Kimberly A. Bettes's Blog, page 13

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, by Eugene Field

A great Dutch lullaby.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, by Eugene Field.

The Aurora Affect

Since the tragedy in Aurora, CO yesterday, I’ve noticed a great many things about people and their reactions. You can call me whatever you wish, but it will forever fascinate me how people are and how they act and react in any situation, especially a situation such as this. For example, in the aftermath of 9/11, I witnessed a shared sorrow the likes of which I’d never seen in my lifetime. People of all races and walks of life came together in their grief and for a while, we were one. Even more interestingly, that bond continues to this day. Mention 9/11 to anyone and chances are they’ll get misty-eyed and sentimental. That restored my faith in humankind. It was beautiful, though the cause was horrific.

But then you have situations like Aurora and the affect it has on people. While it’s true that people are saddened, some taking it to the next level and being angry or outraged, it’s also true that some folks are going a little out of their minds. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but if you’re on Facebook, I’m sure you have. For the one or two of you that aren’t on the Facebook or the twitter, I’ll tell you I’m talking about.

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts and photos saying that if even 1 person in the theater would’ve had a concealed gun, they could’ve stopped Holmes. I can’t believe that anyone would be so stupid as to think that’s even close to a logical thought. Don’t worry; I’m going to tell you why.

The majority of police shootouts happen within a distance of 7 feet. And during those shootouts, 75% of the shots miss their target. You’re probably wondering how trained professionals could be so inaccurate with their shooting, especially at such close range. Well it’s easy. In the heat of the moment, when your life is hanging in the balance and death is staring you in the face, your body changes. Your heart accelerates, you breathing changes, even your focus and vision change. So while you may be a hell of a marksman on the range, that doesn’t matter now. Not here, not while you’re fighting for your life.

So let me ask you this: If a trained professional can’t be accurate in a situation like that, what makes you think you can? Let’s say you were in the theater in Aurora and Holmes had started shooting. Let’s say you had your concealed gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans. You decide that this is it. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. This is your time to shine, to be the hero and the badass you think you are. You pull your gun and stand, only feet from the shooter. Keep in mind that there is mass chaos as hundreds of people run around in a panic. Add to that the tear gas and confusion. Could you do it? Could you hit the shooter without taking out an innocent bystander? No. No you couldn’t. Police officers miss 75% of the time within 7 feet, and that’s without the tear gas, without the hundreds of innocent bystanders, and without the panic and confusion. If they can’t do it, you can’t do it.

Everyone dreams of being a hero and a badass, of being the person who swoops in and saves a room full of people. It’s normal. What’s not normal is thinking that the way to stop violence is with more violence.

I believe that people should have the right to have guns for hunting or sport. I do NOT believe that assault rifles are necessary, and I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT believe people should be allowed to carry concealed weapons. Why? Because I know a lot of people who do, and they’re all idiots. They’re the people who would be shooting off wild shots in a crowd of scared people in a lame attempt to stop a shooter, ignorantly unaware that they’re killing more people than he is. They’re the ones who think they’re a hero because they have a gun. They’re untrained and unaware. They’re a dangerous group of people.

All that being said, the affect the Aurora tragedy has on us is powerful. We all know that it could’ve been any one of us in that theater. It still could be, for there are more unstable people in the world. Sadly, we haven’t seen the last tragedy. And as long as people are obsessed with weapons and violence, we won’t.

A Crappy Way to Start the Day

Thought I’d share with you a funny story since my last few posts were rather sad. Ahem…

A couple of years ago, I woke up and started my day like any other. I showered and dressed, fed my son and got him ready, and headed out to take him to school and do a day of shopping. I threw a couple of bags of stuff and my purse over my arm, grabbed a couple treats for my beagle, and headed out. I don’t know if you or anyone you know have ever had a beagle but they get pretty darn excited for treats. Now it’s before 8 a.m and the grass is quite wet with dew. My little dog is excited to see the treats in my hand and he starts jumping. Not wanting to do all my shopping with dirty paw prints on me, I try to give him a treat to keep him from jumping on me. I should’ve watched where I was going.

I stepped in a hole, twisted my ankle and fell, throwing dog treats and bags and purse as I went. I swear to you I thought I broke my ankle. It was killing me. So I’m lying there on the wet grass, half crying, half laughing. I look over and see that my dog cares nothing of me and my troubles. He’s eating his treats as if I’m not on the verge of death. My son has a strange look on his face as he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned. He asks if I’m laughing or crying. I tell him I’m doing both because while it’s obvious that walking isn’t my thing, I’ve mastered the art of multitasking. He now feels safe in laughing.

And then I smell it.

“Oh no,” I said.

“What?” my son asks.

“I think I’m lying in dog crap.”

I roll over and sure enough, I had fallen right onto the hearty pile of fresh dog doo. It was smashed all over the back of my sweatshirt. So…now I have to take off the shirt, have my son rinse the dog poop off with the water hose, and limp inside and change clothes.

My son ended up being late for school that day by ten minutes, and I had to do a whole day’s shopping with a swollen and bruised ankle. Not to mention the scent of fresh dog dung lingering in my nose.

Humble Pride

Well I did it. Exactly what I used to want to do, then decided it was best not to do. Yeah, I did that. I published my books in paperback form.

When I first published my books (way back last summer), I thought it was brilliant. There was no reason to be in paperback. After all, there are so many perks to the digital format that surely no one would want a paperback. I believe digital is the better way to go because not only do digital books save trees and space in your home, you can fit literally hundreds of books in an object smaller than one paperback. But a lot of people still want to hold that actual book in their hands. So after being asked, begged, and nearly bribed to put my books out in paperback, I caved. I did it. And strangely enough, now that I did, I’m super excited. I have a stack of books on my coffee table right now that bear my name. I look over at them periodically and smile.

There’s no greater feeling than that you get when seeing your name in print. It’s a high, that’s for sure. And for me, it’s an even bigger high because so much of me is in it. I wrote, edited, and formatted the books, and I made the covers. I’m a one man book making operation. (Except that I’m a woman.)

I’m not a braggart. I don’t gloat about my achievements. I recognize when I do a good job, but then I move on because all jobs are supposed to be good and I don’t feel that bragging is a good quality. But when I look at these books, I have to say humbly that I’m proud of me.

Update on My Bad Week(s)

Since my last post about my bad week, things got worse. A lot worse, at least for a little while.

My poor little Laya Louise was at the vet’s office from Tuesday night, the night she had the stroke, until just before noon on Saturday. We had high hopes. We went to see her Friday, even taking her food dish from home in the hopes that it would get her to eat. But she didn’t. The vet said the meds were moving the fluid off her (from around her heart and lungs) and that she expected her to recover. But first thing Saturday morning, she called and told us that Laya had taken a turn for the worse. Then she did the one thing I was hoping with all my might she wouldn’t do; she suggested euthanasia. Seeing Laya’s turn for the worse, she did some more x-rays and discovered that underneath the fluid, there was a cancerous tumor around her heart and lungs. There was nothing else she could do. So we made the near hour long journey to be with her as they put her down. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. It killed me. I cried so hard and so long that my eyelids were swollen for days. I was miserable and depressed. I still am when I think about it, so I do my best not to.

That was on Saturday. Late Tuesday night, my dog left. He’s technically an inside dog, but he spends nearly as much time outside as he does in the house. He scratches at the door to come in and go out. He scratched to go out late Tuesday night, and we didn’t see him again until Sunday night. As you can imagine, coming so quickly on the heels of losing my cat the way I did, this hurt me. So we were happy when he scratched on the door Sunday night wanting in. But then Monday night, he scratched to go out and didn’t come back again until Saturday evening. By this time, the emotional roller coaster ride was taking its toll. It was a struggle to keep myself from dwelling on the fact that my cat and my dog were gone. But on the bright side, my dog is now at the vet’s getting neutered as I write this, so his days of wandering off to make puppies is over.

And then there’s the water situation. It still stinks, though I have noticed that for the past couple of days, it hasn’t smelled as bad. We were told it was safe to drink, but I’m absolutely not drinking water that stinks. So we’re still buying water in bottles for consumption, but laundry and showers, etc. are done with the smelly well water. My husband seems to think it may be related to the drought we’re in, and he very well may be right. Remember how I said it hasn’t smelled as bad the past few days? Well, it has rained a few times over the past week. Not nearly enough, but maybe it was enough to help raise the water level in my well and flush it a bit. I don’t know. I’m not a wellsmith, but I’m hoping that’s the problem.

In the midst of all this chaos, my DVR/DVD player stopped working. We had to buy a new DVD player, and a new satellite receiver with DVR capability because finding a DVR/DVD combo isn’t an easy task, especially when you’ve been worn down.

My life is a good life. Things go so well for so long, that even when it pours crap on me in buckets like this, I can’t complain. Not too much, anyway. But it does feel better to get it off my chest.

Thanks to all of you who’ve asked after me and sent well wishes to me and my cat. I sure wish things had gone differently with her, but at least she didn’t suffer for a long time with the tumor and all. I do miss her though.

RIP Laya Louise

How My Week Went

To say this week has been horrible is like saying the ocean has some water in it. A total understatement. And every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. Maybe I should’ve stopped thinking it couldn’t get worse. (Honestly, I’m aware that it could always be worse, but you know what I mean.)

First of all, about a week ago, while showering, I noticed a smell. No, not me. After all, I was in the shower. It smelled, I don’t know, bad. I thought it was the drain. The next time I showered, same thing only slightly worse. Then, I noticed as I brushed my teeth that I smelled it at the sink too. So now the cogs were turning (nothing gets by me, does it?) and I started to think that maybe – just maybe – it was the water that smelled. So I went through the house, turning on faucets and sticking my nose to the running water. It definitely smelled. So I told my husband, ‘Hey, the water stinks.’ As usual, his response came swiftly, ‘I don’t smell nothing.’ (Yeah, he’s good with words.) Well I can’t take his word for it because he never smells any of the stinky things my super-sniffer smells. So I ignore him and tell him something’s wrong. A day or two later, I went to get a drink of water and the water tasted exactly how it smelled. Nasty. We’re water drinkers. We drink a lot of water between the 3 of us. So now we had a problem.

In the days since I had to spit out the nasty tasting water, I’ve had our water tested twice, we’ve poured bleach into our well and flushed our pipes, and we’ve gone through a lot of bottled water. On the bright side, our water smells like chlorine now. The first test showed E.Coli in the water, but 8 out of 10 wells contain E.Coli so that isn’t surprising. The 2nd test results haven’t came in yet. Tomorrow, I have to buy more bottled water and hopefully I can do some laundry without it bleaching my clothes.

Meanwhile, as we’re struggling to figure out the water situation, the night before last my son suddenly says, “Laya’s limping.” I jump up and go take a look at my Himalayan cat, who turns 8 years old in a couple of weeks. She’s just woken from a nap, and what my son called limping wasn’t right. Her leg simply wasn’t working. At all. She tried to walk on it, but the top of her paw hit the floor and slid back behind her. Poor kitty. She was crying loudly and becoming more and more agitated. Then she did something she’s never, ever done before. She pooped in the floor.

I called the vet. Now keep in mind that I live in a small town (population 996) in the country. I’m an hour away from anywhere. There was a vet 2 miles from my house, but he recently shut down. So it’s 5 minutes till 7 pm. I call the vet. They say they’re closing in 5 minutes. It’s an extra $98 to have them stay or I can choose to wait until morning to bring her. One look at my kitty and I said, ‘Wait for me.’ We rushed my beloved fur face the hour to the vet, scared to death of what could be wrong with her and that we weren’t going to make it in time. After an examination, a pain shot, and some x-rays, the diagnosis was in. My little Laya Louise had had a stroke. Who knew cats had strokes, right? And furthermore, she has fluid built up around her lungs and heart. She’d thrown out a blood clot which was why her leg went lame.

That was Tuesday. It’s now Thursday evening, and my cat is still at the vet’s office. I absolutely hate her being there without me, but what can I do? I call twice a day and ask about her. I’m told she’s doing better. Her leg is still lame and her heart rate and breathing accelerates when they let her walk around. The pain has passed, but just like in humans, it takes time to get over a stroke. We’re hoping she’ll get to come home tomorrow, but I don’t think it’ll happen. I’m going to call in the morning and see how she’s doing. I’ll go see her tomorrow or Saturday if I’m not going to be able to bring her home. I’d love to spend every minute there with her, but I’m aware that that’s not feasible.

And on top of all of that, I had a job to do last Saturday night. I had to record a band’s performance and make it into a movie. Then I had to burn 18 dvds of it, and a cd of photos. THEN I had to cut it down to specific songs and upload them to youtube. A simple enough job, right? Wrong. My computer has been slow for the past week (the week I needed it to not be) and it took 4 days to get all that done. Not too mention that on Sunday I had to prepare a guest blog post, and Monday had to put it up and pimp it. AND Monday was the deadline for an anthology submission, so Sunday evening I prepared and sent that. All this in the midst of the water and cat problems.

I’m a realist. I realize that though these things are horrible for me, they’re not that bad. I know it could be worse and I’m happy that it’s not. But it’s just so much all at once. But that’s how life goes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. BAM! Everything. Anyway, this was my week. Maybe next week will be better.

The Research Behind Fulano by Benjamin X. Wretlind’s

It’s an honor for me to host this, the second stop on the amazing Benjamin X. Wretlind’s Sketches from the Spanish Mustang blog tour (Be sure to check out Day One over at Michael K. Rose’s blog). Whether you’re an established fan of Benjamin’s work or a potential fan, you’ll find enjoyment in both his post here and his books, the newest of which will be available July 1st. I’ll step aside and let Benjamin get to it now. Enjoy!

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THE RESEARCH BEHIND FULANO

First of all, I want to thank Kimberly for hosting Day 2 of the Sketches from the Spanish Mustang Blog Tour. This early in the game of writing 14 blog entries in a row, I’m not tired yet.

I grew up in the desert Southwest, on the northeast side of Phoenix. In that environment, you can’t avoid hearing news of illegal immigration, of border patrol or how many people were found dead  during any given summer. So I’ve always kept a journal of sorts in my head, full of notes I might someday use. That journal has given rise (so far) to two different stories of immigration through my life.

The first was a tale of two boys who crossed with their pollero–another name for the guide who is paid to help people navigate the desert to some unknown destination. That story, “A Tooth for Miguel,” won an award in a 2007 short story contest in Hawaii. It was both allegorical and magical, and it was based off an article in the Arizona Republic about border deaths.

I decided to return to that desert in one of the Sketches from the Spanish Mustang novellas.  Originally titled The Five Fortunes of Fulano, the novella started off after I learned about winning large sums of money.

I have yet to actually win large sums of money in a gambling hall, but I do know what happens when you do.  Like so many things in life, there is paperwork.

You can thank the IRS for that.

So this story was going to be about an immigrant who worked the fields in Pueblo, Colorado and happened to be in Cripple Creek as a sort of thank-you from his employer.  Told to be quiet and not be seen, he could gamble a little, walk the town, see the sights and then they could go home.

The conflict arose when the immigrant won $2,500 at a slot machine in the Spanish Mustang. Because anything over $1,250 requires paperwork–and a social security number–the immigrant can’t collect.  Naturally, some nice con artist offers to take his place at the machine so Fulano could collect.

The novella wasn’t going to end well, that’s for sure.

When I started writing the story, however, it took on a different direction.  All of a sudden those notes in that “brain journal” I kept while growing up headed to the surface. I had to find out more. What possesses people to cross a deadly border anyway? Who are they? Where do they come from? What do they go through?

I’m not a political person so I stayed as far from immigration issues as possible.  I only wanted to write about what it took Fulano to cross and why he did it in the first place. Working fields in Pueblo isn’t that much fun and it certainly doesn’t pay well. You’d have to be pretty desperate.

Because I needed to know more, I picked up a book from the local library called Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail by Kathryn Ferguson, Norma A. Price and Ted Parks and published by the University of Arizona Press.  This book is amazing, completely unbiased, and does nothing more than relate stories from three Samaritans.

Samaritans is the name of a group of people based in Tucson, Arizona. They hold no united political stance on the matter of immigration into the United States. Rather, they exist solely to prevent death in the deserts.

In the 1950s, the American government decided the land in Arizona that borders Mexico is, of itself, a “natural border.” That natural border, however, resulted in thousands of deaths. Between October 1, 1999 and September 30, 2007 a cartographer from Humane Borders plotted 1,138 known deaths in southern Arizona.

As I wrote the story of Fulano’s crossing and read up on what really happens to people, the story took shape.  All of a sudden there was a brujo (witch) and a promise made at the moment of death.  In addition, I divided the story into two distinct renderings: an English only version which would include only those Spanish words that are important to the story, and a mixed-language version where the dialogue of the migrant workers would be left intact. While my Spanish isn’t good, I had thought I could separate the journey of Fulano across the border from the rest of the story by telling it in Spanish only. However, the translation of such a large amount of text was too difficult for this novice speaker and I didn’t have the time to become fluent.

The research behind Fulano took a while–almost two months of study. I wanted to be authentic and, at the same time, put in a little of that “speculation” I spoke of on Michael K. Rose’s blog yesterday. What I ended up with was a novella I feel is the strongest of the six. It’s not politically charged, either; it just tells a story.

On Wednesday, June 20th and Thursday, June 21st, The Five Fortunes of Fulano will be free on Amazon.com. I encourage you to download the story and find out what those months of research turned into. In addition, there’s a preview of Sketches from the Spanish Mustang in the back. Check it out at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006WO37GC/

BIOGRAPHY

Benjamin X. Wretlind, the author of Castles: A Fictional Memoir of a Girl with Scissors and Sketches from the Spanish Mustang, has been called “a Pulitzer-caliber writer” with “a unique American voice.” Aside from novels, he has been published in many magazines throughout the past 10 years.

SKETCHES FROM THE SPANISH MUSTANG

In Sketches from the Spanish Mustang, a haunting, heart-warming and often brutally direct exploration of the lives of seven people in the mining town of Cripple Creek, Colorado, a woman must come to grips with the failings that cost the lives of her husband and child. Bestselling author Michael K. Rose says: “Mr. Wretlind has penned a tale of such emotional and literary depth it will haunt the reader long after the last page is turned.”

With a pencil, a sketchbook and a keen eye for the details of the soul, the woman’s lines and smudges, curves and tone reveal the stories behind her subjects. Life emerges on the page — vengeance, salvation, love and death. The artist’s subjects fight for survival, only to be saved in the sketches of a woman with a gift . . . and a curse.

International Book Award winner Gregory G. Allen calls the book a “unique journey that rips away the outer layers of people allowing us to stare into their souls where humanity is universal: no matter the genre of writing.”

Sketches from the Spanish Mustang will be available at all major online retailers for $14.95 on July 1st, 2012.  It will also be presented in an electronic format (e.g. Kindle, nook) for $5.95.

To Blog or Not to Blog

I’m aware that as writers, we’re encouraged to write at least one or two blog posts a week. In fact, if you have an agent or publisher, it’s demanded that you do. And while I used to make it a strong habit to write a new post on Wednesday of every week, I’ve fallen off that routine and hit the ground hard. Why? Well to put it plainly, I just don’t know what to say once a week. I mean, do I like to talk? Sure I do! Do I have plenty of stuff to ramble on about? Of course! But those things just don’t seem fitting for blog posts. Writers are expected to write about writing, which is both appropriate and odd. I mean, mechanics don’t want to talk about cars on their time off, and doctors don’t want to get phone calls at home asking medical questions. But who else do you ask? So while I understand that new writers look to writer’s blogs for knowledge about the craft, it does seem a little odd to expect writers to ONLY talk about writing. And I’m a humble person who feels that I’m in no position to dole out advice about writing anyway. If I were of Stephen King’s status, sure. I’d give out advice all day long and feel just in doing so. But I’m not. At least not yet. *fingers crossed*

There are several blogs I follow. (Note: I do NOT blindly follow blogs. If I follow one, it’s because every post either teaches me something or entertains me. Usually, both.) I’ve noticed that some of them post once a day (or so it seems). To me, that’s overkill. How could you have something to say every day? As I write that, I realize that’s probably jealousy rearing its ugly head. I wish I had something to blog about every day. But alas, I do not. I do have a lot of great blog post ideas come to me, but it’s always when I’m an hour away from my laptop. By the time I return, it’s either gone or I’ve convinced myself that it’s ridiculous and no one will want to read it. Clearly, I have issues.

So if you don’t get a blog post out of me every week, don’t think I’ve forgotten you. I just don’t want to bore you, and I don’t want to write something that makes me come across as a haughty know-it-all. I’m here, banging my head against the wall, waiting for the right post to come along and find me AT MY LAPTOP. (Do you hear me, Blog Post Idea Gods? Find me at my laptop, not an hour away. Thanks!)

In the future, I think I’ll try posting about whatever comes to mind. Funny things that have happened to me, things I’ve learned about writing or life or whatever, just general things. I don’t want to be one of the blogs that you tire of because I post too much, but I also don’t want to drive you away by not posting enough. So I hope you stick around while I tightrope walk my way through the blogisphere. Feel free to slap me around a bit if I get too far off track. Because I just might.

Living With a Writer

I stared into the darkness of my bedroom last night like so many nights before, and thought about what life must be like for those who live with a writer. I can’t speak for each individual writer, but I believe that as a whole, this pretty much nails it.

Writers may always be there, especially those who are lucky enough to make writing a full time career. They’re always there, in the bedroom or the office or on the patio; wherever it is they hole up and weave worlds. But are they really there? If you talk to them, do they listen? Do they hear you? When you sit down to dinner and make conversation, is their heart really in it? In many cases, for me at least, the answer is no. They’re not always there. Not 100%.

So if writers aren’t there, where are they? Where is their mind that they can’t give the people they love the most their undivided attention? The answer is – they’re lost. In another time, another place, another galaxy, another plane of existence altogether. They’re off  living another life. They haven’t forgotten about you. But they’ve became so deeply engrossed in this other world that they’ve created, so mesmerized by all that they’ve found there, that it consumes them entirely. They’re constantly thinking of new ways to torture people, different ways to describe the same thing so as to not be redundant, obstacles to be thrown out and how to overcome them, and details. Always with the details. They’re wondering if they’ve forgotten something vital to the story, if every word is perfect, if the tension is tense enough and the drama is dramatic enough. Sure, they may carry on a conversation with you, but their mind is elsewhere. And it isn’t their fault. You can’t blame them for doing what they do. It’s part of the job.

And where does that leave the family of writers? Lurking nearby, waiting for that small window of opportunity between stories where they can get not all but most of our attention for however long they can. We can’t ever give our loved ones every ounce of our attention, because there’s always a story calling to us, demanding to be written, screaming at us to get it and get it out NOW. But we do what we can. And considering the constant chaos in our heads, I think we do a pretty good job of balancing the world in which we live and the worlds which we create.

Eerie

From newcomer Jordan Crouch and Blake Crouch, author of the runaway bestseller Run, comes Eerie, a chilling, gothic thriller in the classic tradition of The Shining and The Sixth Sense.

TRAPPED INSIDE A HOUSE

On a crisp autumn evening in 1980, seven-year-old Grant Moreton and his five-year-old sister Paige were nearly killed in a mysterious accident in the Cascade Mountains that left them orphans.

WITH A FRIGHTENING POWER

It’s been thirty years since that night. Grant is now a detective with the Seattle Police Department and long estranged from his sister. But his investigation into the bloody past of a high-class prostitute has led right to Paige’s door, and what awaits inside is beyond his wildest imagining.

OVER ANYONE WHO ENTERS

His only hope of survival and saving his sister will be to confront the terror that inhabits its walls, but he is completely unprepared to face the truth of what haunts his sister’s brownstone.

Buy Eerie here.

BLAKE CROUCH is the bestselling author of ten novels and numerous short stories, including Run, Desert Places, Stirred, and the Serial series. His website is www.blakecrouch.com.

JORDAN CROUCH was born in the piedmont of North Carolina in 1984. He attended the University of North Carolina at Wilmington and graduated in 2007 with a degree in Creative Writing. Jordan lives in Seattle, Washington. EERIE is his first novel. His website is www.authorjordancrouch.com.