Tim Dodge's Blog, page 5

Things That Have Happened To Me Lately

It’s been many moons since I posted something here, and it’s not been because my life has been dull. I sit down to write blog posts sometimes and I draw a blank. I feel like I should write something edgy, hard-hitting, opinionated, something to stir the pot. Jeez, my son Joel has started a popular blog that turned into an occasional gig writing for The Week. He’s already had a commenter call him a moron. I’ll admit to being more than a little jealous.

However, since I don’t really feel like piling on with my thoughts about the Supreme Court’s ludicrous laughable controversial Hobby Lobby decision yesterday, I’ll just lay some of my recent adventures on you …

May 14. I’m one of four people in my boss’s car riding from Syracuse to eastern Long Island. I’m in the backseat, doing a little work-related reading that I never have time to do in the office. We’re about a half mile from the George Washington Bridge on a highway in New Jersey. Suddenly, I hear a BANG and feel a rather noticeable jolt. It seems a crater sinkhole car-eating monster from Tatooine really, really big pothole appeared in front of us and my boss had no way to avoid it. We pulled over, inspected the front tires, they looked okay, and we proceeded.

Halfway across one of the busiest bridges in the Northern Hemisphere, a guy in a black car pulled up next to us on the right, beeped his horn and pointed downward. It would seem that the front passenger tire was not as okay as it appeared at first glance. Point of fact, it was losing air at a somewhat alarming rate. This, my friends, is not good, not on that bridge. My boss kept it together long enough for us to take the first exit on the New York side of the bridge, then the first exit off the West Side Highway, and find a level, easily visible spot for us to park. Then she commenced chain-smoking.

Our hero with a scissor jack.

We were at the corner of 171st Street and Amsterdam Avenue, which I’m told is in Morningside Heights – not the best neighborhood, but not the worst. I cemented my reputation in the office as a legend because I knew how to change a tire. This apparently is an unexpected skill. Too bad the spare tire was flat, too. After a visit from a Port Authority truck with an air compressor, a drive into the Bronx where we visited two tire shops, and a repair man gustily whacking the tire rim back into shape with a hammer, we eventually made it to the Long Island Expressway and arrived for the group dinner at a fine, white tablecloth restaurant with me wearing only the finest street grime on what started the day as a good pair of jeans.

May 23 and 24. Balticon, a science fiction/fantasy convention held each Memorial Day weekend in Hunt Valley, Maryland. Four of my favorite days of the year. This year was special, because a few of us had secretly plotted to throw a surprise celebration for Abbie Hilton, who wrapped up production this spring on her five-part Guild of the Cowry Catchers series. My job: Order a cake.

Is it cake or is it art?

One of the great things about Balticon is that there is a Wegmans supermarket almost literally across the street from the hotel. I went there before I even went to the hotel. They were able to screen print the image of the book one cover on the cake’s frosting. I was pretty pumped when I ordered it, but the end result blew my expectations away. This cake was such a work of art that I almost felt bad about eating three pieces of it. And I think Abbie was surprised. It’s not too often that you can pull off a real surprise, so that was pretty cool.

The Green Monster “appetizer” at Jerry Remy’s.

June 16. My youngest son Nathan and I hit the road for Boston to visit Joel. My Fathers’ Day gift was tickets to a Red Sox game at Fenway for Tuesday night, but we headed out there on Monday. Nathan’s only wish for the trip was to watch the USA’ s first World Cup match at a sports bar. Jerry Remy’s, which is right next door to Fenway Park, fit the bill nicely. We ordered what was advertised as an appetizer, but in truth it was a crapload tower of food. Eight sliders, one and a half pounds of chicken wings, and a plate of sweet potato fries. It was delicious, and beyond filling. So, of course we also got dessert. As we wobbled out of the restaurant, full and happy that the home team had beaten Ghana, a total stranger walked up to us and literally gave us three leftover tickets to that night’s Red Sox game. The game was half over, but the operative phrase was, “What the hell?” So we reversed course and went back to Fenway Park. Our seats were right behind the bullpens, and the Sox won a close one. My Fathers’ Day tickets were for the next night, so we ended up seeing a game and a half on this trip. It was probably our last visit to Boston for a while, as Joel is moving to New York soon. Not a bad way to close out his three years there.

So, that’s been some of my excitement. During the visit to Long Island, I was given an award, something that was as touching as it was unexpected. Balticon was the best one yet, and I missed all my friends before I’d even gotten on the highway to head home. Joel graduated from law school, one of the proudest days of my life. It’s been a nice few months. And summer’s just starting! What good things will the hot weather months bring? I’m looking forward to finding out.

Random Spec-Fic Geneology

Submitted for your consideration: A trail of speculative fiction movie connections. Starting with …

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), which starred, among others, , who also appeared in …

Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith (2005), which also featured , who also appeared in an episode of …

Tales from the Crypt (1989 – 96), another episode of which starred , who in 1990 starred in …

Stephen King’s It (1990), a made-for-TV movie that also cast in a supporting role , who for three years had a recurring role in …

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997 – 2003), which for six episodes featured in the role of Darla, , who also appeared in …

Supernatural (2005 – present), which for six episodes in 2007 – 08 featured , who currently appears in …

Arrow (2012 – present), which stars , who three years ago appeared in two episodes of …

The Vampire Diaries (2009 – present), which stars , who once appeared in an episode of …

Smallville (2001 – 11), which starred , who also appeared in a short-lived series about robots titled …

The Zeta Project (2001 – 03), which starred , who also lent her voice in 2003 to the animated TV series …

Spider-Man (2003 – present), which starred in the role of Peter Parker, , who played the lead role in …

Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog (2008), which also starred , who also appeared for a couple of seasons in …

Eureka (2006 – 12), which for 10 episodes featured , who had a major role in …

Battlestar Galactica (2004 – 09), which also starred , who was also in one season of …

24 (2001 – 10), which starred , who was in the 1992 film …

A Few Good Men, which starred , who was once married to , who starred in the 1995 picture …

Pulp Fiction, which also starred …

Samuel L. Jackson, who appeared in Captain America: The Winter Soldier …

And it all comes around.

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Sometimes You Just Have To Talk These Things Through…

Automotive Memories

I bought a car yesterday. My trusted 2004 Camry runs just as well as it ever has, but I learned 10 days ago that it will not pass the emission control test when it gets inspected (its current inspection sticker expires tomorrow.) The estimated cost of restoring it to compliance is $3,700, as a goodly chunk of the exhaust system needs replacing.

The car has given me more than 143,000 good miles with very little trouble. However, the cost-benefit analysis pointed to replacing it. The cost of the repair is greater than its value, and this likely would not be the last repair. So, yesterday I made a deposit on a 2013 Camry with low mileage. The dealer and I agreed on a fair price.

It’s exciting to get a car, but I’m feeling surprisingly sentimental about the car I’m about to give up. By the time I’ve parted with my other cars, I’ve hated them to the point of wishing molten death for them (maybe not my 85 Ford Tempo, but I still felt indifference.) I won’t identify my two cars before this one (hint: The cars and I share a name), but they gave me lots of bonding time with mechanics. Lots of very expensive bonding time.

This car gave me none of that. It just ran. More than that, I’m remembering all the happy memories that car and I share:

Taking my oldest son and his buddies to concerts at Saratoga Performing Arts Center and Hunter Mountain.
All three of my boys learning to drive in it and passing their road tests in it.
My youngest and I making road trips out to Boston to visit my oldest.
Trips to Balticon over the last five Memorial Day weekends.
More rides than I can count with my beloved dogs, first Ginger and now Brady, in the co-pilot’s seat.
Driving to and from my first sci-fi convention, Astronomicon in Rochester, in a pouring rainstorm so I could meet Tee Morris.

I’m not going to call my old Camry a friend, as that would be creepy really weird icky. However, I associate that car with a lot of really good times in my life. As my sons grow into men and settle in to their own lives, the memories of those times are something I cherish. That old car helped make them such good memories.

You done good, old car. Thanks for the ride.

 

Art For Art’s Sake; Money For God’s Sake

Courtesy of LitReactor.com

Very interesting blog posts on similar topics in the last couple of days from Philippa Ballantine and Jennifer Povey. Kind of interesting because, though they both live in Northern Virginia, I’m not sure they’ve ever met. Their minds seem to think alike, though. Pip wrote earlier today about the incessant argument about which is better, art or commerce:

Here’s the truth of it. Many, many writers have had to walk away from writing, or even died while waiting for some commerce to come their way. My favourite poets died waiting to be paid for the work they did. (I always thought it was a cruel trick of fate that their best career move was shuffling off their mortal coil.) So yes, the people who make their living off writing do not have the luxury of waxing philosophical about art. They make it about work. Craft and passion are damn useful, but the writer is the master of words, the words are not the master of him or her. Art and passion are all very well, but books (at least the ones you plan to sell) must also be a commodity.

Jenna posted yesterday in a similar vein, but she focused on what writers should choose to write, i.e., writing something that appeals to the author vs. writing something the author believes will sell in the current market:

There’s nothing wrong with considering marketability when deciding what idea to work on next. Writing something you don’t enjoy because you think it will sell, though, is likely to produce a low quality book. Following a fad is just going to leave you behind. Write something you enjoy and make it as good as possible – there’s luck involved, of course, but you still have a better chance than by blindly following trends.

Jenna’s message especially resonated with me because I am struggling with my current project. The story idea, aided by a great suggestion from my son Evan, is a solid one. Everyone I’ve described it to has reacted with, “What a cool idea!” And it is. But I’m having trouble working up much passion for it. Consequently, I’ve been picking on it from time to time, not on any particular schedule. I set a goal of finishing it by April 1. Right. Unless I start cranking out 3,000 words a day, every day, that goal is out of reach. I very seldom hit 2,000 words a day. I’m hesitant to abandon a project for which I’ve already written 21,000 words, but I also don’t want to write a low-quality book. Am I writing to market just to put something out? This project is definitely in the speculative fiction area, which is the sandbox that most of the people that I would like to consider my peers play in. I don’t know whether I’m writing to market or just to fit in a genre; I just know I’m not all that fired up about it. This gets back to the points that Pip and Jenna are making. Pip says that we should balance artistic and commercial worth; Jenna is saying we should balance personal passion with commercial interest. Who knows whether anything I type into Scrivener has any commercial potential? I’d like to think it does, but I also laugh at my own jokes. It’s been my observation that people in general tend to look down their noses at those who appear to do something merely for money while justifying their own profit-motivated behavior. Ask anyone on the street if a typical movie star is overpaid and you are likely to get a yes answer. Ask that same person if he or she is overpaid for their work, and they are likely to argue the opposite. We tend to believe our own efforts are under-rewarded while others are receiving undeserved riches for their work. I remember a high school friend bitterly dismissing John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire by saying that, “He wrote it just for the money.” Hah! We all write for the money, or at least the money we hope to get. When I wrote my first (now trunked) novel, I had dreams that it would put my kids through college. Reality: They’ve all taken out student loans. I agree with Jen: There’s nothing wrong with shooting for a paycheck as long as you’re also enjoying yourself. And I agree with Pip: Why not balance artistic sensibilities with potential commercial reward? To switch to another area of the arts, when Bob Dylan first plugged in an electric guitar, folk music purists bellowed, “Sell out!” (a so-called fan in England shouted in the middle of a concert at the Royal Albert Hall that Dylan was a Judas.) Yet, Like a Rolling Stone is truly a work of art, its images of Miss Lonely and diplomats on chrome horses and Napoleon in rags forever burned into our collective consciousness. Did the 24 year-old Dylan write that song for the money or to give artistic expression to feelings of anger and bitterness that were boiling over within him? Possibly, even probably, both. So what? “How does it feel?” he sang. The answer: Pretty fulfilling, on both artistic and financial levels. The whole debate is pointless, as I see it. As a society, we should reward our artists. Would we think less of Emily Dickinson today if she’d sold tons of books while she was still alive? Do we think less of Robert Frost because he achieved fame in his lifetime? Are the works of Stephen King less important than those of Robert E. Howard just because King has realized great wealth from his prose? No, I don’t think so. If you can make some money by writing words that affect people, more power to you. And if you happen to get a thrill out of writing it, even better. If I can get my current project on track, I would love to do both. What do you think?

Pete Seeger

I was 15 years old when I heard a Pete Seeger album for the first time. Looking back on it, I think it’s kind of amazing that old-fashioned, conservative Afton, New York, a place that probably hasn’t elected a Democrat as mayor since the Civil War, actually had a Pete Seeger album in the high school library. I knew who he was from all the reading I’d done, but I’d never before heard the reedy voice accompanied by twelve-string guitar or plucky banjo.

The man was my grandparents’ age, but I was so enthralled by the music that I didn’t even notice. The voice and the songs were so genuine, so heartfelt, and so warm and inviting that they just captivated me. Whether he was leading a chorus of hundreds in We Shall Overcome or singing the Cuban popular song Guantanamera (hey, I thought, we sing that in chorus!), I loved them all.

At some point in high school, I got my hands on a copy of his Waist Deep in the Big Muddy album, with the title song considered so subversive in the sixties that they wouldn’t let him sing it on TV. For a teenager in a town where half a dozen of my school teachers lived within a five-minute walk of my house, that was way too cool. I devoured those songs; some of them are still on my iPod.

The summer before my senior year, he appeared in a PBS special, a concert he’d done with Arlo Guthrie, and I watched it every time they re-ran it. My favorite song from that show was one he said his sister Peggy had written, titled I’m Gonna Be An Engineer, about the struggle of a woman who wanted to be an engineer at a time when society said women should just be moms. I remember playing and singing that song for one of my sister’s social work classes when we were both students at SUNY Brockport.

Eventually, the wide-eyed teenaged boy grew up, and I moved on to other infatuations, but I never lost my affection for Pete Seeger and his music. He made me laugh, he made me think, he made me feel, and he pricked my conscience. And he did it all with a twelve-string guitar, a banjo, a sturdy voice, and one hell of a lot of courage. He was a patriot in the truest sense of the word — he loved his country deeply and never relented in his work to make it live closer to its highest ideals.

Pete left this life Monday night at the young age of 94. The music world, America, and I are all poorer for his loss. Death was the only answer to the question he sang so many times:

“How can I keep from singing?”

God bless you, Pete Seeger. And thank you.

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Preview of My Latest Novel

Photo by Belfor Olivares. Used under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 license.

I am in the midst of shopping my latest novel, tentatively titled And Ghosts Return, to literary agents. In the mean time, I thought I’d give you a taste of it by posting the first chapter. I’d love to hear what you think! Leave any comments you care to in the comments section. Here it is.

The lawn

Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return

Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,

The sad intangible who grieve and yearn….

T.S. ELIOT, To Walter de la Mare

Chapter 1: Let’s Spend the Night Together

The bottle of Bordeaux popped from the wine rack and missed Ethan’s head by inches. Again. I hate poltergeists, he thought as he swung around to his right.

The wine cellar was so dark that he feared he wouldn’t see the shards of glass and spilt wine on the stone floor. The footing was already treacherous from the remains of the first bottle the spirit had tossed at him. He regretted wearing boots; sneakers might have given him a better grip.

“Who are you?” he called. When no reply came after several seconds, he added, “Are you Richard Masterson? Tap once if yes, twice if no.”

Still no reply.

“I’m here to help,” Ethan said, his voice strong and confident. The air smelled like sweet grapes; bits of broken glass crackled under his feet. “You’re trapped here, and you want to get free. I get that, and the man who owns this restaurant gets it, too. No one wants to see you get your freedom more than he does. Please talk to me so I can help.”

He paused, holding his breath. The clink of something tapping a wine bottle once floated through the chilly air. He let out a long, slow exhale. “Okay, Richard. Are you trying to get out?”

Another tap.

Ethan’s pulse slowed, but only a little. He licked his lips and gave a wistful glance at the one or two bottles he could make out in the gloom. “Can you show yourself?”

Tap.

When nothing materialized after a few seconds, he asked, “Do you want to show yourself?”

Tap-tap.

“It would help me if I could see you,” he said. “I don’t think I can help you if I can’t see you.”

Another wine bottle hit the floor, spraying chunks of glass and more fruity scent, some of it on his jeans and pullover sweater. Ethan gave a little start and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Do you want me to help you?” he asked, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice.

Tap.

“I’m going to perform a ritual to free you. It will take a few minutes, but I think it will work.” He looked around at what he could see of the mess on the floor. “It would be helpful if you didn’t chuck anymore bottles at me. Can you stop doing that?”

Tap.

“Thanks.” He felt around in the bag hanging from his shoulder. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled it out of the bag and crouched down. “I’m going to light a smudge stick in a few minutes. It’s part of the ritual. Do you understand?”

This tap sounded more like a clang. “Good. Yes.” Ethan set a rolled stick of sage, bound together with twine, on the floor. Next, he fished two small incense burners and a small pouch out of the bag. He tiptoed around glass fragments and spilt wine to a corner, set a burner on the floor and spooned a little incense into it. The wine cellar had no windows; this would make his task a bit more difficult. However, he’d dealt with closed rooms before, and he knew there were things he could control.

A small pouch containing quartz and amethyst stones lay inside the bag. He retrieved it, trying to keep the rattling to a minimum. The stones were not terribly large; at least four would be necessary in each spot. He set four stones on the floor surrounding the burner, then pulled out a fireplace lighter and ignited the incense. The sweet smell filled the corner as he slipped the perforated cap down on the burner and crept over to the opposite corner to repeat the steps there.

With the air growing pungent from the burning incense, he returned to the middle of the room and picked up the smudge stick. “I’m about to begin,” he said, glancing around the dark space. “Are you still there?” This time, there was no tap. Only the sound of the occasional car driving by outside broke the stillness. “Are you there?” he asked again. “Do you want me to help you?” Again, there was no reply.

“Damn,” he muttered. If the spirit had changed its mind back and decided not to cooperate, this was going to be a whole lot tougher. As he touched the lighter to the smudge stick, he grumbled about starting to charge by the hour, then let out a startled grunt. Something struck him from behind, pushing him to his knees and almost causing him to drop the stick. It didn’t take much guessing to figure out what had hit him.

“So, that’s the way you want to play it,” he said, stumbling back to his feet. “You think you’re the first poltergeist to give me a shove?” He was unsurprised by the silence that followed. “I am officially sick of this shit.” Tightening his grip on the smudge stick, which was now emitting thick smoke, he took a cautious step forward. When nothing happened, he took another step, this time with more confidence. Feeling somewhat assured that the poltergeist would not attack again right away, he began walking around the room in a counter- clockwise pattern, reciting the incantation:

“Negativity that invades this sacred place

I banish you away with the light of my grace  You have no hold or power here

For I stand and face you with no fear

Be gone forever, for this I will say

This is this sacred place and you will obey.”

He repeated the chant in each corner of the wine cellar. The combined smells of the incense and burning sage made him a little light-headed. Performing this ritual in a windowless room was not the best idea, but if it worked, he wouldn’t have to try a more elaborate and difficult plan B. Wine bottles shook in their racks, making the cellar sound like a crowd at a wedding reception trying to get the newlyweds to kiss. Ethan squeezed the smudge stick tighter.

“You have no hold or power here

For I stand and face you with no fear.”

As he moved to the last corner, the temperature dropped a good fifteen degrees below the already cool level in the cellar. In the dim light, he could see the wine racks trembling as if an earthquake had hit. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he hissed out the incantation.

“Be gone forever, for this I will say

This is this sacred place and you will obey.”

Now he stubbed the smudge stick out on the concrete floor, sending up a small shower of sparks. He reached into his bag again and withdrew a small bell. Hugging himself against the chill, he stood above the stones surrounding one of the incense burners and gave the bell a light shake. He went to the other burner and rang the bell again, then sat down on the floor to wait for the incense to burn out.

***

Early dawn sunlight was beginning to peek through the front windows of the restaurant when Ethan trudged upstairs. He nodded to the balding, skinny man waiting at the bar, pulled up a chair at a table and plopped his muscular, five-foot-eleven frame down with a weary grunt. The skinny man looked at him.

“Got any coffee?” Ethan asked. The man assured him that he did, and poured him a steaming cup.

Ethan took a long sip and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “It’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” the man asked, looking like he was afraid to believe it. He reminded Ethan of the actor Steve Buscemi.

“Absolutely.” Ethan gulped a little more coffee, dribbling some on the black whiskers dotting his chin. The man handed him a napkin from the bar. “I finished the ritual at around two. According to my measurements, there has been no occurrence of unnatural energy in the basement since 2:03. The noises, moving objects, temperature changes, all ceased at approximately that time. All indications are that your guest has checked out.”

The man smiled, lit a cigarette and eased into a chair opposite Ethan. “That,” he said, “is the best news I’ve had in a month.”

“There was some collateral damage.” The man cocked an eyebrow at him. Ethan gestured with his mug toward the stairway. “Your basement’s a mess. The spirit wasn’t going down without a fight. It lobbed a few wine bottles at my head.”

“How many is a few?” the man asked, frowning.

Ethan yawned. “I was busy ducking, not keeping count, so I’m not sure. Why?”

“I paid through the nose for some of those bottles.”

“So make an insurance claim.” Ethan finished his coffee and pushed the mug toward the man, who picked it up and got him a refill.

“And how am I supposed to explain this to an insurance company?” the man asked as he handed the mug back to him.

“You’ll think of something.”

The man glared at Ethan. “You were supposed to rid me of a ghost, not destroy my wine list.”

Ethan returned the look. “You had a poltergeist, a particularly energetic one. Be thankful that every bottle down there isn’t a heap of glass right now.”

“I should sue the crooks who sold me this place,” the man said, sitting down with a sigh. “They never mentioned anything about the place being haunted.”

“Yeah? What kind of price did you give them?”

The man made a face. “Twenty below market.”

“Sounds like you made out all right,” Ethan said as he slurped the coffee. The man scowled in reply.

Ethan drained his mug and stood. “Thanks for the coffee. Now, about the fee…”

“My bank will transfer the other half this afternoon.”

“Perfect. If you ever need my services again, please feel free to call.”

The other man picked up the mug and slid it onto the bar. “Yeah. If I find another goddamn ghost here, I’ll burn the place first. I don’t need to restock the wine cellar to replace bottles I didn’t sell.”

Sensing another struggle over collecting his entire fee in the future, Ethan nodded. “Well, if you know of anyone else with unwanted hauntings, I’d be grateful for any referrals.”

The other man grunted, walked over to a closet and removed a mop. “Time to go see what you left me down here,” he said as he headed to the basement stairs.

“Thanks again for your business,” Ethan said. As he reached the front door, he heard the man shout, “What the hell did you burn down here? It smells like a goddamn Grateful Dead concert!”

***

Ethan yawned as he got behind the wheel of his Ford Focus and started the engine. These restaurants in converted old houses were proving to be a gold mine. That little poltergeist clean-up job would net him $2,500, assuming the guy didn’t try to make a point about the spilled wine. He needed jobs like this to fill in the gaps between the Wenscorp projects.

Now that he was beyond the presence of supernatural phenomena, he could check his Blackberry for messages. Three had come in already, even though it was just seven-thirty in the morning. One from the realtor he’d been working with; one from Aaron at Wenscorp; the other from someone who’d found him in a Google search and wanted to discuss a job on his office building.

He decided to return the realtor’s call first. With his savings and the monthly retainer from Wenscorp, he could afford to think about a vacation home in the Carribean. His realtor was monitoring the market for him, and she was waiting by the phone when he returned her call. A condo in the price range he’d given her had just been listed in St. Thomas. Despite her subtle pressure to make an offer, he decided to wait and see what else might come along. She made no effort to hid her disappointment; he wondered if she’d already spent the commission in her mind. He promised to call her in a few days, and clicked off the line.

Half an hour later and craving a hot shower, he pulled into the driveway of his ranch house and frowned at the uncut lawn. He gave an irritated kick to a dandelion as he trudged up to his front door and opened the lock. Eli, his tiger cat, looked up at him with sleepy eyes from his perch on a chair. “Hey, dude,” Ethan said to the disinterested cat. Ethan had named him after the New York Giants’ quarterback Eli Manning, figuring that Manning’s performance in Super Bowl XXXII had proven that, like a cat, he had nine lives. Even though his hometown New England Patriots had been the victims of Manning’s heroics, he had to admire the man’s feats.

He dropped his jacket on a chair at the kitchen table, limped into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. The weariness of the night’s work washed over him, and he would have dozed off right there had Eli not hopped up next to him and demanded affection. Ethan petted the feline. “You need to eat? You probably need to eat.”

Eli uttered a soft meow.

“Right.” He gave Eli one more scratch behind the ears and got up. He almost had the tin can of cat food open when his phone rang. He glanced at the clock on his coffee maker. A few minutes before eight-thirty. A little early for business calls. For a moment, he considered letting it go to voice mail, then snatched it up. “Ethan Andrews.”

“Ethan, it’s Aaron.”

“Hey, Aaron. Give me a second.” He put the phone down, finished opening the can and picked the phone back up. “What’s going on?”

“Did you get my message?”

“Yeah, but I just got off a job. Haven’t even gotten a shower yet.” He scooped the can’s smelly contents into the small bowl in the hallway.

“Well, we need to talk.”

Ethan stood and tossed the empty can into the kitchen sink. “So let’s talk.”

“In person would be better.”

Uh-oh, Ethan thought. “Aaron, what’s going on?”

Aaron’s voice sounded cautious. “Can’t get into it on the phone. When can you be here?”

Ethan’s shoulders slumped as he gave a wistful thought to the nap he was not going to take. “Give me two hours.”

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Coping With Christmas Craziness

What do you mean, you don’t have any left in stock?!

So, we’re once again neck deep in the holiday season. I always feel like days this time of year come at me in a rush. In the space of just a few weeks, I have:

My sons coming home for Thanksgiving
Gathering with my family on Thanksgiving
Cutting down and setting up a Christmas tree
Saying goodbye to my boys again as they head back to college/law school
My brother’s birthday (he lives hours away from me, but it’s still something I mark every December)
My oldest son’s birthday
The monthly library board meetings
Annual events, such as parties, concerts, work events that always happen in December
Scrambling to come up with halfway decent gift ideas for the members of my family
Buying (or attempting to buy) said gifts
My sons come home again
Christmas Eve
Christmas
Saying goodbyes again
New Year’s

I’ve probably forgotten a few things, too. Outside of that, I owe a freelance article to a newsletter, and I’m trying to get on track with my current novel. I also have to keep marketing the ghost hunter novel and start brainstorming about the eventual print/ebook publication of ACTS OF DESPERATION. Other than that, I’m bored.

December is both the most wonderful and the most stressful time of the year. I have to force myself to step back and remember that these are good things, no matter how tiring and stressful they can be. I probably put too much pressure on myself to get people just the right gift (unique, but not too unique; something they like, but not something they expect; something useful but not boring, etc., etc.) I can and have driven myself nuts during the holiday season.

So, this year:

I’m playing Christmas CD’s in my office every day at work
I’m endeavoring to read Bible passages during each day of Advent (“endeavoring,” I said)
I’m watching TV Christmas specials that I really like and disregarding the rest (I never miss A Charlie Brown Christmas if I can help it)
I’m taking time to enjoy the holiday light displays
I’m loving watching my 11 month-old puppy discover snow. He had the best time of his life during the Great Christmas Tree Hunt last week

I’m hardly alone in having a very busy month. What do you have going on? How do you make time to relax and enjoy it? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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Go Red Sox!

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Support a Writer in Need

If you’ve listened to short fiction podcasts, you know the name Eugie Foster.

Eugie Foster

Podcastle, EscapePod, Pseudopod and The Drabblecast have aired more than 20 of her stories.  She’s lent her voice as a reader of other authors’ work on those shows as well. Her work has appeared in magazines and e-zines such as Helix, Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, and Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show. One of my personal favorites is Daughter of Bótù which appeared in both Realms of Fantasy and Podcastle (I’ve embedded the mp3 of the podcast in this post; give it a listen). She has amassed an impressive list of awards, including a 2009 Nebula Award. Without question, she is a very gifted writer who spins mesmerizing tales.

She also has impressed me as very warm and professional. I’ve had the opportunity to see her on a number of panel discussions at Dragon*Con over the years, and her remarks are always thoughtful and informative. On a personal note, I spoke with her for a few minutes after a panel discussion at Dragon*Con 2012, and she couldn’t have been more gracious. We commiserated about the demise of Realms of Fantasy, and I think she may have even accepted a Purgatory bookmark from me.

She also may be the only person I’ve ever heard of who had a pet skunk. As the owner of dogs who have mixed it up with the black and white critters from time to time, this is hard for me to wrap my head around, but each to their own. Anyway, her Web site says the skunk is de-scented, which I didn’t even know was possible.

Three weeks ago, Eugie Foster learned that she has cancer. Last week, her doctors confirmed it as lymphoma, which means that her treatment will consist of chemotherapy, not surgery. As you can tell from the photo, she is a young woman who should be looking forward to her next publication, not the first round of chemo. Words can’t describe just how unfair and awful this is.

According to her blog, she has health insurance (you Obamacare opponents who keep trying to convince young people not to buy it should knock it off, now), but it may not cover all the costs of treatment. She and her husband need a little hand up. People like you and me, who are blessed with good health and who have listened to her stories on free podcasts over the years, need to step up. In a blog post a couple of weeks ago, she said that the best way for people to help her is to buy her story collections, encourage others to do so, and leave reviews on Amazon.

So, I’m asking you tonight to do just that. Go to her Web site, take a look at the long list of stories and collections, plunk down a couple of bucks, then sit back and let her transport you to other times and places. I promise you that you’ll be entertained, and you will be helping someone at the moment she most needs it.

What has happened to Eugie Foster could happen to any of us. She has a brilliant imagination and a gift with words, but her body has betrayed her. Please consider supporting her now with your dollars, your prayers (if you’re so inclined), or your good wishes. And let’s fervently hope that very soon she will be able to happily report that she is cancer-free.

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