I've been a lazy bones since, oh, I don't know, since Thursday when vacation plans were scrapped due to a neighbor's late night/early morning tomfoolery with high flying explosive devices and our tinder-dry roof. The husband was off for a forced company-wide vacation this past week and we've spent the most of it teetering on CrankyPants-dom.

I try not to get too riled by people with more money to spend on fireworks than sense in their heads; honestly I do, but I guess after witnessing seven separate instances over the past eighteen years of expensive things catching fire or being blown apart (some of those involving downright cruelty), I'm just jaded toward the whole holiday. Or in our area of the country, the entire week (or two) because, as one neighbor informed me yesterday, yes, somewhere in the Constitution it states that Fourth of July celebrations are a God given right to each and every American which can official begin on June 28th.

"Huh?" I said, after which I was pointed to and laughed at.

Can I move to Canada now? (Please don't pop my self-romanticized Canada love affair bubble just yet.)

I have tackled a pathetically small amount of that huge pile of reading I need to finish before mid-July. Part of my reasoning is due to just not feeling like it (bad excuse), part is due to a toothache. It should be noted here that I, similar to most major appliances in this house, only have breakdowns, failures, or severe aches and pains over holiday weekends when either a) there is nothing that can be done to fix it, or b) fixes are wildly, horribly expensive and usually done by angry men wielding pliers.

This time around and since the tooth dishing out the grief is a back molar I routinely have problems with, I'm going to demand it be pulled. I'm tough that way. I'm not going to baby it any longer. I've hated that thing, a crooked, sideways lump of bone in which every morsel of food gets trapped, most of my adult life. It's so out of there...but probably not until later next week at the earliest. And while I could spend the time doped up on whatever pain medication I can dig out from the cabinet under the bathroom sink until that yet unscheduled dentist appointment, that might not be the best time to read through that pile of material. Unless I like fairy tales because that's what my brain will undoubtedly transform it into. I know myself so well.

But not to let every waking moment of today go to waste, I did send a query to a publisher on an old, unheard from submission and received word back nearly instantaneously, and then sent out two new submissions. Go me, and to that toothache, just go away.

I have an ungodly amount of reading to do, most of which I need to finish before July 19th. Four books, 2 non fiction, two fiction, and two complete(?) manuscripts. You know, probably as much reading as an editor or slush reader does in four days or less. I'm not whining. I need to read more and this is the best time for me to do so.

I've come to a conclusion: My short story writing doesn't completely suck but it needs A LOT of work. Some would argue my short stories aren't stories at all but are Slice of Life pieces. I agree wholeheartedly with that but only because it was recently pointed out to me in a way that I finally understood. My stories generally don't have a beginning or end; some would say they don't have a middle either although until last week, I would have vehemently argued that yes, yes they did (because I say they do!), all of them did because my god! a story that doesn't have a beginning, middle, or end isn't a story at all and if what I've just spent the past year doing wasn't writing stories then what the hell am I wasting all this time doing?

Fooling myself?

Naw, spinning my wheels is what I'm calling it and there isn't anything wrong with that, in my mind, because I do have work to show for that spent time and it has gotten me to this point, that point being that I know it's time I pick up my game and spend more time becoming educated on the craft of writing.

I'm not beating myself up for any of the time I've spent stabbing in the dark, trying to hit the short story artery. Nor am I going to beat myself up for not feeling bad about not feeling bad. Onward, ever onward is my goal beginning with this pile of reading.

From karindira via jens fire:
It's a meme!

* Post 3 things you've done that you don't think anybody else on your friends list has done.
* See if anybody responds with "I've done that." If they have- add another!(2.b., 2.c., etc...)
* Encourage your friends paste this into their own journal to see what unique things they've done.

1. Met Alice Cooper, then drove and sold one of his cars for a lot of money.
2. Drove a car at 162 miles per hour for one mile with witnesses to the event (unfortunately, not the right kind of witnesses to make the record books).
3. Had the opportunity to train for the 1980 Olympics (swimming), the one we boycotted...but I'm not bitter!

Rereading these, it's apparent I'm not too much into girly-type things, ya think?

Yesterday the husband went back to his first full day of work after his bad MS exacerbation two weeks ago, except he was only supposed to stay half a day. Reason? A little bit of 'superman syndrome,' a little bit of 'the boss implied it would be in everyone's best interest for me to work a full day.'

Stress? No, me?

Really, I'm trying to get the creative writing flow back on track. Had half an idea or two a couple of days ago. This time I was smart in that I jotted them down. I just can't make sense of them at the moment.

We had a discussion today in which I effectively kept myself from bursting into tears while driving (because I do most of the driving nowadays and I've learned that the two don't generally mix well) about channeling my stress, frustration, and anger over his MS things into my writing. I had to admit I don't want to go there just yet, if ever. It's a black, horrific place and frankly, the thoughts have terrified me. I'd have to give myself permission to write about that. Afterward, I would have scared myself as badly as I did last year when I granted myself permission to write about a particularly dark incident in my childhood (but wait! It was fiction, right? Right??). I was scared half out of my mind to let my writing group read it and even then, I felt I needed to prepare them for what they were about to lay their eyes upon. Not for the squeamish. That story, btw, is still out, overseas, since last October in fact, for a horror anthology, and I'm still hoping it'll be bought sometime this year.

So yes, someday I may venture into that world of frustration. I guess I could look at it as a writer's growth spurt, that permission-granted area that isn't all kittens and butterflies (not that I have or most likely ever would write about kittens and butterflies and not to imply that there's anything wrong with such). But for the time being, I think I'll stick with expanding my writing brain with things like goofy buddy characters and rocket-cars and flying machines and accidentally invented inventions 'cause right now I'd rather laugh than cry while I can.

The husband continues to improve. He's back to walking without assistance from a cane and his speech is completely back to normal. He's experiencing the steroid afterglow; the slight reddish flush in his upper body, neck, and cheeks as though he's just enjoyed a week on a sunny beach. We've been through this before and in fact, had people indirectly accuse him of that. If only, I usually say and glare at those people.

No writing today though I thought about that and writing groups in general a good portion of the day. I'm spending the evening, in bed, with Chris Vogler's "The Writer's Journey," a book I'm convinced will help me sort out Working Title, a longish short story I stuck myself on (like a deceased bug on a pin in a glass box) back in January. The problem is, I didn't understand the book the last time I tried to read it though I will admit I was in too much of a hurry to get back to writing something else. Or was it I kept coming up with story ideas?* It was one of the two; can't remember exactly now.

And that's another thing: I haven't come up with any story ideas since April. Nothing, nada, el zippo. Now, the husband will remind me that's how I seem to operate. Just when I'm certain I'm not cut out to be a writer, something decent will pop into my head and I'm off on a tear. It's those dry spells that bother me to no end. I wonder if anyone else goes through the same thing, and the same worries?

*If indeed I stopped reading "The Writer's Journey" the first time because I kept coming up with story ideas, it would serve me well to stop typing this very minute and get to reading with notepad and pen in hand, I think.

Today was immeasurably better than any of the previous eight have been. Today, the husband got his fifth and final steroid treatment for his MS exacerbation and he is already seeing and feeling improvement. Thank you, everyone, for your well wishes and good thoughts. They worked.

I didn't write today (at least not yet) but I'm going to work on the YAWT rewrite per INK critique suggestions immediately after this. I didn't receive any rejections or sell anything either but it's all good. My self esteem is back to good and strong, again thanks to the many commenters I've had visit here over the past few days. I think the worst is over this MS go around and I've learned some things to carry me through the next.

What I didn't do was work much in the yard. I pushed sixteen short border fence sections into soft earth, taking up all of about five minutes of time, and decided either I need sixteen more (priced 2 for 1 at Fred Meyer stores this week) or to be happy with what I have since they really don't hold back the tall, long ostrich fern fronds like I hoped they would. I didn't spread any more bark mulch because my back is sore from everything else I've been doing and I didn't read like I told myself I would. Oh well, I'll live.

I did make a decision regarding another writing group, I bought a lock for the new storage shed, I did laundry, and I did my arms workout. I also renewed my Apex Digest subscription and bought myself a Leatherman Skeletool because I've wanted one since seeing it and knowing I'd find dozens of uses for it. And I took care of myself and the husband without any tears being shed for the first time in almost a week. Again, all is good.

And now, because my friend Jeff Soesbe was cool enough to post a snippet from his latest work, here's a line from YAWT, a humorous SF/Speculative piece:

“Day-um Pete, remind me to pay particular attention to anything you’ve got labeled ‘caution’ in the future.”

Love your line, Jeff!

Today was the roughest day yet. In the past, things have started to turn around by now. Husband had to go in unexpectedly for a fourth steroid treatment. His speech which sounded a little improved yesterday was today back to sounding as though he had had a stroke (he hasn't), and his balance was back to almost none existent. Naturally, this all came on the day when the cupboards and fridge were nearly bare and a big, previously scheduled delivery from Sears was to occur. Someone absolutely had to be here for the delivery and since it's only me and the husband, guess what had to be put off until the very possible late minute? Guess who spent the day feeling like crap because I had to make the choice between getting my husband to the doctor's office on their schedule or forfeiting a much anticipated $1200 delivery until some later inopportune time?

Let's just say it all turned out well in the end. Well, fairly well. We both broke down in tears more than once, I ground my teeth as I explained to the attending nurse why we couldn't be at the office exactly when they wanted us to be (She didn't buy a word of it and probably thinks I'm the worst caregiver in all the world and who knows? At this point I'm questioning it myself), I sweat-ed, cooled down, and sweat-ed some more so many times throughout the course of today, I actually had salt crystals forming on my scalp (ugh!), and I nearly dehydrated myself to the point of passing out. Yeah, leg cramps are going to suck bad in the coming days. I made the husband promise to remind me to drink lots of water over the weekend but I doubt he'll be able to remember it. He's going through an awful time right now with more pressing matters than to keep track of how I'm doing.

Then, while waiting for that all-important delivery, I got back a short story in the mail. Rejection number three within 24 hours of the last two. My first rejection form letter without a single personalized word on it. For those playing sale/rejection bingo, that's three stories still out there, three returned temporarily to the nest, and no sales to date I've said often that rejection doesn't bother me and for the most part, it doesn't. I grew up with so much of it, it usually rolls right off. I learn from rejection; always have. But it must be the timing of everything else that has me wondering if I'm just a legend in my own mind. Heavy stuff to sleep on. Things will look different tomorrow, or maybe next week, or maybe next month.

So after the husband's fourth treatment today, (an IV drip for 30 minutes plus all the sitting around beforehand in a waiting room filled to capacity with people there for TB testing, pneumonia and strep testing; all kinds of stuff that scares me to half to death), I assembled part of the delivery: a big, plastic, outdoor storage shed because the husband couldn't do it. Scraped up my hands fairly well and the whole time I was trying to press the big, bulky pieces together that mostly did.not.want.to.assemble because the pieces were anything but straight, I kept thinking the country of this thing's origin was laughing at us for wanting such goofy things in the first place.

Anyway, the shed is together now and the husband is happy. Important stuff is in it already and all is good. No writing today but a critique was finished up and sent out. Tomorrow the husband and I go back to the doctor's office for a fifth and final (?) treatment and I'll wonder if I'll get a fourth, maybe even a fifth and sixth reply on my remaining stories out there. I mean, if things are going to be this hectic and stressful and if I'm going to have to get to the point of bawling my head off over the tiniest little thing, what better week to get it all out into the open, right? Right!

Tuesday was a rough day, Wednesday was marginally better, today seemed so long but now, at 10:30 p.m. I'm wondering where the day went. Third day of steroid treatment for the husband at a local medical office. His slurred speech is slightly better, no improvement on walking yet but then again, that's always taken longer anyway. He's good about using his canes; one for upstairs, one for downstairs. Yes, he's got MS and lives in a two-story house. He had it built in 1999 and two months later, he was officially diagnosed with the disease. Someday we'll need to move to a single-level home, but not yet.

I received two rejections today, both nice ones, one better than the other. Both of them were for my least favorite short stories, one was for the story I read at last year's OryCon Open Read & Critique, a hard-sell writer bored with writing vampire story, and the other is the monster in the back yard tale. Naturally, I'll toy with retiring both of them, in reality, I won't. As soon as I can find a reasonably close market, these hard-working stories will go out into the world again.

For anyone keeping score, that makes four stories still out, two back home only long enough to do a load of laundry. A seventh story, formerly known here as YAWT, is gathering critique from my writing group, INK. So far, so good. I agree with most of what's been suggested, still not sure on that ending but something tells me when it comes to this story, I'm probably never going to be okay with it. Sometimes, it's best to just let it go. I've got a couple of places I'd really like to send this one when I'm done polishing it but one isn't accepting anything until later this year, another isn't accepting anything without a query first and the understanding that they won't be publishing anything until 2010 or later, and the third place, well, I'm not sure the story is right for that market but I so want to try. I'd just have to wait almost a year before I'd hear back from them. I know, I know, send it out and forget about it, Keep writing, keep creating inventory.

Working outside in the rain yesterday (it was a warm rain) I was able to finish a small cobblestone patio area I needed to have done in time for a storage shed that we're having delivered here tomorrow. I still need 35 more cobblestones to completely finish the project but that section can wait for now. Today even though my back was killing me and I was irrationally tired, I found spots in our tiny backyard for about three full wheelbarrow's worth of dirt from where the cobblestones were laid. I still have a dozen bags of bark mulch to spread and three roses to dig out and pot up before I can finally call it good but it's not like the back yard is a mess or anything. It's beautiful out there. A writer could be inspired to write their fingers to the bone back there. I ought to do just that, and I will...just as soon as I get it all finished.

Plodding, that's what I'm doing. Not writing, reading a little, and stressing about an outdoor project I really *really* need to get done before the sun goes nova later this week (okay, not really, just upwards of 95+ degrees F. for a few days and there is NO WAY I'm going to dig out and lay a 6x6 ft cobblestone patio in that!).

I don't know why I'm not writing other than to say I just don't feel like it, today, yesterday, or last weekend for that matter. I've got a couple of chapters of The Car Novel to print out and get feedback on (that's fairly difficult with the work schedule and lack of attention span before sleep takes over thing that's too often the case) and YAWT is still got my butt in a sling while dangling an end carrot that I can't see.

I guess I should be glad I'm reading, what with some five two dozen books to get through, but I still feel as though I'm plodding along through life and I don't like it one bit.

It was both actually.

This morning I discovered:

1. I really didn't want to get up but...
2. Snow had been predicted here (across the river from Portland, OR) and...
3. By 10:30 a.m. it actually was snowing and...
4. It was 33 degrees at our house and...
5. Our sidewalks and driveway were nearly covered in ice.
6. I felt worse than I thought I would for not going to a newly created, local writer's group but it couldn't be helped, not so much because of the snow and ice but because...
7. After almost nine years of living here, our master bathroom toilet had rusted a bolt out of the bottom of the tank and was leaking icky water all over our upstairs flooring and...
8. Unbeknownst to me, Steve had been pining for a new, bigger toilet for years. Who knew? Some men want a bigger TV, mine wants a bigger commode.
9. Lowe's has bigger pots. Installation will cost more than the item, slightly less if I choose to keep the old toilet to perhaps, plant with petunias and mount in a highly visible spot in my front yard, but as tacky as that might look, it'd fit in nicely with...
10. A crude drawing of a penis someone (I suspect the new next-door rental house neighbors) drew with a bold, black marker on the development's community mailbox directly across the street overnight.

It's now 9-ish in the p.m. and almost everything is under control. Well as much under control as things could be considering that new toilet won't be here or installed until sometime next week. In the meantime, we have lots of towels.

It hailed and snowed here heavily between 6 and 8 p.m. sticking in the grass, melting on the streets. I should have spent the time writing but it was just so dang pretty and weird at the same time and I was too excited about it to concentrate. Tomorrow, writing, I promise, upon pain of death. YAWT will slide into home plate.

I worked like a dog all weekend but didn't give myself any biscuits. Not yet anyway.

- Moved a pallet and a half of retaining wall block.
- Spread 17 bags of 'color-enhanced' bark mulch.
- Transplanted a dozen plants including a six foot tree.
- Removed the once lovely, three foot juniper from Hell.
- Hauled four buckets of river rock from back yard to front yard.
- Endured, from the open garage next door, more of the renters' 14 year old son's bad drumming that I feared would never end. (Note to self: Good work on quelling initial desire to go on murderous rampage!)
- Missed two main meals and still managed somehow to gain five pounds.
- Found another hundred or so words for YAWT.

YAWT is up to 1300 words. I gots me some heavy thinking to do in order to tie up the loose ends. In a perfect world an ending will find it's way in there somewhere too. I really like the story so far. It's fun.

Saturday looks to be a perfect world here in my smidgen of the Pacific Northwest. In preparation for such, tomorrow will be all about heavy manual labor. Because I missed the boat on ordering bark mulch for this warm, dry weekend thanks to everyone and their mother doing just that thus allowing the only time left for delivery around 10 P.M Sunday evening (I kid, but just barely), I'll be using Friday to finish laying retaining wall block along the east and west side of our back yard. That will completely finish the project I started two years ago.

I've got a pallet of gray block coming, 126 blocks to be exact at 41 pounds each, plus half a pallet of cobblestone block, 113 blocks at 25 pounds each. You math-heads can work it out on how much I'll be lifting out of the front driveway, carrying down cement steps, and lugging between fifty and eighty feet into pre-position spots.

It'll be just like back when I used to lift weight for fun. Miss those arm muscles.

If the block gets here in early enough like they assured me would happen but frankly, I know better, and I get all the block moved out of the driveway and into the back yard quickly enough (so neighbor kids don't steal them), I then get to dig out the spots each block will rest in. That part is relatively easy and I don't mind doing it. But then there's the mini patio I'll be digging out and laying the cobblestone for so the trashcans and yard debris bin will stop sinking and we can finally keep our feet out of the mud. I'm really looking forward to that part...when it's finished. Ugh. Who likes to dig out wet clay-ish mud? At least I've got a place to dump the muck.

Finally, after I die or at the very least, shower and lie in bed wondering if Cirque du Soliel will hire me now that my arms will have stretched a few extra inches in length (that's got to be good for something, right?), Saturday when it's supposed to be 76 degrees F. and dry, I'll plant those red geraniums I finally got. And the Basket of Gold and a couple dwarf Pteris and another Rock Cress. I've got three landscape roses and a white flowering shrub I love but don't know the name of to move too, a three-foot potted lilac, a tall, orange-colored grass, and two nine-year old pots of tiger lilies to plant as well as a hanging basket to create.

Only then will I truly be ready to bark mulch the entire place.

But that will have to wait until the next dry weekend because not only will my arms and back need a break, I have YAWT and Working Title to finish. In the meantime, c'mon subconscious. I'll keep a pen and note pad handy. Get cracking on those story endings, 'k?

I'm halfway through two stories: Working Title and YAWT (Yet Another Working Title - pronounced 'yacht' here at landlocked ColeHaus Garden Inn & Resort) and last Friday I hit the proverbial wall. Not writer's block for if I truly suffered it you wouldn't be reading this. It's just a wall. My stories aren't talking to me or anyone else as far as I can tell. Usually that means they need to sit and percolate. But here's the thing: I don't feel I have time to wait. Push the stories and they may suck in the end. Don't push the stories . . . and they may still suck in the end if an end ever gets written.

C'mon Cole, be professional and all that. Work through it. Prove to yourself most of all that you do indeed have what it takes to become what you really want to be -- a cat juggler! No, no, a writer, an author, a wordy, oft-misunderstood rock star! A legend in your own mind!

Been there, done that.

It's April. I really need to remember to schedule things to see and places to go for myself during the month of April. April is my depression month. Not quite spring, too close to summer (summer being a time of year I'm not terribly fond of). Doesn't make one whit of sense but there it is.

Of course by stating aloud that April is depressing makes it so. I'm somewhat proud of myself for not saying it until just a minute ago even though I've felt off and somewhat emotionally paralyzed about nearly everything since, oh, let's see, April 1st.

But at least I know now, having made it so in my mind. Perhaps saying it is half the battle of getting through it. Maybe my stories sensed I was being moody and just maybe, since acknowledging it, they'll start talking to me again (and SOON dammit!).

Or maybe I just need a nap. Until May.

It seems everyone is cleaning their desks and/or organizing their submission and rejection slips. Must be a first of the year thing. Me, I'm too anal for all that in that I keep my desk relatively cleared off and my submission/rejection box neat enough to make an organization pro weep with joy. So what does this mean?

An obvious clue is that I'm not currently working on a novel nor have a contract/deadline to complete a novel. Bad me because I do actually have one or two that I am quite proud of but 1) have not finished, 2) am not shopping them around, and 3) am so burnt out on the best of the two because . . . I don't know why. I just am right now.

Another clue is that I'm not writing multiple things right now and in fact, just took up working on a short story I've dallied with for a month. Nothing much is printed out as of yet.

I'm also not doing any serious reading right now though I should be. I always have a book beside the bed but nothing out at the official Writing Desk; you know, like something so good you'd read it anywhere at the expensive of everything else including but not limited to eating, sleeping, and breathing; something you'd want to Velcro to your body 24/7.

And so, with nothing but a pretty plant, a phone, and a warm mug of tea on my desk, it might seem that I'm being fairly lazy at the moment. But hey! At least I've got a clean desk!

Sunday evening. I've taken a week off from writing, partly due to frustration, partly due to...oh, I don't know. Let's call it a lull and while we're at it, let's call it over.

That's not to say I haven't been thinking about the stories in my inventory, what changes I could make to them to perhaps get them to sell if I can ever get completely over my distaste for rewriting (ugh), and I've been reading. In particular, I've been reading several Nebula nominees, trying to figure out how the stories work and sadly, I still don't see it.

It's times like this I feel like I'm back in the fourth grade, playing a game my teacher used to play wherein she'd say a word out loud and wait for someone to answer with some other word. She never did explain what relationship the words had to have to one another, citing that would give it away. Obviously at the time, most of the kids got it. All I know is I was the only one in the entire class of thirty-two kids who never figured out what words she was waiting to hear. For the life of me, I never could figure out the connection.

Even today, some forty years later, I still think of that game and that teacher and wish I knew what the Hell kind of words she was looking for.