Lyda Morehouse's Blog, page 54

Remember the 80s, Bob?

The only movie I've ever liked Nick Nolte in was "The Good Thief." He plays a drug-addled, washed out jewel thief who gets talked into a casino heist by a police officer/former rival. There's a scene where the cop is trying to explain the details of the heist, and he asks Nolte's character, "Do you remember the 80s, Bob?" To which Nolte replies, "No."

Well, do you remember when the Internet was new? Do you remember why emoticons got invented, Bob? I do. It was because sometimes a singular line of text in a reply is hard to parce. The words are there, but the intent behind them is really uncertain. Was that sarcasm? Is she dissing me? Or is that genuine concern coming off as sarcasm? So emoticons got added so you could get more of a clue. Ah! A winky face, she's teasing me!

Somedays, I'm pretty sure I'm the person they invented emoticons FOR. I also apparently need a beta reader for real life (tm). Someone who could look over my shoulder at Tweets and status updates and blog posts and tell me if the words on the screen match my intentions.

Because I tend to get in trouble when I talk about my failings as a writer. Apparently, once you reach a certain level of professionalism, you're never, ever supposed to admit defeat. You're never supposed to agree that a rejection might have felt deserved or that you're not entirely happy with the finished product you sent off to your short story editor (who subsequentally published it.) Apparently, when you do that, you're dissing someone other than yourself. You're not a writer struggling to do her best, but instead some kind of horrible person who's hoodwinking editors into accepting less than perfect work and then crowing about it on the Internet.

For instance, I found out several years ago that I'm on someone's sh*t list because, on the day that an anthology came out, I told people to run out and buy a million copies and also talked about my struggles with short stories in general and in particular about the one that I sent off to the editor of said anthology. Apparently, my self-deprection/admission of imperfection was seen as a call out to all readers everywhere to NOT BUY THIS ANTHOLOGY BECAUSE CLEARLY IT'S FULL OF CRAP.

To this day, I don't understand how the one this makes people read the other. Shawn has explained it to me over and over again, but somehow I keep making the same mistake. I need an emoticon that says, "This is about me and is no reflection on you."

So yeah, I'm facing what I consider the strangest fall-out for having posted about being rejected yesterday (actually not the LJ post I ended up friend-locking below on Shawn's advice, but an even more innocuous status on Facebook.) Obviously, I can't go into details because SOMEONE SOMEWHERE WILL TAKE OFFENSE, but color me baffled. I thought that writers routinely got rejected and that it was all just a part of our lives and that we were free to talk about them, get a little comfort for the sting, and move on. But, apparently saying that what you really want to do is go back over your submission and make it better is some kind of slap to the face of all parties involved...

I really don't get it.

But, if you read yesterday's post (or saw my Facebook status), I'd love your opinion. Is there a coded message in there that says I was secretly trying to send my second-best effort, and that I gleefully hoodwinked my agent, the editor in question, and the entire universe with deviousness? Does admitting that you wish you had a chance to rework a submission now that it's been rejected and you have a sense of what might have gone wrong mean that you sent something off HOPING TO FAIL?

Shawn says she can see it. Maybe you can too. She's explained it a thousand times, but maybe you'll have the magic turn of phrase that will make me say, "Ah, I get it now."

And is there ever a way to talk about what we struggle with as writers that's not going to come off like this? Because I actually always apreciated hearing that writers "above" me on the professional ladder were having troubles not unlike my own. Steven King still gets rejections? Awesome. Stuff like that can, IMHO, be the sort of thing that keeps a writer at any level plugging away--knowing we're all in this together, doing our best, sometimes coming up short, but reworking things and going again. I want to be able to say that. But, every time I do, I get in the WEIRDEST kind of trouble.

Endings and Reviews

Maybe 2013 is going to be the year of the glowing review or the year of the e-book... because here's an amazing review of Archangel Protocol (e-book) from a Spanish site called Sense of Wonder (Sentido dela Maravilla). http://sentidodelamaravilla.blogspot.com/2013/01/archangel-protocol-by-lyda-morehouse.html

I almost started a post about this elsewhere with the comment, "I wish people had said such nice things about the book when it first came out," but I deleted that after a moment of thought, because, you know, they did. Archangel Protocol came out to rave reviews and it won two awards: the Barnes & Nobel Maiden Voyage award and the Shamus (for best original paperback featuring a private eye.) I really can't complain about then or now, especially considering that it was my freshman effort and there are some turns of phrase in the book that my partner knows she can randomly quote if she wants to watch me squirm in embarrassment.

Also, I had to smile when I read the Sense of Wonder reviewer's comment "the ending seemed a little rushed." I think that's a phrase that appears in pretty much every review of anything I've EVER written EVER. Probably a review of my grocery list would say, "Well organized, creative and innovative spelling, but the ending seems a bit rushed."

I wish I could say that I've improved in this regard, but there's something about endings that continues to baffle and challenge me. I do TRY. I swear one of my goals with each new novel is, "Stick the *^%! ending!" But, then, after my writers' group, my partner and my editor all make me go back and revisit the ending to see if I can't "slow it down," the reviews will come out and at least one of them will say, "But the ending seemed a bit rushed."

Ah well. At least I have something to improve on. Or perhaps I can use it on my tombstone, "Here lies Lyda Morehouse: The Ending Seemed a Bit Rushed."

Prediction for 2013: Innovation

I have a weird supersition. For some reason I've decided that however I start the day on New Year's Day will be an indication of how the year will be. Like any supersition, this has its downsides. Last year, I broke a plate, and... well, 2012 had a lot of disappointments.

This upcoming year, if my supersition holds, will be very, very IN-TER-ESTING.

I got up early on New Year's Eve day with the intention of getting started on the sequel to Precinct 13 (which I did, and which I'm eventually hoping to start publishing here and then collecting into an e-book). At any rate, I was feeling pretty prepared because the-day-before I remembered that I was low on coffee and I went out and bought two HUGE bags of the good stuff. I pulled out the old coffee maker, ripped open the first of the bags, and... discovered I had no coffee filters. My brain started spinning. What could I use instead? A paper towel? No, that would melt into goo. Cloth? Too thick, could also plug the works. Then I remembered that I had tea bags--the kind you can use when you make your own tea. They were connected in a row so you could tear each one off individually. I thought, "Ah ha! If I'm careful, I can line the inside of the coffeemaker and this could work." Of course, it could also have been a disaster with grounds gumming everything up.

But... it worked.

It was some of the best coffee I'd made in a long time too. And I had enough of the little tea bag sheets to do it again for a second pot.

So, I'm thinking 2013 = Innovation and Success. Let's hope that's true. I feel like it's off to a good start in the success department, because Cheryl Morgan, my publisher at Wizard's Tower Press, forwarded me this review from SF Signal about the e-book version of Archangel Protocol: http://www.sfsignal.com/archives/2013/01/book-review-archangel-protocol-by-lyda-morehouse/

Sweet, huh? Okay, if you didn't zip off to read it, the gist of the thing is this: the book stands the test of time, at least from their p.o.v. That was nice to hear because that's probably one of my biggest concerns. Technology has changed a lot since I wrote it in 1999 (as has the world.) It's nice to know that, even if it's become a bit of a museum piece/alternate history, the characters and the world-building still come through strong enough to carry the book.

And, I'm enjoying the world of Precinct 13 again. It's fun to go back and revisit characters. And, in a weird way, without an editor looking over my shoulder, I'm looking foward to exploring some of the darker parts of that world that I never really touched on. Like, what's up with Devon (the vampire/werewolf) and his "enthrallment" to Spencer Jones (the police captain/fairy prince)? How creepy is that relationship anyway? Well, we may find out!

Oooh, the Pretty!

This is very lovely to watch. Given how long I work on my fan art, I have to admire how simple he makes this look (even with the magic of time-lapse.) I do have one snark, however: Dude, check out your RING! WTF, man.

Fear is Not Our Friend

Yesterday, Mason and I decided it was time, once again, to "hit the slopes," as we like to call sledding. Our favorite hill is the Town & Country Club in St. Paul. The last time we went, which was just after the massive snow fall, we were ambushed by 'ski jumps' that some of the older kids had built to launch their snowboards and whatnot off. Both of us ended up in the air and coming down hard, bruising our backs.

So it was with much trepidation that we stood at the summit of the hill and looked down at the snowy expanse. Both of us agreed that the previous experience had left us feeling really chicken[bleep]. But, we were determined, so we decided to start half-way down the hill. Shouldn't be so bad, should it? Especially since the only other family on the hill was a dad with his two boys who were actually TRYING to go over the ski jump. I went first, presumably as a role-model. Except, I was TERRIFIED and kept trying to put my hands down and feet down and it ended up being really messy (with snow flying in my face) and kind of... tense. Mason came down next with similar results. He kept getting so worked up, in fact, that he'd tip himself out of the sled. But, we soldiered on. Back up the hill. Grimly back down. Finally, I made up a song about being chiken[bleep] (yes, I sang the "bleep," though I did rhyme it with "it,") to the tune of "Baby, it's Cold Outside," which had us laughing at ourselves. I told Mason that I was going to try something. The problems seemed to come when I tried to control the sled. I was just going to tuck all my limbs in this time and go for it. If I was scared, I'd scream. I wouldn't try to put my hand down. He vowed to do the same.

Scared, I did it. I ended up going backwards (we have saucer sleds), but I just held on and screamed bloody murder.

It was awesome!

Mason did the same and he came down with a huge smile on his face.

We'd figured out the trick. Don't try to control it. Let go, let gravity!

Unfortunately, we only discovered this after a half hour into it. So we were pretty cold, but we stayed on for another half hour or so.

You'd think that would be enough braveness for a day, right? But NO! Our friend Kate invited us out ice skating so I talked EVERYONE (including Shawn, the super-introvert,) into coming along. Rice Park has free skate rental to anyone with a Wells Fargo bank card (which we have.) The rink isn't actually in the park. Instead, they flood a downtown street beside the Landmark center. According to Kate, it's usually zambonied nice and smooth, but on Saturday the zamboni was broken... so the ice was pretty cut up. I think, maybe, I might have had a better shot at getting my "sea legs" back, but with the torn up ice I was pretty hobbly.

Not as bad, however, as these two. I'm not sure Mason ever let go of the wall:



Kate, of course, skated circles around us. But, we still managed to have some fun. It reminded Shawn and I how much we used to love skating, so we're determined to find a nearby park to do it more often. We'll have to buy Mason some skates, but both she and I have some. Hers are the very first ones she'd ever bought some time in the late-1970s... still in their original box. With pink pompoms. Mine are actually boy's hocky skates, but that's just because I'm the butch. ;-)

Today Mason and I got up early to start pushing through Bleach. We're on 316. And, I'm actually glad we watched a couple of the "stand-alone" fillers. I really ended up liking the one about the 11th Division guy who lost his powers and eventually gets mustered out (but only after Ichigo revives his spirit, of course!) He seems to leave WITH his zanpakuto, which kind of makes my head hurt a little. But, damn, there seem to be a ton of Hollows running around in the Rukongai, so you'd think he could make a killing as a sword-for-hire. My head is SWIMMING with all sorts of universe questions now.

Also, I loved that episode because Renji is in it and everyone keeps having to remind him he's not in the 11th anymore. Made me happy.

The rest of today has been nice-and-easy. A lot of writing time punctuated by some cooking--I made cinnamon bread--and not a lot else, which is lovely, especially after all of yesterday's activity. Apparently, though Mason and I are going to go sledding again tomorrow morning. Stay relaxed! Be Not Afraid!!

Bleach-a-Thon That Wasn't

Mason and I had big plans for Friday. They were going to involve a massive amount of Bleach watching in an attempt to do more catch up. (My Bleach knowledge is spotty. I've got some holes in it because we're watching the Anime so slowly, yet I went ahead and started reading the latest stuff in JUMP. So, I don't really know much about what happens after Aizen's defeat and before the Thousand Year Blood War arc, or whatever they're calling the current thing.) At any rate, we got to the end which was tremendously satisfying, and then Mason got really disheartened when it looked like we were faced with yet-another-deadly-never-ending filler arc from hell.

So, to cheer him up, we went in search of red bean paste at the Hmongtown Market:



Obviously this is a stock photo because everything would be covered in inches of snow right now. I love living in a big city just for things like th Hmongtown Market. When I park my car in the muddy/snowpacked lot looking out at the collection of metal warehouses, I like to imagine my blue Ford is actually a Tardis/police box and that when I step out, we've traveled thousands of miles to arrive in an entirely new world. Once we're inside, it's really not that hard to believe. The language changes. The customs change. The food is authentic... and awesome.



Mason, in fact, got the chicken wing combo from this restaurant and declared them, "The best chicken wings I have ever had" (and he's had quite a lot.) I've actually been craving sesame balls filled with bean paste. If I were a Bleach character, my answer to the favorite food question would be these:



OMG, teh LOVE. (Look! They're even making a HEART-SHAPE at me right now! Yes, Seasme Balls, I LOVE YOU TOO!!) At any rate, I know at least one Hmongtown vendor has them, so after getting Mason some bubble tea--a mango smoothy with "bubbles," I bought a double order. I am currently having a left-over one for breakfast. Yes, *that* is the depth of my love.

But, before we ate, we explored the tiny cramped stalls full of cosmetics, traidtional medicine ingredients, CDs, videos, and toys (saw some plushy Naruto and Pokemon dolls, Mason got a cheap ninja sword, but, alas, no Bleach gear. Not really a surprise, but there were a few Japanese animation videos there and a lot of Jackie Chan/Jet Let Golden Harvest/Hong Kong stuff.) I admired the rows and rows of traditional Hmong clothes, and marveled at the array of shoes IN MY SIZE--if I was the type for glittery high heels, Hmongtown Marketplace would be my source! We checked out the farmers market, which in this season meant they mostly had imports on offer--things like Chinese brocolli, leechies, bamboo, lemon grass, and fruits and veggies I had no idea what they were.

Mason was a little thrown until we got food. I think, perhaps, it was culture shock. I know what that's like. Hmongtown never gives it to me, even when I'm negotiating the price of the ninja sword with a woman with whom I don't share a common language beyond pointing and gestures, BUT, for some odd reason, whenever Shawn gets a craving for El Burrito Mercado on the East Side, I'm overcome by it. It's a weird feeling. It's probably some kind of internalized racism, but I feel very much like an invader on what I see as SOMEONE ELSE'S turf. I suddenly realize, "OMG. I'm white and no one else is!!" (The horror.) But, thankfully, I've gotten over it. Partly thanks to just going there a lot (because life without Burrito Mercado is hardly worth living), but also because of Facebook. I'm friends with El Burrito Mercado on Facebook and I've been utterly charmed by the fact that they woe me to their shop in English and Spanish and that they want me to come and experience dining in their cafe while being serenaded by a mariachi band (how awesome is THAT??) So, whenever I get that culture shock twinge and start to wonder if I'm really allowed/welcome, I can say to myself, "Hey, they INVITED me here. It's okay." It's odd that I don't get it at Hmongtown, nor really in the Samoli neighborhoods. Maybe I feel more privileged to experience Hmong culture for some reason, though I did grow up in a town with a lot of Hmong-Americans/new immigrants. Perhaps I worked through whatever predjudices that might have been lurking in my hindbrain throughout high school.

This is how it works, anyway. One experience at a time. I know that during the 80s and 90s, I was the ONLY out lesbian a lot of people knew personally, and that helped changed people's minds, started to break down the stuff you don't know you have until you face it. Those folks I met at work and whatnot got a chance to get over _their_ culture shock slowly when I made them feel welcome by inviting them to peek into my world just a little.

I'm glad we stayed for food because not only did I get my bean paste, but Mason also got to feel a little uncomfortable for a while. Like I say, it's one of my favorite things of living in a big city--I love to be able to step outside my own neighborhood and walk into someone else's world for a while. It's marvelous.

Hectic Holidays

Our holidays, of course, started on Solstice. We actually had a lovely time on Friday. First we spent lunch with dear friends of ours, Richard and Frank, who are Mason's "Fairy Godfathers." Frank and Richard currently live in Atalanta, so we don't see them nearly as much as we'd like, so lunch was a great deal of fun catching up on all the news (while the waiter flirted OUTRAGEOUSLY with Richard, though I'm not sure he noticed...though he did feel compelled to point out that he and Frank had been together for 23 years, very loudly, in the waiter's presence, so maybe he DID.) At any rate, we got home and relaxed a bit before my folks came with their bundles of presents. We made our somewhat traditional wild rice soup and homemade French bread for diner and then we opened presents. I was pleased when Mason ran off and changed into to his 11th Division tee-shirt right away, especially given that a lot of the presents the folks brought rattled suspiciously like LEGOs.

After the folks headed back to the hotel (they don't stay with us because a] we have no guest room and b] my dad is allergic to our FOUR cats,) we lit the Yule log and drank eggnog. Then we took a votive candle lit from the Yule Log to keep in our bedroom to keep the flame burning all night. I have friends who actually, in the past, have had the actual bonfire that they keep going all night, but I have to admit to being a lazy, urban Pagan and doing things this way. I tell myself that as long as the fire goes all night, that's sort of the spirit of the thing, so there you go.

Then we went swimming at the hotel pool on Saturday morning, which we adored because the place was completely empty. We were the only ones in the pool the entire time. Usually, when we come in the evening (my parents stay in the same place every time they come up), usually we have to stop playing "piggy in the middle" because another family joins us... sometimes several families. This time, the only frustration Mason had was that we old folks insisted on occasional breaks to use the jacuzzi.

It seemed like the next time we turned around it was Christmas eve, but I do remember a day in there where I ran around like a crazy person trying to fufil Shawn's request of socks for her birthday. Luckily, Irish on Grand had just what I was looking for--plus I picked up some British digestive cookies for her to snack on while she watches her shows (currently we're working through Foyle's War, along with our continuing obsession with EastEnders and Downton Abbey, of course.)

Christmas eve was nice. I got up at six am to start the diner rolls, however, but then, once the turkey was in the oven, I pretty much relaxed until it was time to get the rest of the fixings in order. Uncle Keven dropped in and was good company (sometimes a mixed-bag with uncle Keven) and we generally had a lovely meal and good times. Crackers were cracked after the meal (we read each other the groaner jokes while wearing the silly paper crowns in fine Morehouse tradition), and then the wrapping paper was shredded and presents revealed. The best gift I think I got, besides the homemade Solstace gift from Shawn--a hand painted tea mug, was the .mp3 player. The irony here is that's exactly what I asked for, and got, for my birthday. Only... I lost it. In less than a month. Sometime between November 18 and December 25, I lost my.mp3 player. Shawn got one at a VERY GOOD PRICE, so, should it happen again, I won't feel nearly as guilty. Now I just have to find some time to load it up.



Our Christmas morning tradition involves stockings and the few extra presents that Santa brings. Then we spent the next several days playing with what we got. Mason has already put together nearly ALL the LEGO sets he got, which, when you think about it, is kind of amazing. He's currently working through the books that the 50 dollar gift certificate his Uncle Keven gave him to Barnes & Noble bought him. Those will probably be finished later today.



Shawn went back to work today and will likely go tomorrow. Since today became B&N reading extravaganza day, tomorrow will be a Bleach-a-thon punctuated by a trip to Hmongtown Market to satisfy my craving for red bean paste.

Mad Skillz!

So yesterday, I was quite convinced that my printer was going to defeat my plans for Mason's Solstice gift. For those of you just tuning in, on Solstice, this pagan family attempts to give gifts that are 'from the heart'--which has come to mean, homemade rather than store bought or of SOME DEEP SIGNIFICANCE. For instance, I once spent quite a bit of money on a pair of earrings for Shawn for Solstice, but they were perfect replicas of a children's story about Raven that we read to Mason when he was quite young. It's the story of Raven stealing the sun and the earrings were Native made and actually included a sun in the raven's beak.

But, so I started out thinking that to make Mason's tee-shirt, I would need to use our printer and heat-transfer paper that I bought at Michael's (a craft store.) This assumed that what I had at home was an InkJet printer... which I thought I had, but it turns out not so much. In fact, the heat-transfer paper nicely went in.... AND PROMPTLY MELTED COMPLETELY, like didn't even come out the other side AT ALL. Very smelly. Very impressive. I do believe, however, that my printer may actually survive this mistreatment. BUT, I had to give up on the printer option. My friends on the Interwebs suggested trying Kinko's, the lady at Kinko's said they had no InkJet printers so, nope, try Office Max. The Office Max helper also said, "No, sorry!"

I thought, perhaps, I was defeated. Because, while I can draw, I normally am baffled by straight lines (which this design would require.) But, I gave it a go anyway:



I think it turned out pretty well. You may be wondering why I am gifting my son with the number 11 in kanji. The answer is, of course, Bleach related. The 11th Division kicks butt and, since Mason might be wearing this to kuk sool (which requires black tees under the gi) this will give him extra kickiness to his buttness, I'm sure. We already swear in Japanese as part of our key-yop. Luckily, these folks are Korean, so shouting the s-word equivelant really doesn't make much of an impression. Plus, our Japanese is crappy enough I'm SURE no one notices.

It occurs to me...

It occurs to me that I ought to post something today so that people don't worry about me. I'm doing well, quite honestly. I thought for sure that I'd dream of the robbery last night, but I didn't... or if I did the images and emotions weren't strong enough to stick with me when I woke up. The only dream I remember was actually Bleach related, so I guess my subconscious still prefers fantasy worlds to real life. Fannishness FTW.

I think that some things have helped, though. My friend naomikritzer was able to come over yesterday not too much longer after I got home from Kowalski's and she hung out with me and let me blather on and on about my experience (probaby going over a lot of it in a giant loop). I drank lots of water like Haddyr suggested, and cleaned ALL THE THINGS in my kitchen to help with the shaky feeling. Naomi and I were eventually able to get on to other subjects, like the conversation I recently had with my agent, her new house, and other perfectly mundane things.

My partner also came home early. She had a doctor's appointment, but, afterward, she didn't go back to work and we had a chance to have another go at processing the whole event without Mason around.

Last, and probably not at all in the least, I never watch the news or really even read the newspaper. I listen to the radio, but that's really about it... so I have NOT, like most of America/the world, been innundated with stories and images of what recently happened in CT, nor did I get any of the local news about the robbery and/or, I've since found out, subsquent death of the gunman.

We also decided to wait to tell Mason about what happened. I was never personally threatened, and with everything going on in the news about Conneticut, we decided that we wouldn't keep it from him per se, but neither would we go out of our way to discuss it--until it comes up naturally, which, given that my folks arre coming for Yule on Thursday, I suspect it will.

Oh, that reminds me. I need to make my Yule presents.

I'm making Mason a Bleach related t-shirt that he can wear to kuk sool--with the symbol of the Eleventh Division on it. He'll like that. His favorite character is actually the captain of the Tenth, probably because they seem to be similar in age and size (and Toshiro is kind of a grumpy little fuss, and Mason has those tendencies at times too.) But, he is very enamoured by the gung-ho-ness of the 11th.

And, honestly, if he looks at me and says, "Ima! You know I prefer the 10th!" I can just peel off the one beneath the ten on the kanji character for 11 and, viola, good as new.

That's the bonus of homemade right there. Easy fixes.

All right, I'm off.

Why Witnesses Suck

I was just at Kowalski's grocery store, and I stumbled in on a robbery at gun point. I saw the robber. I saw the gun. I was in the middle of an aisle when I saw him talking to two of the people who worked there, and he lifted a gloved hand and my brain slowly registered that huge black thing in his hand: GUN.

I dropped my groceries in search of someone in the back of the store, far from the scene who could call 9-1-1. I'd started to reach for my own cell phone, but my thought was: I can't let the robber see any of us calling the police. He might panic and start shooting. But, when I found one of the stockers, he told me the cops had already been called. Customers and employees started huddling by the dairy section waiting for... the worst? The all clear? A rescue? I'm not even sure, because even now I feel strangely distant, removed, and numb.

I kept watching down the aisle I'd come up, listening to the employees recounting what they'd seen and heard. He'd come in the back door. He demanded the cashier on duty open all the drawers. Everyone was shaking. Everyone was scared. No one knew what was happening.

Then someone was waving for us to leave the store. I thought, "Oh crap, this has escalated to some kind of hostage situation and we're either getting freed while others are left behind, or we're all being brought to the same place." Turns out, the gunman had fled at that point and the manager wanted to do some kind of head count, to make sure everyone was accounted for. And, then the real confusion set in. Was he gone? Was everyone okay? Were the cops in persuit?

Should we continue shopping?

Seriously.

A bunch of us customers were like, what do we do with our groceries? I was perfectly willing to abandon them, but the manager, bless his pragmatic soul, said, "Well, I can ring you through as long as you don't need cash back."

I also asked if I should stay behind and wait for the police to see if I could add a description of the robber. Everyone thought maybe I should, since I had seen him. That part was... interesting. The officer who interviewed me was a huge, beefy guy in body armor, and I realized as I told him my story that witnesses are UTTERLY UNRELIABLE. I told him the absolute truth. Gender? Uh... my impression was male. Race? Well, not black like night, but otherwise...? Height? I don't know... not nearly as big as you (I was informed the officer was over six foot). Weight? No idea. Not overly fat. Not super-buff. Clothing? Hoodie with the hood up, but color..? I've got nothing concrete.

"Look," I finally told the guy, "I can tell you exactly three things I remember without hesitation: mask (my brain first tried to make it make sense as one of those hospital masks people wear sometimes when they have a cold), gloves (plastic looking, again, like from a hospital, kind of see-through, not like mittens or something you'd wear to keep the cold out), and BIG-ASS, BLACK GUN."

To the officer's credit, he rolled with me. He asked me to describe in as best detail as I could the things I did remember. We talked a long time about the gun. I told him that my vast knowledge of TV-guns made me think it was not a revolver, but an automatic or semi-automatic. He held it in one hand. His finger was on the trigger. It was black. It was big. It made my heart stop cold.

I can't imagine any of these details will be terribly helpful. But, I'm not sure it will matter much. I heard that the robber was shot trying to escape police pursuit.

I have no idea how to feel about any of this. It was crazy, but everyone was amazing. No one in the store panicked. Hardly anyone cried, not even in the aftermath. Not even the poor cashier who apparently had a gun pointed to his head.

I've lived in the city for over twenty years and this is the first time I've ever been in a situation remotely like this. I've seen guns before, but mostly in the hands of the police--even rifles in the hands of the S.W.A.T. Team when they busted the folks next door. I've been to the gun range and held several guns myself, and once saw someone drop a gun out of their coat on the streets of downtown Minneapolis. I helped the police cadets train as part of the citizen's police academy I attended years ago, and I pulled an unloaded gun on an officer in play/practice/pretend and shouted "Bang! You're dead!" (To which he replied, "Am not!" and his instructor said, "Are too!") But, this kind of thing where I thought I might actually get caught up in REAL violence... no, never.

Crazy.

I may go hide now for a while.