp out in the bathroom since you're in there every 20 minutes anyway. Where the thirst tempts you into sips you know will just come right back up. Where the end of the contents of your system is NOT the end of the extreme effort your body is making to expel...nothing.

Now put that all on a 6 year old.

Bless her, she's finally old enough to not cry about it, and made some effort to contain the mess once she was aware of it. Telling her she shouldn't be drinking anything? Didn't penetrate.

Did I mention her 3 year old sister sleeps in the same room?

Talk about a nightmare for that one. Every half hour, all night, the sounds awoke her into fits of crying and providing a running preschooler commentary on her sick sis:

"Ewww!  Yucky!  Sissy yucky.  Mama make it stop! No!"

Older sis, between vomiting: "It's okay, budda-boo. Sissy be okay."

I was up until it ran its course around 6am, then grabbed a couple hours sleep, hoping against hope it was an isolated thing.

Home from school. she slept most of the day. I did LOTS of laundry and kept the little one from jumping on her. 

****

Okay, a side note on commitment. Of course, when you take on any life change, you commit yourself in myriad ways and in all levels of importance. Becoming a parent, and moreover becoming a "good" one, is kind of the coup de grace of commitment. You've basically agreed to put this new little person first and provide for them in an unimaginable number of things.

Uber-commitment. And it can wreck havoc with other commitments in your life. Kind of trumps most anything else. Case in point:

****

One night behind on my "other" job.  Okay, I'll still be able to manage. My "writing" to-be-completed-by-Monday list, which on Wednesday afternoon (pre-puking), consisted of:

1. 10K to finish a short story an editor had made a request for just after the new year.
2. Final run through edits on GA Hauser's 177 page February release.
3. Put together a series blurb, four full synopses, and choose titles for a series of four stories I pitched early last week to one of my pub houses.
4. Proof two manuscripts (not mine, other authors for editors) on very tight schedules, sooner the better.
5. Write my OGG blog post on commitment. 
6. Was expecting another proof from Claire Thompson for her imminent next release.
7. Was also expecting first edits from my editor on my own February release.
8. If I had time, write out and submit a 2-10K short story for an anthology.

Normally, I have a fairly easy time separating my "family" time from my "work" time, the dividing point is by the clock: when everyone goes to bed, everyone else including the eight indivduals and groups above, finally get their claims to my time. So from 9pm to 2am most nights, with a few additional hours snipped from weekend downtime, handling a list like this in five nights would be a piece of cake.

Wednesday night I lost to sick daughter patrol.

Thursday night, I got sick myself.  Same drill (I'll spare you the details).  Then the little one began about an hour after me, husband about an hour after her. So all Thursday night, the only one sleeping in our house was the recovering 6 yr old.

She got up for school on Friday. I didn't have the heart to say no (she was already all dressed for the 'pajama party' her class had earned), but did make her eat breakfast before I gave a firm okay. Making any kind of food at this point should have earned me brownie points for life. And I still hadn't been to sleep. Watched her get on the bus and crawled to bed. Got up once around 11 and sucked it up for a trip to the store for a caffeine fix (last thing I needed was a withdrawal headache on top of everything else, wish they had a patch), saltines, soup, gatorade, ginger ale, and whatever else I could remember Mom having around. Knew no one else would do it. Sapped the life outta me.

Got home and found husband still asleep and little one lifting the lid of the toilet upstairs, dazed. Not to go potty or throw up, but looking for water...like a dog. Gave her a bit of ginger ale. She threw it up. Put her in my bed and went back to sleep.

Woke up again. Dark. Quiet. Dark?? Oh shit, Sarah! I'm officially the world's worst mom. She's sitting in the living room playing solitaire. Proudly tells me that after she got home and "everyone was SLEEPing, *humph*!" she fed herself a pb&j, watched Lord Of The Rings, read three books, and got double Yahtzee twice. Pat her on the head, sit upright for a couple hours and put everyone back to bed.

Mommy guilt is currently in overdrive, needless to say, between the toilet incident and the leave-the-door-unlocked method of welcoming Sarah home from school.

Saturday...everyone is listless. I'm lucid enough to start worrying about my work commitments and do some mental prioritizing. Nobody's eating, and the kids have Dad to play with them, so I start laundry and then hop on the computer to try to assuage the guilt starting to gnaw on my insides. 

Email the first ed to say it doesn't look like I'll get the story done on her timetable, explain and apologize. Crap. Debate trying to bang it out anyway. It's only Saturday night, right?

Make sure the next load has the favorite pillows and stuffed animals in it.

Muscle my way as thoroughly as possible through two proofs and GA's edits, and get those emailed back. Whew. Okay. Those obligations met.

Try to get everyone to eat some soup. Nobody's eating. Mom in me is fretting, writer is glad I don't have to take time to do dishes.

Try to do some brainstorming on my series. Urgency is tied to the fact that the first story needs to come out in April to make it work. Email that publisher to say I'll have all the synopses in no later than mid-week.

Put everyone back to bed. Now I can get some work done. Yawn. I mean, goodnight.

Oh shit. Sunday already?  Feels like it was just Wednesday. Claire's proof has come, and short and "tight" as it is, I whip through it and send it back her way. Very proud of myself.

Fix waffles by request. Two out of four eat. Continue laundry.

Sit down and make the decision to try to finish the story. Send the kids on a low-key outing with Dad, and write for three hours. All I get done is a piddling 2K, and am currently mired in a POV switch that's not working. Okay. That story is NOT going to get done by Monday. Leave it!

Dad has picked up burgers and fries. Three out of four eat (little one is getting littler by the day). No dishes again, maybe I can work on my synopses.

Family movie night, I've seen it twice, so try to brainstorm my series. Get drawn into the movie by kids instead. Still have to work on the OGG post. I'll do that as soon as they're in bed.

As soon as they're in bed, husband snags the computer. Shit. Can't say anything...after all, while I was sick, he took care of the little one while he was hurling too, plus took the kids out for the afternoon. Try not to stew about wasted time, and instead clean up the kitchen. Put shoes away (sigh). Sort the mail.

Oh right, Sunday. Sign off on daughter's homework. Find backpack. Pack lunch. Sneak up and make sure her alarm is set.

Get idea for the short story, which was dead last with the addendum "time permitting" on my list, due date is the next day, not even started. Finally get my hands on the computer and give birth to a 3K scene, synopsize it, format, and submit by 3am.

Guilt kicks in when I realize I must go to bed and still haven't written my OGG post: the only thing I haven't addressed on my list, and one of the few things graven in stone timewise.

Today "normalcy" reigns, albeit in a house that needs cleaning. Which I have put off so I could take care of my commitment to you, dear readers.

And now??  Time to plan my daughter's birthday. 

For two days from now.

Talk about a commitment graven in stone. Guilty Mom to the rescuuuuue...

A Perfect Ten

I got over thinking I was the most beautiful creature in the world when I was nine.

Before then, I would swish around with a towel over my head, pretending I had long, flowing hair instead of what could only be described as a feathered bowl cut. Every mirror I passed was my best friend.

Then I hit puberty. 

Early.

Suddenly, I had my period, a booty like a blossoming J-Lo, and was forced to get a bra to reign in my nipples (first in my school, I think, for all of the above).

The period I could deal with, even though it was kinda yucky, and made it a bit weird to sit through "The Talk" in fifth grade when I'd already had "it" for a year.

Even the bra was kinda cool, since I was the first kid close to my age to need one. Ironically enough, that was the only time in my life that I had anything to brag about up there, seeing as I'm now classified as a "nearly A" cup.

The booty...was harsh. It's tough when other fifth graders in their pencil thin Jordache jeans taunt you for having a big ass. And that was fifth grade...middle school/junior high was brutal.

Baby had back back then. Really stood out amongst the prepubescent hordes, trust me.

I come by it honestly. The "Huber Ass" we call it, after the branch of the family whose genes contributed to my caboose. No amount of dieting, running, calisthenics, or "spot reducing" ever had any effect. And I'm not heavy for my height (yes, I'll share, 5'4" and in the 130's); I also have a very slim torso and waist, which almost makes it worse by really emphasizing by comparison.

I've grown up since I was nine, and maturity has brought acceptance. But for three decades, I hated myself for that one "glaring" physical trait. No amount of positive feedback could make me feel beautiful. I won't go into the media's and fashion industry's effect on body image in young girls and women, since I'm sure you know all the talking points.

At some point, I finally figured out beauty is most definitely in the eye of the beholder. But, cliche or not, inner beauty is what truly counts. After all, that's what I see when I look at the people I love. I don't judge them by society's standard, and at last I've realized that they (at least those whose opinion matters to me) aren't judging me that way either.

For the first time just this past year, someone said to me, "You're beautiful."

And I believed them.

"Thank you," I replied, instead of demurring.

And got a beautiful smile in return.

Interview With a Vampire-Loving Six Year Old

By Devon Rhodes (with help from Sarah and Elizabeth)

ME:  Do you want to come upstairs so I can interview you?

S: What's an interview?

Me:  That's where I ask you questions, and you answer them, and I type the answers into the computer.

S: Sure! Besides, I have this (movie) on tape! So you're writing a story about me?

Me: Not exactly.  It's for work.

S: (dejectedly) Okay. (Then whimpers, pretending she can't reach the ground until I hand her some ladybug markers)

Me: Okay, so how long has Mama been writing?

S: A year? (pretty close, good girl!)

Me: What do you think Mama writes?

S: Love stories? And Mommy, if I don't remember, can I say "pass" to the next question?

Me: Of course! What do you think about Mommy writing?

S: Pass!

Me: Has Mommy ever written anything for you?

S: (disgustedly) No! You promised me you were going to write a vampire story for Halloween for me but you never did. I want my vampire story! (dramatic sigh) I guess I'll wait until next Halloween.

E: (panting and whimpering, then sitting up and begging)

Me: Do you want a Scooby snack?

E: (smiling and panting)

I hand-feed her a piece of my bagel then pat her on the head and say "Good doggy."  (Don't ask.)

S: Can I have some of your bagel too? (taking the entire remaining half)

Me: (sigh) Go ahead. What kind of stories do you like?

S: Pass.

Me: Okay, what's your favorite book so far that you've read?

S: Harry Potter 2.

Me: Is that the Chamber Of Secrets?

S: Yep. Do you want to ask my favorite ice cream?

Me: Uh, sure.

S: Cookie Dough! Can we make omelets now?

Me: No, Mommy's working, maybe in a few minutes.

S: (wrinkles nose at me) I'm hungry!

Me: Go cut yourself some orange cheese, or peel one of those little oranges. Are you done being interviewed?

S: Can I tell them about my boyfriend?

Me: You're only six; He's not really your boyfriend.

S: (stamps her foot) Yes, he is! Duh! He's been my boyfriend for three years now. And I'll be seven in a couple weeks! (Rolls her eyes like a pro and stomps off.)

E: (reappears in her pumpkin costume) Ta-da!

Me: Are you a pumpkin?

E: No! I a Merry Christmas, Sarah!

Me: I'm not Sarah, I'm Mommy!

E: (switches topics since I have her beat) I hungry!

Me: Here's a cracker.

E: NO! I want orange cheese! (must've seen her sister get some cheddar)

Me: (calling out) Sarah! Cut your sister some orange cheese. (To E) Your sissy will cut you some.

Overheard after Elizabeth returns downstairs:

S: How about a bagel?

E: No, orange cheese!

S: Here's a baaaagel!

E: NO!  Orange cheese, silly!

Etc.

***********

This goes on most of the day, and can get even more convoluted and distracting when my hub's around to chime in.  Which is why I do most of my writing in the late evening and nighttime when all three are in bed. I find my insomnia a blessing now, and last night (not untypically) I was up writing until after 3am.

There are a few home truths which even the three year old has learned in the past year or so:

1. Mommy is not a problem solver until she has coffee.
2. (Directed at hub) Do not steal Mommy's laptop unless you want to be subjected to heavy sighs and dramatic eye rolls accompanied by slamming objects around until she gets it back. (I'm passive-aggressive that way) And I'm buying my own damn laptop on January 2nd.
3. When the laptop is open, Mommy has left the building.

I like to think I'm a good mom, and I also have to say that since I don't work outside the home, I'm constantly around for the kids.  Even when I get involved in what I'm doing, I CAN be interrupted for important reasons (like someone's hungry, hurt, or wandering around when they should be in bed). And they had my undivided attention up until last spring, so that (partially) alleviates the guilt I feel when they have to ask me something ten times before a question registers, or I come downstairs to find all the red peppers in the fridge with big bites taken out of them (the three year old is a forager).

I unwrap the string cheese that my three year old brings me without delay.

I still manage to get most of the laundry and dinner done on time.

I've only gotten Sarah to dance class late once because I was wrapped up in a story.

I can carry off the automatic observation of "That's nice!" in response to whatever is shown me (except for a boom, ie a boo-boo, although occasionally I trot it out by mistake, prompting an affronted display worthy of a Broadway show). And I catch the muttered words "in the black hole", which is how my hub refers to me being on the laptop, often enough that I think my passive-aggressiveness is wearing off on him.

My new career is not without family conflicts, and here's where I'll gloss over the details. But I like to think that I'm giving my kids my whole, "real" self now that I'm doing what I love, and hopefully someday they will understand why.

Why I do what I do.

Why I sometimes put something intangible "first".

And why, when you boil it down, every single thing I do is still for them.

The Christmas Wish

By Devon Rhodes

This short story came to me when I saw this photo.  For all my fans out there and my fellow authors who have become friends...Happy Holidays!  This one's for you!

"Oh, this is just great," Garrett muttered under his breath, although there was no one there to hear him.

That was the problem. He was alone.

Alone at Christmas, what a cliche. So sappy.  Even he wouldn't write such tripe.

He gave the whirling, falling snow outside one last glare, then reluctantly gave up his vigil at the front window, conceding defeat. Mother Nature was apparently not on board with Garrett's plan to fill his home-du-jour with Christmas cheer and brotherhood. He flicked off the porch light, and the snow appeared to stop falling.  He wished.

When he first accepted this house-sitting gig over the two-week holiday period, he had gone into full planning mode. A huge Victorian inn up in the mountains over the holidays?  All "his"?  E-mails had flown as he invited all and sundry up for some playtime in the winter wonderland.

Oh, when the weather broke, he might still get a few takers. But it was late on Christmas Eve, and even though Garrett knew it was just another night, the prospect of rattling around all by himself in this monstrosity of a retreat on Christmas Day just took his knees out from under him.

Garrett sighed and began closing down the house for the night, the unfamiliar routine of this new house momentarily distracting him from his melancholy. Steeling himself to keep from going to gaze hopefully out the window again, watching for headlights he knew wouldn't appear, he ascended the staircase, letting his hand trail along the smooth wood banister.


Lying in bed, the random dancing of firelight teasing at his eyelids, Garrett could almost hear the voice of his grandma, reminding him to make his Christmas wish. What I really want, Santa can't bring, Mimi. Burying his head under the pillow, he wished anyway, then promptly cursed himself for a fool.


Normally Garrett slept like the dead, a trait that helped him immensely in his "career" as a professional house-sitter where he seldom slept in the same bed for more than a couple weeks. That night had been no different, so the abrupt awakening confused him at first as he tried to get his bearings.

The light behind the windowshades was hard to read, and he leaned up to take a look at his old-fashioned travel alarm. After eight. Merry Christmas to me.

The house had cooled considerably overnight, and there weren't even any coals left glowing in the fireplace of his bedroom. The baseboard heater creaked and clicked at him, so he knew it had kicked on at some point, but it sure wasn't helping. Quickly dressing, he hit the stairs, lured by the thought of the woodstove in the kitchen, that real heat which seemed to penetrate more than anything man had come up with.

He thought cynically of his Christmas wish the night before and pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath. Just another day, let's just think of it that way.

Two things penetrated at roughly the same instant: the haphazard pile of discarded outerwear and bags in the foyer and the smell of...coffee?

Garrett's pace quickened and he slammed the swinging doors into the kitchen open, almost getting smacked by the rebound as he stopped short at the sight of his three best friends in the world. They looked up as one from their places sipping coffee around the table, wood stove crackling in the corner, and to a man gave him the biggest, smuggest grins he could ever hope to see.

An answering grin spread unchecked across his face even as he shook his head in wonder.

My Christmas wish came true.

The I'm-Not-So-Smart "Learning Experience"

I was eighteen the first time I realized I wasn't as smart as I thought.

I spoke last week about being a precocious reader. Placed very early on in 'gifted' classes, I was buoyed  along in a wonderful school system that recognized and plucked us 'gifted' kids out of the regular classroom and placed us in a kind of free-form classroom, where we determined our coursework, challenged our peers, self-graded. I flourished.

Then we moved.

In seventh grade, I came into a school system that had no advanced track and few options. Along with the obvious upheaval that followed in my social life trying to find my place at that very tender age, I was lost in the shuffle. Anonymity isn't great for any kid, much less the antithesis of a 'squeaky wheel'.

"No grease for you, Rhody!"

So I slid along in regular classes, acing classes left and right. Barely cracked a book, even in high school. I could listen in class, read what I had to, and get A's in everything, with the occasional B+ in classes that didn't interest me or which had a teacher I didn't like.

Took all the college placement courses without difficulty.  Took all the tests too.  I've always tested well, and the PSAT's, SAT's and ACT's were no exception.  Had my choice of full rides and was accepted to every school I applied to. As a junior, I had was awarded a Nat'l Merit Scholarship, which basically gave me carte blanche to decide where I wanted to go for free.

I chose a huge state University in the south, in the state where I had spent my happy childhood. You know how they say you can't go back?  Very true. But that's another story.

My freshman year was unforgettable.  I was in this enormous U's honors program, in premed, living in the honor's dorm, and had a very heavy course load. I've blocked out most of my memories of which classes I actually took, but know it included honors chemistry and an interesting honors class, the Social Psychology of Friendship.

I flunked. Badly.

My GPA coming out of my first semester was less than 1.

You may think, oh, all that partying, those wild times. But I hardly ever went out, much less to parties.

Nope.  The reason I flunked out was simple: Smart as I was...I didn't know how to study.

Surely it's self-evident. You open the book, work things through until you have it all memorized, and spit it back out at test time. But through all my years of education to that point, I had never, EVER had to study.  So it didn't occur to me that I would have to start.

That was the first time I realized I wasn't as smart as I thought I was.

Home on holiday break, I was appalled when my grades arrived in the mail (this was the 80's, they're probably online these days).  I was still smart enough to realize my free ride was in jeopardy, confirmed by the 'warning' letter I got soon after. I also realized I would have a hell of a time trying to get admitted to any other college with this academic non-perfomance on my record.

I almost didn't go back. I literally stood there in the airport, listening to the last call for boarding, before sucking it up and heading back down to the place I now hated.

I knew that I needed to ace this semester to even have a shot at moving on, and either way my Merit scholarship would go bye-bye. Facing my parents, especially Dad, was just awful.  He swallowed his shock and disappointment and called it a "learning experience" instead of raging at me.  I moped around, depressed and lost for the first month I was back, and then somehow pulled myself up and privately vowed to do everything I could to dig myself out of this hole.

So I learned to study.

I had no dearth of subject material to practice on. I was matriculated right along, so now I was in second semester honors chemistry...and I had gotten an F in the first semester.  So I had to learn the whole first half of the book while trying to keep up in my labs and lectures in the second half of the book.

My insomnia was at its peak during this stage of my life, and it actually stood me in good stead.  I got to be a regular at the libraries and lobbies, anywhere that was quiet. I watched the students around me and even studied at the dorm complex pool (nobody ever swam there even though it was hot as hades most of the time, just tanned and flirted and studied). At first I memorized, then I actually worked through the process of studying to learn.

Just so I won't leave you hanging, I came back and aced that semester.  I even, in my chemistry lecture class that was over 1,000 students, got the high grade on the final.  Truly.  I checked the printout of the grades posted outside the department just before I climbed into the van and started the long drive home with my parents. 

Twenty years later, I still haven't been back to that state. But I'll never forget the life lesson learned there.