Anny Cook's Blog, page 41

Take it When?

I'm retired. Part of retirement is the privilege of sleeping...late (or as long as I wish). Yet I was up and about this morning at seven AM. And why would that be? Um, I needed to take my first morning med.

"Take in morning with full glass of water at least one hour prior to eating. Do not take with other medications."

"Take in morning with full glass of water at least forty-five minutes prior to eating."

"Take with food."

"Take before bed with food."

"Take before bed, at least one hour after eating, with full glass of water."

Hah. I need a spreadsheet to figure out when to take what. If I get up at seven and take my first pill, then I can eat around nine. I might point out that also means NO COFFEE until nine. My diabetes constrains me to eat early--and regularly--so those evening meds with food require a small snack at least one hour before I plan to go to bed so I can take the second evening med. With a full glass of water. Now what do you suppose is the result of a full glass of water just prior to bedtime? Uh-huh.

I'm a reasonably intelligent individual with problem solving skills so I can work it all out. But it does make me wonder about those elderly folks who can't work it all out. How do they manage?

And my schedule? Well, it revolves around when to take a pill. I have a full page of instructions about when to STOP taking my various meds prior to my surgery at the end of the month.

Aside from the financial consequences, wouldn't it be easier to figure out a way to take all this crap once a week?

anny

Varma, Monkberry, and Antanov

Every time I begin a new book, the name search is part of the setup. I know some writers who believe character names aren't all that important, but I think they can provide a shortcut for the reader and the writer.

Whether we want to admit it, or not, all of us form impressions based on names. John Smith doesn't have the same connotation as Danny Ling or Alistair Monkberry. Elizabeth and Margaret bring different pictures to mind than Muffy and Barbie. There is a reason why such names as Wolf and Nick are so popular in the romance field some publishers have banned them. As writers, we can use this character shorthand--or write against 'type'.

Writing against type carries a certain risk if the reader has a heavy bias against such a name. I once met a woman who categorically refused to read any book with a female character named Babs. She said it reminded her of boobs. I can sort of see her point.

But, imagine what a writer could accomplish with a really smart, kick-ass character named Buffy. Oops. That one's been taken. And there's another point. Some characters are so memorable their names end up out of circulation for a good long while.

Rourke. Buffy. Arthur. Xena. After a time, folks forget who they were and the names can be recycled. Many romance readers would recognize Rourke as the hero from J.D. Robb's 'in Death' series. But my first encounter with the name was almost forty years ago with another fabulous Rourke in Shanna by Kathleen Woodiwiss.

Names can indicate social status, ethnicity, gender, and regional origin. One or two words can provide an indelible portrait before the writer ever adds description or dialogue. A name made popular through literature or popular culture can even indicate approximate age of the character. Imagine all the Harrys and Hermoines out there.

I believe a name--especially names of peripheral characters--can serve to illuminate those characters with a minimum of additional description. But then...that's just my opinion.

anny

Laughter or Tears

Some authors can make you laugh--you know, that hysterical laughter where you nearly pee your pants and your ribs hurt? Some can write so poignantly you need a box of tissues. Occasionally, an author will come along who can make you both laugh and cry. They are more rare than diamonds.

Writing a truly funny scene is about more than timing. The author must 'see' the humor in everyday, whacked out life. Most of us don't. We laugh at slapstick comedy, but not the humor inherent in the simple process of living.

Once I was reading a book in a restaurant while waiting for a very slow waiter to deliver our food. The hunk was watching a game on their televisions. We were content. The story was about a widow with three small boys and the single man who was falling in love with her. He volunteered to babysit. He served spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. There was an awesome food fight. Need I say more?

I laughed so hard tears streamed down my face--while I was desperately struggling to be quiet. After all, I was in public. Evidently, I wasn't successful because three people from surrounding tables demanded to know what I was reading. All three wrote down the title and author. And since I was causing a stir, the manager showed up. She wrote down the title and author, too.

And our food miraculously showed up immediately.

The other night I was re-reading another of this same author's books. We were having a quiet evening at home, watching Antiques Roadshow. In between keeping an eye on the various items, I was reading one of the most touching and heart-wrenching scenes I've ever read. As I haphazardly mopped at the tears trickling down my face with a ragged tissue, the hunk asked me what I was reading. When I told him, he just nodded and said he'd cried, too, when he read that scene.

That ability to touch the heart of the reader is a fearsome gift. It can't be taught. It must be felt deep in the soul.

Yesterday was the author's birthday. May she live long and prosper.

anny

Discards and Keepers

Have you ever wondered what happens to old unsuccessful television series? I can tell you. They end up on services such as Netflix or Hulu. In the last few weeks while I've been under the weather, the hunk and I have watched far more TV than I've watched in recent years. We discovered Netflix has a treasure-trove of series that didn't make the grade. Since we have no frame of reference, we just randomly pick and watch to see what they're about.

Our rule is they must have less than fifteen episodes. There's some really strange stuff out there. We've watched end-of-the-world stuff. And oddball mystery. And here's what we've concluded. A lot of it seriously deserved to be canceled.

While watching I've analyzed why or why not the shows didn't catch the public's eye. My number one reason--a confusing, disorganized beginning. Seriously. Murky sets, murky story lines, just...murky in general.

I like a mystery as well as the next gal, but for the love of Perry Mason, just tell me what it is! Don't just meander around introducing characters at random, showing them performing various tasks with no context. Argh!!! Why is that man cutting flowers? Why is the girl bicycling past a canal? What is the significance of that woman looking out the window at the man washing his car? Why should I care?

Writers sometimes do the same thing. There are many reasons a book might become a wallbanger, but the number one reason is general murkiness. Once the reader is too confused to figure out what the heck is going on, they're done.

My favorite books--the ones I read multiple times--clearly state the main premise of the book in the first chapter. Too often in an effort to maintain the mystery, an author fails to reveal the premise. Then the reader wanders for as long as they can stand it before pitching the book and moving on.

If the writer can't keep the reader's interest long enough to decide whether they like the characters and want to know more about them, whether they could possibly care about what will happen to them, then that book will be 'canceled'. And for many readers, there will be no second chance for that story.

More Yarn!

In this world there are knitters, crocheters, and weavers. And then there are all those other folks... The ones who don't understand the absolute craving for yarn. The overwhelming temptation. Colored yarn. Fuzzy yarn. Glossy, soft, drapey yarn. Warm, bulky, cozy yarn. Wool, llama, alpaca, buffalo, and cotton yarn.

Yarn!

Breaking out the needles or crochet hook or the loom and starting a new project is one of the best feelings. There's anticipation and excitement. And...

Frustration and impatience.

Yarn!

anny

Nifty Stuff

 My friend Amarinda posted a blog about her nifty adventures working in an auto repair shop. And in that odd way, it reminded me of a time when 'nifty' was more than a descriptive word.

But before we move on to that, I'll just point out the hunk is particularly nifty when it comes to crocheting--witness his latest production--a lovely fitted king-sized cover for our bed! I wish I could crochet with such even stitches...

Now...on to one of my favorite memories from my school days--my Nifty Notebook. I loved mine. Heck, I'd probably still be using it, but for some odd reason, teachers and schools weren't as enamored of the Nifty. Maybe it was the 'snapping' sound the magnets made when you closed the pencil box in the top end. Maybe it was the top-punched, two hole paper.

I don't know. But for a time, it was the Niftiest Notebook around. Mine was blue. I miss my Nifty.
How about y'all? Anyone out there remember your Nifty?

anny

Wasteland

Most mornings I have a set agenda I follow--sheer habit. I roll out of bed, take early morning meds, turn on the coffee pot, boot up the computer and comb my hair. By then, enough time has passed so I can take the next set of meds and read through my e-mail. It doesn't take long to do the e-mail as I count myself fortunate if I receive three or four that aren't junk.

Then I run through any comments I received on my Facebook posts and blog. By the time I finish up with that (about ten minutes) and read my friends' posts, it's time for coffee. Then I settle down to write a blog--if I have anything I want to share. Once that's finished and posted, it's time for breakfast. Total time expended: sixty minutes--if I'm slow with the blog writing.

If I'm having a particularly muzzy-brained morning, I might play a computer game to get the old brain cells moving. After that, I write.

I share all this useless information with you so you'll understand I have no objection to using the computer and Internet. I DO confess I just don't get the fascination with spending HOURS surfing the web. I tend to have a more businesslike attitude about the computer AND the Internet.

It may be my attitude stems from the fact the computer  has always been a work tool for me. Oh, I enjoy playing a computer game. As a matter of fact, I spent some time playing one yesterday while the hunk watched football. But that's not the norm. Aside from the occasional game of Scrabble or Solitaire, most of my time is spent in the actual work of writing.

I'm a bit puzzled by folks who are caught up in the various social media. What's with that? No doubt I'm marching along to my own drummer, but once the most current information about my books is posted, once the blog is written and the website is updated, I figure folks will get in touch if they have any questions.

All the energy writers, artists, musicians expend trying to attract attention is so much noise to me. If a 'link' catches my eye--and is a subject I'm interested in--I'll read it. If it's a sales pitch, review, or political rant, I usually pass. Perhaps that's why I'm not a bestseller. Maybe my books just suck. Either way, I'm not lost in the dark hole we call the Internet.

If anyone has proof that all that busyness actually sells books--ante up. I'd be real interested in the info. As far as I've been able to discern, the Internet is 80% wasteland and 19% iffy information. The remaining 1% could be more easily accomplished via snail mail and telephone.

Oh, I forgot. No one uses the mail or phone anymore...

anny

Bugs and Bones

It's been a busy week. I've had a persistent stomach bug that's irritated and laid me low on a couple occasions. In spite of that, I've written a few words here and there. For that, I'm grateful.

Worse than the bug is the low grade depression most folks have when they don't feel well. Often we don't acknowledge the pervasive influence of gloominess attached to illness. I confess it just pisses me off. I don't like feeling down. My friend, Amarinda Jones, accuses me of terminal perkiness. It's hard to be perky when your gut hurts.

On another front, I went to see the surgeon about my right pinkie finger. You would think a little finger couldn't be that much trouble. And you would be wrong. I was prepared for the doc to explain how he would remove the bone spurs in the last joint, thus making it feel alllll better.

I was not prepared for an entirely different scenario. My last joints on both pinkies are quite crooked. It's genetic. My children, siblings, and mother all had the same crooked joints. Apparently, thirty plus years of typing have worn away all the cartilage between the bones in that particular joint so there's nothing to cushion the ends of the bones--and thus the bone spurs. Removing them will not take care of the cartilage loss. In fact, it's likely I would be back in a couple years with more bone spurs.

So the surgeon recommends fusing the joint (straightening the finger and screwing the last two bones together). Since this involves a 'foreign object' (the screw), insurance won't pay for it unless it's performed in the hospital. Yay!!!

I just received in the mail a six page packet of instructions, pre-op physical forms, and miscellaneous directions with a list of pre-op tests that have to be performed before the surgery.

Now. Take a minute to hold up your hand and look at the last joint on your pinkie finger. See it? Take good care of it because if you don't, it will be a total pain in your behind! Oh, yeah. Between travel time, prep time, surgery, recovery, blah, blah, blah, this procedure will take about ten hours--if all goes well. The surgery isn't scheduled until the end of October so as to allow time for all that other stuff. Yippee!

So...that's been my week. I hope for a better weekend. Y'all have a nice one!

anny  

Neat and Tidy

Over the weekend my daughter got engaged...to her ex-husband. I don't propose to get into the reason he is her ex, but I will say time has passed and it's a good possibility they can make a go of it this time around.

Also during the weekend the hunk and I watched an old episode of a TV show where the main characters struggled with the same issue--whether or not to take the chance on a second time around.

I worked on my current WIP as I pondered the possibilities of success in second chance relationships. My characters also have to jockey their complicated feelings and past hurts as they decide whether or not to take that leap.

I think we humans like everything neat and tidy in our relationships. We want the happily-ever-afters that fit in nice squared away boxes with pretty bows. Sometimes life just doesn't work out that way. People have to mature. Or make mistakes so they can learn from them. Life is messy. Not all of us are on the same schedule.

For some, the second chance never comes. For others, it's a possibility they're too afraid to try. And for a few, it glitters with promise and hope.

So, with many prayers for patience and perseverance, the hunk and I offer our congrats to J & B. May you make each other happy on this second time around.

The Wrong Boots

There's nothing more...humiliating than showing up for an event dressed inappropriately. It doesn't really matter what type of event it is, but inevitably we know deep down in our little pitter-pattering hearts that we aren't wearing the correct clothing. We have on the wrong boots!

I suspect that's why so many people report having dreams where they're naked in public. Surely, that's as inappropriate as you can get. And for most of us, highly embarrassing.

When I was a child, there were distinct clothing choices depending on the activity. There were work clothes, gardening clothes, shopping clothes and then every person had a 'go to church' outfit. That one was reserved for weddings, funerals, and Sunday morning church. For ladies, a hat and white gloves, stockings and high heels was part of the outfit. Now...most churches are ecstatic if a woman shows up in slacks instead of a pair of shorts and halter top. Worship has nothing to do with how we're dressed but sometimes our clothing can be a big distraction for others.

I'm sure I've shown up more than once inappropriately dressed, but the two times I remember the most vividly it wasn't my fault. There were circumstances waaaaaay beyond my control.

The first was my grandmother's funeral. It went like this. The hunk worked in New York City--commuting every day. I worked nights in the warehouse for a big book store outfit, shipping out book orders. One night my girls finally called me at work when their dad never came home. Just as I was ready to punch out and leave, my daughter reported her dad was home, evidently delivered in a strange vehicle. And he was on crutches. I knew that couldn't be good.

He busted his ankle at work (eventually, he was sidelined a total of a year and a half.) The next day while trying to deal with locating a local doctor for him, the phone rang. My grandmother had died. She lived about twenty hours from us. After some discussion, we decided my two middle kids would go with me to the funeral. The other two would stay and take care of their dad. We packed a bare minimum in a hurry and were off.

The journey, it was one disaster after another. The radiator on the car started leaking. I slipped and fell in a puddle of radiator fluid, ruining my clothes. Eventually, twenty-two hours later we arrived an hour late for the funeral, but the family--knowing we were on the way--delayed the service for us. When I arrived, I was tired, grieving, and dressed in a grubby sweatsuit. And that's what I wore to my grandmother's funeral. The main thing I remember about that funeral was my family lined up in the hall to offer hugs and kisses of welcome because I'd arrived safely.

The other activity I showed up for in inappropriate dress was a job interview. In my defense, I'll just say I wasn't planning to have an interview. Actually, after spending the morning under my house attempting to repair a broken water pipe, I'd brushed the worst of the dirt off and raced off to school. No school attendance, no unemployment check.

When I arrived, my instructor mentioned a job opening in an office downstairs and urged me to run down and ask for an application (and I did.) After filling it in, I went back down to drop it off and thought I would demonstrate my professionalism by asking for an interview. Now I was wearing faded sweatpants with some mud smears and an old tee-shirt that had seen a lot of better days. So imagine my chagrin and shock when the receptionist informed me the Director would interview me immediately. I knew I couldn't possibly make a positive impression. But I determined I would use the interview for practice.

Oh, yes. I was hired for the job. Many years later, the director told me she figured if I could get through an interview under those circumstances, I could handle anything else that came along...

Sometimes, we have to believe we aren't the ones wearing the wrong boots.

anny