S.M. Johnson's Blog, page 19

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee~ Show me!

Good morning, darlings, and Happy Thursday!

We are about to endure total chaos as all the appliances shall be moved out of the kitchen to install ceramic tile. Oy. The fridge shall now live in the dining room. The back door shall be barred, and the front door utilized. The stove shall be consigned to the garage, which basically means EATING OUT EVERY NIGHT! (I have zero complaints about that - haha).

The washer and dryer - well, I have no idea where they will go, but surely they will be disconnected. One of the local drinking establishments is attached to a laundry mat so that works out pretty well. Wash. Drink. Dry. Drink. Fold. Drink. Load the baskets into the car. Drink. Call the tow truck. Have another drink. Put the laundry away sometime in the future.

Why yes, we do need a designated driver on laundry day.

IzzyG will be on vacation with friends during this time of chaos, so it will be slightly less chaotic, (and slightly more alcoholic) than it could be.

Remember when you used to hide your drinking from your parents?

Uh-huh. Now we hide it from our 9 year old. Damn it, when do we get to be care-free, irresponsible adults, anyway? We keep screwing that up.

Before we had IzzyG, we had a "business" of  ferrets, which was, frankly, not a whole lot different. They needed a lot of attention and made a lot of messes. And couldn't be left alone for extended periods of time.

Anyway. I was going to talk about "Show me."

Are you thinking about the Show Me state, Missouri? Egads, I hope not, because nothing good is coming from that quarter lately. Not to get into a political discussion here, but their GOP Senate hopeful Todd Akin is a total moron. The mysterious and magical female body shuts down reproduction (or in his words "all that kind of stuff") during a rape, so there are no rape babies. And if there are, then the woman was obviously asking for it, or her body would have "shut down all that kind of stuff."

*shakes head in disbelief*

I swear I'm about ready to give up. Let's just hand the running of the country directly to Time-Warner/AOL, Wells Fargo, Fox , and Wal-Mart and be done with the bullshit, already, because it's making me positively ill.

Americans only care about America's next Top Model or Idol anyway. We are a capitalistic, media- driven country - keeping the rich richer and the poor enthralled by the garbage on television.

I am frustrated beyond the realm of reason at the moment.

Which means I'd better shut the fuck up because I'm probably making an ass of myself.




RESET



Alllll-righty then.
Now that I've reset myself, let's try this again.
Good morning, darlings, and happy Thursday!
One of my frequent and bitter complaints as a reader is when writers tell me stuff instead of showing me. And I know I've mentioned this oh, only about fifteen times, but today I can do more than TELL you how much that annoys me - I can SHOW you a great example of an author who nails this concept to the floor.
As a writer, I know it can be struggle to turn telling into showing, and sometimes if you avoid the "tell," it's difficult to be sure that the message came through loud and clear.
I ended up reading a book that I've had on my bookshelf for a long time, and that I've read at least a time or two over the years. But during this particular reading, I was struck with the realization that this writer is a Master of the show/don't tell philosophy.
Since my Kindle is locked and loaded with over 100 items at any given time, I rarely reach to my bookshelf for a tried and true beloved story.
But we got this memo at work. The memo said, "As of today, Absolutely NO personal electronic devices are allowed on the work floor."
Uh-oh. See, for the past year or so, we were allowed to read Kindles or Nooks while on suicide/self-harm watch.
But, as always, people have to push things to the limit, and the next thing you know there are cell phones and iPads out there under the guise of e-readers. And people aren't just reading - they're playing video games, updating their Facebook statuses, writing their blogs, and playing Words with Friends.
The big no-no HIPPA violation is that many of these devices can be used as cameras. 
"Work" is a locked in-patient psychiatric unit. Cameras are a huge no-no. Playing video games while monitoring a patient is probably a big no-no. 
Reading (or, so often in my case, writing) a book or a magazine has always been a gray area. If a patient is harming themselves or falling out of bed, it's easy enough to toss a book or a magazine to the floor and get your ass over there to intervene. 
It seems to me (personally, that is) that it would be more difficult to toss my iPad to the floor. I'd want to secure it and make sure it was safe. I wouldn't want it sitting out where another patient could step on it or walk off with it. I hope I wouldn't be so concerned about my electronic device that I'd compromise patient care, but the potential is there.
So this is what had me searching my shelf for a favorite paperback book. 
I picked White Lies by Anna Salter. 
Book DescriptionPublication Date: May 1, 2000Forensic psychologist Michael Stone injected a fierce intensity into Anna Salter's riveting novels Shiny Water and Fault Lines. Now, embroiled in an explosive sexual-harassment case, this unforgettable heroine is thrust into the murky waters of long-buried memories, where shocking accusations can have deadly consequences.
When noted anesthesiologist Reginald Larsen consults Michael Stone for therapy, Michael soon learns that Larsen, suspended from his hospital, is being investigated for claims of sexual impropriety. Although Larsen is confident and eager to fight the charges, Michael senses that disturbing truths are hidden beneath his calm exterior.
But just as the Larsen case heats up, Michael is consulted by a colleague whose client is a victim of past sexual abuse. When the client confronts her father with her shattering recollections, it is a choice with violent and lethal results. Now, with a deadly predator ensnaring her in a frightening pursuit, Michael remains determined to protect those most vulnerable -- even as her walls of defense collapse around her.



Wikipedia doesn't tell me if Ms. Salter is going to write more Dr. Michael Stone books, but I sure wish she would. She is some kind of story-teller. My only complaint with this whole series (other than the fact that there are only 4 books) is that I don't think Ms. Salter ever offered any explanation for how a female character ended up with the name Michael. Maybe she did and I've forgotten. Gee, an excuse to read the first book of the series over again... oh darn.
So. 
The difference between telling and showing. If an author doesn't TELL you explicitly what the characters are feeling, can the reader still figure it out?
In the following scene, a patient, Jody, is confronting her father for molesting her. He, and the rest of the family, are denying that anything happened, ever. Here's an excerpt, narrated by Dr. Michael stone:

Her father was a wiry man in his late forties and his nervous energy seemed to dominate the room. He was playing anxiously with some keys and he kept glancing at the mirror. Maybe he was wishing he hadn't allowed an observer, but, if so, he didn't say it.

Jody's mother, Mary Jo, was a placid-looking, overweight woman about the same age as her husband. If Jody's father seemed edgy, her mother seemed unnaturally still. She was looking at Jody but I was almost sure her attention was on the man at her side.

Jody kept looking at the keys her father held. She would look at them, then glance away, then look back at them again. Son-of-a-bitch, I thought. He's doing something with those keys. Did Marv [the treating psychologist] know that? He didn't seem to. He wasn't paying any attention to them at all and neither was Jody's mother. The keys, whatever they meant, were solely between Jody and her father.

When the interview explodes, Jody's father shakes the keys in her face. Later in the book, Jody's at the ER getting stitched up for cutting. Michael, who was in an observation room behind mirrored glass for the above meeting, has a chat with Jody in the ER.

"When did you start? [cutting]" I asked softly. There was no answer. "Can you tell me," I said again gently, "when you started?"

She still said nothing. And then I had a flash. I had no idea where it came from or whether it was true, but I didn't have a lot to lose since she wasn't talking to me anyway. "It started over the keys, didn't it? It started when the keys did."

Her whole body went rigid. She turned her head back toward me slowly. She didn't speak. She just looked at me. Her pupils dilated then retreated to the size of pinpricks. The change was so pronounced the doc stitching up her arm glanced up at her and then me. No one spoke. He went quickly back to his stitching.

 [skipping a couple of paragraphs]

"So how old were you?" I asked softly. It was the only thing I could think of to ask. 

"Sixteen," she said, and when she said that, it all slid into place. I got it. I knew what the keys were and why he shook them. And I also knew why Jody was so ashamed of it.

I let out a sigh. No wonder this poor child was in the shape she was in. She didn't see herself as a victim, but a collaborator. Sam Carlson [Jody's father], I thought, didn't look like the kind of guy who was smooth enough and cunning enough to entrap victims. He acted like straight violence and intimidation were his game. Wrong again.

 

The author NEVER tells the reader outright what was the meaning of the keys. And yet I knew, without a doubt, what happened to Jody, probably many times over. It helps that Jody explains to Michael later in the book that her brother's role in the family was to soothe and comfort their needy mother, and that her role was "to keep dad happy." But still, Anna Salter knows that her narration got the message across loud and clear without her, the writer, jamming the actual words into our heads.

This is some powerful "show mojo," isn't it?

Little things like this remind me that I always have more to learn about my craft.

All right, darlings, you get it, right? You tell me, what was the deal with the keys?

 

 

 

 

SM Johnson ~Bloody Monday~ Traditional vs Independent

All right, folks, I can't help myself. I commented on the subject of [mostly independently published] authors behaving badly, and now there are some feathers ruffled because a couple of successful traditionally published authors have spoken out against self-publishing.

Oh, the horror.

So just to get you up to speed quick, click HERE and go to Terri Giuliano Long's blog real quick before reading on, to see Sue Grafton's unthinking comment, and her apology, as well as a quote from Jodi Picoult, apparently sans apology. Each of these best-selling authors recommend that writers NOT self-publish. Terri's post is fairly short. I'll wait for you to check it out and then come back to me, k? Thx.

Waiting... waiting...

Image from Beyondmorale.com

Oh, you're back? Yay!

Okay. Well, I probably am not going to endear myself with my peers (self-published/independently published/Indie authors) but this is what I have to say:

I get it.

I get why successful traditionally published authors tell new writers not to self-publish.

Because historically, (and as of just 5 years ago) self-publishing was the kiss of death for an author.

Once an author had given up on finding and agent or a publisher, and self-published with a vanity press and gone on to reap miserable sales, no traditional publishing house would touch them EVER.

There was the here and there odd-man-out self-published book that that hit the best-seller list, but it was highly unusual (click to see Wikipedia's self-published best-sellers list).

So authors who "made it" via traditional publishing houses don't necessarily understand the realm of self-publishing in 2012, where becoming an "Indie" author is essentially risk-free.

For the most part, we're not laying out thousands of dollars to receive a couple boxes of paperback books that we're begging our small, local booksellers to find shelf-space for.

That's the old way, the vanity press.

Nope. That's not how it works these days.

We're writers who have critique partners and circles, we've been small-press published, maybe one of our books even won a contest (ahem, raises hand), and we've spent a lot of years learning the craft of writing and finding our voice.

We're not paying someone to publish our work. We're reading the Smashwords Style Guide and the Amazon how-to-publish-on-Amazon guidelines, and we're learning how to create e-books. We're learning how to make book covers from really helpful and nice web sites like How to Make a Book Cover in GIMP.

So basically, we're putting in the hours and creating ebooks. And we're marketing our books. And some of us make a little bit of money, and some of us do pretty well. Some of us even make a living as writers (not me - LOL, but I'm as picky a writer as I am a reader, and I can't replace quality writing with quantity writing. I just can't).

Okay, that's some of us.

It's not every Indie author, though.

There are plenty of independently published books out there that are bad. Even terrible. Filled with grammatical errors, typos, cardboard characters, and transparent plots. Some of them have no plot in sight.

There are writers that self-publish a book every month and make damn good money, and whether I can stand to read those books, is really beside the point.

There are also some traditionally published authors who have self-published their back-lists (previously published but now out-of-print books) with a huge measure of success.

We are of all varieties, experiences, abilities, and walks of life. We sell our books on Amazon or Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or iTunes.

Some of us are great writers. Some of us are not great, yet.

We're all learning as we go.

And we all offer something different for readers to taste.

The coolest thing of all is that there's plenty of room for all of us in this big digital world. How beautiful is that?

Have a great week, darlings!

SM Johnson ~A Year of Sundays~ ch 14 pt 2

Chapter 14 – Sunday July 31stPart 2
~Jessamine~
"Is this a private party, or can anyone come over to play?"
The tension melted away the moment we saw Alex in the doorway. She was holding a paper bag in the crook of one arm, and a bag of ice dangled in the fingers of her other hand.
I laughed, but that was nothing compared to Melanie's squeal as she pushed past me to greet Alex.
"Oh, wow, you made it!" Mel said. "I didn't even realize how lonely the hospital was until everybody started showing up today."
Craig patted Mel's shoulder as he took the bag from Alex and peered inside. "Mmm, rum and piña colada mix."
"And ice," Alex said, handing him the ice.
Annabelle was chattering at me about yard darts. "Mom, you gotta come outside after supper and play this game. It is so scary-cool, you won't even believe it. You really gotta watch out for yourself in this game."
I grinned at her. "I know. I used to play it when I was little."
She gave me such a skeptical look that she almost looked like an adult. "Really, mom? You, playing something instead of staring at the computer?"
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Go in the kitchen and get the milk, smart-alec."
It was a good thing we'd set up a kid's table. Hell, with ten adults and two kids, we'd barely all fit into the dining room.
Liz must have been thinking right along with me, because she said brightly, "It's a good thing I always make too much food."
Two more folding chairs and four kitchen chairs, and a round of blender drinks later, and we finally sat down to eat.
We didn't talk about anything much at first, just passed salad, pasta, and breadsticks around the table to the comforting soundtrack of utensils tapping against plates, and periodic compliments to Liz about her talent with food.
When we were all sighing the fullness of our bellies, Silas asked, "Well, how's your class going, Elizabeth?"
He had an eyebrow cocked like he knew something the rest of us didn't, but it seemed to escape everyone's notice but mine. The question sounded innocent enough.
"Mostly good," Elizabeth said. "But the homework is killer. It's been a lot of years since I've had to struggle with math homework."
"No doubt," I said. "Pretty sure I wouldn't survive such trauma."
She grinned. "Yeah, that part is actually lame. But the lectures are cool. We're looking at different scientific studies, and picking apart the data disclaimers, and that's really interesting. I'll never just blindly believe the claims of any kind of research ever again."
She was almost sparkling as she talked.
"And… I have other news."
She was practically dancing in her chair, and her grin was so huge it could only be one thing.
Eric rolled his eyes and raised his glass to his lips.
"I'm pregnant!" Liz announced.
Eric choked, and piña colada exploded from his mouth.
We all jumped up to congratulate Liz, and there ensued a few crazy minutes of questions. "When did you find out?...When is the baby due?... Is everything okay?... How many weeks?... Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?... and so on, until one loud angry question shut all the celebratory chatter right down.
"All I want to know is, who the fuck's the father?"
And out the door went Eric, the echo of his voice still ringing in our ears.
It might be cliché, but it would not be an understatement to say there was a moment of stunned silence.
And then Silas started laughing.
Liz sat down, face pale and eyes wide.
No one knew what to say.
And still Silas laughed.
Then Elizabeth sprang from her chair, and the next shock was the crack of her palm against Silas's face. He grabbed her hand, stopped laughing, and they stared at each other, Elizabeth breathing hard, Silas still with a smile dancing around his lips. The staring contest only lasted a few seconds, but those seconds felt like two lifetimes.
And then Silas flung her hand away. "And you judge me." He kept looking at her, like he could see her every secret. "Way to go, Sister Christian."
I thought she was going to hit him again, but she just fell back against the table and said, "You little fuck. Get. Out. Get out of our mother's house."
Silas got up from the table, let out half a laugh, more like a strangled cough. "Yeah, this getting real on Sundays gig is nice. Real nice."
Then he yanked Jeremy out of his chair, twisted his fingers in Jeremy's hair, and kissed him well and thoroughly before walking out.
Holy shit.
"Well," Melanie said. "I don't know what to say."
"I say have another drink," said Alex. "I'll pour."
Jeremy had been staring after Silas, and he turned a slow circle to take in the rest of us. He looked startled, and sad, and finally he shrugged and said, "Sorry. I gotta go after him."
Yeah, I suppose he did.
Our sister had just banned Silas from the family because her own transgressions were exposed.
"Pour me one, Alex," Sam said, and put his arm across my shoulders.
The kids were still at the kids' table, both of them sitting in a sort of permanent cringe. "Do you want to leave?" I asked Sam. "Maybe take Annabelle home?"
He put his lips right to my ear. "Are you kidding? It's just getting interesting around here."
Liz regrouped physically, unbraiding and re-braiding her hair. She took a deep breath and seemed to come back to herself mentally as well. She looked around the table. "Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with Eric. Of course he's the father. Josie – did I see you and Jeremy come in with pie? Shall we serve it?"
"In the fridge," Josie said, and tried on a smile.
"I'll get it," Craig said, obviously seeking escape. "Caleb, come on. I'll cut, you can serve."
Annabelle came to sit on Sam's lap, turned away from me, and I saw her sneak her thumb in her mouth, a throwback to her early school days.
"Everything's okay, 'Belle," I said. "Even grown-ups don't always get along."
She craned her neck around to look at me, and muttered, "I know," around her thumb.
Ah well. Now wasn't the time to make an issue of the thumb.
"Let's clear the table," I said to Josie, and we started ferrying the dirty dishes into the kitchen. When we were as far from Liz as the downstairs would allow, she said, very quietly, "Silas told Jeremy that he's seen Liz out and about with Dean Johnson."
"Well, whatever," I said. "There must be some reason Eric topped off. It doesn't have to mean Liz is having an affair."
But I was thinking yeah, I need to catch up with Silas. Because even when he was asking Liz about school he had that sneaky look about him. It was his classic I-know-something-the-rest-of-you-don't sort of look. And then the way he laughed, like he saw this coming from a long way off.

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ to bridge or not to bridge?

Good morning, darlings! It is Thursday! Which means it is really, really close to Friday. Yay for Friday!

My vacation is over. I know, it's okay if you cry a little for me - I'm sad about it, too.

I live in the beautiful state of Northern WI, right next door to Duluth, MN which is built on a hill, and where this past June was a very unexpected and shocking flood. I was lucky - I was off work for most of the flood week, so I stayed home and missed much of the bru-ha-ha. And I'm really okay with that. I'm really okay with it in the winter when we get some of our stunning snow storms, as well.

Being that I live in WI and work in MN, I have to take one of two bridges to get back and forth to work.

Blatnik Bridge, courtesy of MN DOTThe bridge that is most convenient to both my house and work is called the Blatnik Bridge. It's also often referred to as the High Bridge. (Remember this, because it will be oddly funny in an upcoming paragraph).

This bridge is connected the the highway that runs right past my house, and it's a nice, straight bridge. The MN side comes out right by grandma's house, too, so I can get from home to work in 20 minutes flat, even making a childcare stop. It is marvelous, and makes living in one city and working in the other very simple.

The trouble is this... in early May the "go to work" side of this bridge was closed for repairs.

image from wikipediaSo now I have to take the Richard I. Bong bridge instead. This is a much longer bridge, that snakes lazily across the St. Louis Bay. The "my side" of this bridge is all the way across town from my house.

The MN side of this bridge is all the way across town from my work.

Door to door home to work now takes about 60 minutes. And if there's an accident and backd-up traffic between this bridge and work, well so help me, I could almost spit flames I get so frustrated. No kidding.

So just to save time, I'll tell you flat out that I have been REALLY whiny about this all summer. It's about to turn around, though... supposedly at the end of the month my favorite bridge will be open for wanting to go TO work, and closed for wanting to come home FROM work. That will actually be an improvement.

bridged photo from PanoramioNormally, when you live around here and say you've been "bridged" (i.e. as an excuse for being late to work) - it means that you went to Park Point, and got stuck on your way back because an ocean liner was coming into the harbor and the bridge was up. (follow the yellow street lines with your eyes - at the end is the bridge).

In picture #2 you can see the double bridge span - the bottom one is actually the road surface, and it lifts kind of with a system of weights and pulleys (and probably electronics, too), so traffic is stalled until the ship goes through.

picture from Homeaway.comIf you're playing tourist, it's actually quite exciting. The ship blows its horn to ask the bridge operator to lift the bridge, and the bridge operator blows back a higher-pitched response, and bells start going off, and the traffic light turns yellow, and then red, and barriers drop down to block traffic (similar to railroad crossing barriers) and the bells continue ringing THE WHOLE TIME the bridge is going up, staying up, and coming back down. (Here's a nice blog post about the history of the Aerial Lift Bridge from a blog called This and That and More of the Same),

You can even stand beneath the bridge on either side, immersed in the sound of bells, and watch it raise and lower - the bottom of the part that raises is only about 7 feet above the sidewalk, so it's kind of a freaky optical illusion to stand underneath while the bridge is coming down. There's a minute where you wonder if it's actually going to stop, or if you might just be crushed to death.

Just for a good time, here's a link to local newspaper columnist Jim Heffernan's blog - there are some awesome pictures there!

Okay, so I guess you've got an idea of what we typically mean when we say we've been "bridged."

And it has nothing to do with me, personally, feeling inconvenienced because my favorite bridge is under construction.

There's really no point to my whining. Fixing our bridges and keeping them sturdy and strong is a good thing, a great thing, an important thing. After all, Minnesota is the state where bridges fall down. And that is very bad. Whew. Thank goodness I live in Wisconsin. And that we learn from bad things.



So here's a funny thing... when I started this post, I was feeling the effects of Novocaine from the bottom of my jaw to the middle of my forehead, including my left ear and left eye. I suspect that I received Novocain to the max, out of consideration for the fact that I was braving the terrifying world of dentistry without Nitrous Oxide (or laughing gas or woo-woo juice, as we sometimes call it).

Apparently Dr. Mark (who is absolutely lovely, BTW) wanted to make sure that nothing he did today was going to hurt for at least several hours. He is awfully nice that way, despite his sometimes-style of work which I have been known to call "brute force dentistry." I'm sure it's just my wacky, unusual, things-are-always-much-worse-than-they-appear-and-never-simple-or-easy-like-the-dental-problems- of-normal-people teeth that creates the need for brute force dentistry. But whatever.

Being heavily under the influence of Novocaine, I was going to ponder over coffee whether I should go ahead and get a bridge for my two missing molars.

So I don't know how exactly I moved from bridgework to bridge work... but there you go. I am convinced that being unable to feel one whole side of one's face makes one's thought processes a little bit weird.

And hence I went and proved it, didn't I?

So yeah, I am missing a couple of molars, but I have a wisdom tooth that's been all restored via root canals and such. Now, my old dentist (RIP) who came up with the terrible plan to let my last remaining wisdom tooth slide into place as a chewing tooth and therefore I lost two teeth in front of it, and therefore I went in search of the wonderful Dr. Mark - wow, lookie there! All molars lead to Dr. Mark. Ha-ha. Follow the white enamel trail...

Anywhoo. I looked into getting some implants (minimum $7000.00 - eeee-youch!) but Dr. Mark thinks the wisdom tooth could support a bridge.

And so far this year I have not had any major tooth catastrophes, despite the fact that I doubled my dental coverage this year because I maxed out my dental limits in JANUARY last year for emergency root canals. (Root canals are always an emergency, if you ask me). And one root canal pretty much maxed my limit. So now I can have two.

Except wonder of wonders, I haven't suffered that particular agony this year. Thank my lucky stars and regular visits to Dr. Mark. Not to mention a habit of increased brushing and flossing, prescription toothpaste, and Act rinse.

But I hate to let the increased coverage go to waste, you know?

Wow. Okay. This post got boring fast. Let me see if a hit of Nitrous livens things up....

Meanwhile - anybody have dental bridge stories to share? You know, preferably stories with happy endings, although I rarely expect that for myself. I figure... I'll get the bridge, and then the wisdom tooth that's had a root-canal and a crown will just yank itself out by the roots and laugh at me while I swallow it and the rest of the bridge that will probably cost 3k down with a particularly chewy bite of steak...

Because that's pretty much how I roll.

Happy Thursday, darlings - get out there and have a fan-fucking-tastic weekend for me, would ya? Cause I'll be at work....

SM Johnson ~Bloody Monday~ Cable Culture

Wow, I almost forgot to give Monday some love. I think because yesterday felt like Monday, with the hubby running off to work right away in the morning.

Today is my mom's 70th birthday - go mom! Hard to believe considering she doesn't look a day over 61.

Since I have read absolutely nothing good lately, I thought I'd talk about cable culture, and what we've been watching, and minimally, what I think of them.

Kitchen Sofa blogSo. Weeds. Sunday night on Showtime.

This series has been something else again, with Nancy Botwin getting her family in and out of all sorts of trouble. Last season ended with Nancy lying in a hospital bed in a coma after being shot in the head. Dun-dun-dun-dunnnnnnn.

Who shot Nancy? It might have been a "who shot JR" sort of meme, but I gotta tell you - I don't know if the writers have changed or what, but this season has so far been a complete bore.

The Botwins were a lot more interesting when they were drug dealers. And I guess that's about all I have to say about the current season of Weeds. I hardly even remember to watch it. Click the Kitchen Sofa caption for a more comprehensive look at Season 8.

Image from IMDbSwitching over to HBO, we're watching The Newsroom. Pretty damn good, actually. I accidentally got sucked into this while my husband was watching it. There's seems to be some adolescent love-triangle stuff going on, "No, I like him. I don't like-like him. You go out with him. I swear on the bible I don't like-like him." etc.

About the show - here's HBO's about the show page. Significantly, it comes to us via the creators of The West Wing and Social Network.

The newsy parts are stellar, and the tension builds fast when there's a breaking story and they're 30 seconds from going on live, but can't get confirmation of their information. This one is highly based on real events, the killing of Osama bin Laden, the shooting of Representative Gabrielle Giffords - we get a whole new view of the news, and it's pretty fascinating. Or as the poster says at the top (which you can't read)... More as the story develops.

Image from TV EqualsOn STARZ, the husband is watching Camelot. I'm not really watching it. I listened to the full Mists of Avalon series by Marion Zimmer Bradly (Wiki link) back when I keyed mail for the US Post Office, and I pretty much got my fill of the whole King Arthur thing. It was a good story. And Camelot is doing fine holding the hubby's attention, so it must not be too terrible. Actually, I think he's just watching it as a placeholder for Showtime's The Borgias. That's the one he's really liking, but we're in the off season right now. I've been watching it with him, but I actually do have some trouble with the ruthless betrayal and endless scheming, but of course, that makes for fine television, now doesn't it?

Finally - for my recent pop-culture education... (of old pop-culture stuff - LOL, gotta stay behind the times, I guess).

While editing IzzyG videos, I discovered that I needed to listen to or watch something to make it a bit less tedious. So I dialed up Netflix through the PS3, and watched the Justin Bieber documentary, Never Say Never.

Don't laugh. It was really fun. I can recommend it unreservedly as pure entertainment. Stardom came knocking on Justin's door, and took him for a nice little ride. And Bieber's music is a lot less annoying in the movie than it was when all I was hearing was one song, over and over, at full volume from IzzyG's boom box.

The other past pop culture thing I caught myself up on was High School Musical. Yeah, wow. Yikes. This was a Disney flop, as far as I'm concerned. I'm glad we skipped all the merch when it was out. I thought it was just... meh. Lame.

All right, there you go. From drugs to news to murder and betrayal to insta-fame to Disney.

Damn. Now that's a blog post.

I hope the week is kind to you, darlings. See you Thursday!

SM Johnson ~A Year of Sundays~ ch 14 pt 1

Chapter 14 – Sunday July 31stPart 1
~Jessamine~
Well, things were a little more normal, in the sense that we didn't have to trek to the hospital to bring Sundays to Melanie because was staying at Mom's house with Josie and Jeremy.
Josie was sick enough that she couldn’t hide it from Melanie, now that they were living in the same house.
The texts flew between us.
Melanie to me and Liz: Josie's really sick. Says it’s the flu, but this started before I was in the hospital.
Me to Mel and Liz: She's really skinny. Doesn’t she eat?
Mel to me and Liz: Just picks. Jeremy hovers, TG at least he seems to know what's up.
Liz to me and Mel: We have to corner her. Or him. Agreed?
Me: Agreed.
Mel: Yep.
So I thought we were in agreement, that as soon as we could corner either Josie or Jeremy, we'd insist they talk to us. But as usual, shit happens and the best laid plans sometimes go awry.
Liz was already in the kitchen when I arrived, with Sam and Annabelle in tow. The whole place smelled phenomenal, so I suspected Liz had been there awhile.
Melanie was cleaning out the back hall closet, piling up coats and boots, tents, a sled, and an odd assortment of outdoor games.
"What's Liz cooking?" I asked Mel.
"Stuffed shells, I think. She's been in there half the day," Melanie answered.
I picked up a heavy, spiked dart with red flanges as long as the shank. "Hey, Sam. Did you ever play with these when you were a kid? There were these plastic rings…" I peered at the pile, and found one of the plastic hoops. I clearly remembered arranging the rings across the yard from each other, then tossing the dart into the air and scoring points if it landed inside the ring. Like Horseshoes, but deadlier. "How on earth did we manage not to kill each other?"
Sam laughed and said, "Man, toys have sure changed, haven't they? Dig out the rest of the set – let's bring them home."
"Should we set Annabelle and Caleb loose in the yard with them?"
It was a new voice – Craig – and it startled me.
"Hey," I said. "You gonna start coming to Sundays every week?"
He shrugged. "When I can. Long as Melanie's okay with it."
Melanie was staring at the pile of junk and pulling out another red lawn dart, and then two blue ones. She was almost smiling. "You're a good duck, Craig. I'll set up the lawn darts." She raised her voice, "Caleb, Annabelle – come on out back. I've got something to show you!"
I had yet to see either Jeremy or Josie, but Silas came through the front door, and he looked stressed to the max, almost haunted.
"Well?" I asked, pulling Silas into the living room, as far away from the back yard as we could get. Sam and Craig followed. "Did you find out anything?"
"I don't know. Maybe. It's weird. I got a guy looking into it more, and he's going to call me back."
He'd dialed the number Melanie said was for her abuser, and someone answered.
And then hung up, without a word.
It was a five second phone call, but Melanie fainted, crumpling forward and landing on me.
Silas called the number again as we got untangled, but only reached a generic voicemail greeting. He kept trying until the phone suddenly went out of service.
It was all very fishy, so he was putting on his lawyer hat and digging, but he didn't want to freak Melanie out, so we weren't telling her that part.
"Well?" Craig demanded. "What's weird?"
Silas rubbed his hands over his face, then gave his head a slight shake. "They transported Melanie's asshole to higher security with another asshole going into the release program. Like, the other guy was graduating, but not Melanie's guy."
"Okay. And?" Craig prompted.
"They both left MSOP, and they both arrived at St. Peter, but there was some argument along the way, and the transport van was in a wreck that put two guards in the hospital with head injuries, and both the bad guys were a mess, like their faces went through auto glass."
"So Melanie's guy landed in the release program?"
Silas shrugged. "You know, everybody I've talked to makes it sound like that would be impossible, except for one guy, and he doesn't want his name getting out. MSOP worked it all out, officially, but the guards involved really don’t remember much. It was a pretty bad accident. So the one guy said, unofficially, that he supposed the two could have switched IDs. But even he didn't know why the guy headed into the release program wouldn't have raised holy hell about landing in maximum security instead."
"So he really could be out," Craig said, and took in a deep breath. "Shit."
Silas was nodding. "Yeah. He could. But the people in charge who are willing to entertain that idea can't find him. And officially…"
"Yeah," Craig said. "I get it. Officially he's right where he belongs."
"The thing is, the accident was seven years ago. We're talking long-term planning. Just to get at Melanie. It's hardly realistic."
"Nobody ever suggested he was right in the head," I said.
Liz came in then, and said, "Supper's almost done, and Eric's on his way. Does anybody know where Josie and Jeremy went?"
And speak of two little devils, they came in the door, Eric on their heels. It was 5:05. Jeremy was carrying a pie box and grinning.
Josie looked better. Maybe not a lot better, but better.
"Eric, help me bring the food out. Jess, Josie – can you guys set the table?"
"On it," I said, and went to the front hall closet for the kids' table and the folding chairs, because with everybody here, we'd need it.
Josie helped me. "You look a little better," I said.
She sighed. "Yeah, getting better. Got headache drugs that seem to help a lot. Don't know how I ended up with migraines."
She looked like she'd been sleeping more, and her skin had some color.
As we pulled the everyday dishes out of the china cabinet, I asked, "So, is the doctor saying migraine headaches? Is that it?"
"Yeah, pretty much. They're testing my thyroid, and some other endocrine stuff. I'm not sure I understand everything, but I have a follow-up appointment next week, and I'll find out more."
"Is Jeremy taking you to all these appointments?"
"Yeah," she said. "He's pretty great. I wish Silas would let himself have a real relationship. Then again, the way it is now means more Jeremy-time for me. He really is a nice guy. I'd be awfully lonely without him."
"How's it having Melanie here?"
Josie pursed her lips and turned one hand sideways, gesturing so-so. "Well. Slightly scary, considering maybe she's being stalked, you know? But we haven't seen anyone suspicious, thank God."
The minute she said it, the doorbell rang.
I jumped and shrieked a little bit.
We were all here. I couldn't imagine who'd be at the door.
Silas's voice cracked over us like a whip. "Sam, you get the kids. I'll get the door."
Sam, with Craig not far behind, booked into the kitchen to get the kids from out back.
My heart was in my throat, pounding, almost stopping my breath. Even though we'd been talking about it, we'd already let ourselves be lax and left Melanie and the kids alone outside.
Those of us in the dining room, Me, Josie, Liz, Eric, and Jeremy stood silent, on high alert, all our heads turned toward the front door, watching Si.
Silas pulled the door open with more force than necessary, the fingers of his free hand clenched into a ready fist.

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ Inspiration and change

Good Morning, darlings, and happy Thursday!

The bike trip with the husband was quite lovely. I am loving the comfort of the new bike, and Dave is quite enamored of the ability to listen to music on the bike.We dug out some CDs, had a little iTunes burning party, and ended up with  quite an interesting playlist.



George Thorogood and the DestroyersTheory of a Deadman4onthefloor A mix of Hinder, Kid Rock, Rehab, NickelbackAlabama BuckcherryJourneyTrain
I brought along an old Meatloaf CD, but it was a bit battered, and the husband was worried it would damage the CD player, so that was a bummer. And I just bought Lit, The View from the Bottom yesterday, so we didn't have that one, either (but I'll tell you, I like it. And not just because the band was nice to Sprite).

This playlist is cool because it's almost a perfect mix of the two of us, and even included some surprises. I know ya'all don't know my husband, but go ahead and take a guess as to which of the above are his favorite bands.

I'll wait a minute while you think about it....

And I'll tell you my favorites first - Train (always my #1) and Theory of a Deadman.

His favorites at the moment are Buckcherry, Nickelback, and 4onthefloor.

4onthefloor is great bike music - They're from Minneapolis, and I bought the CD last year at the Willie Nelson concert at Bayfront Festival Park in Duluth (same place Sprite and I just saw Lit). All their songs are in 4/4 time, and the set was so unusual that I couldn't leave without a CD. And I had a feeling my husband would like it (so right).

I bought Alabama for the trip, which turned out to be not-so-great bike music. Hubby was skipping tracks, and then I found the button that allows the passenger to control the music, so then we were both skipping tracks and laughing at each other. Perhaps its an issue of sound quality - that particular CD had a "tinny" sound that actually hurt my ears. I still love Dixieland Delight, but the rest of it - meh.

And then there was the ultimate, final musical surprise - Journey.

It's funny how you can live with someone for TWENTY years, and still be utterly shocked that your husband would burn, select, and actually insert a Journey CD into the player, and then be content to ride  along listening to it for over two hours.

I mean, seriously? The guy who loves Buckcherry chooses Journey? Not that I have anything against Journey, mind you, but I'd just been to the Summerland Tour featuring Marcy Playground, Lit, Gin Blossoms, Sugar Ray, and Everclear. Journey's almost a bit too 80s after that.

Ok. Well. Enough about the music.

Sitting unplugged on the back of a bike for a couple of days really lets the mind wander. As the passenger, my main jobs responsibilities are: 1) "sit still for God's sake" and 2) wave.

It's a big, heavy bike, and the husband would prefer not to let go of the handle bars to wave, so waving has always been my job.

See, there's a kind of universal biker club, a brotherhood who loves to ride, and who acknowledge one another along the way with a wave.

Not a parade queen wave, nor a geeky flappy wave. Oh no. It's a gesture to the side of the bike or toward the ground with either the pointer finger extended, or two fingers extended in the V sign. No crazy hand flapping, fingers wiggling waving going on. That would be way uncool.

Trust me on this. When it became my job to wave, I did a little research to make sure I was offering the "we ride" salute in the coolest way possible. Personally, I use the V sign. The pointer finger wave is pretty cool too, however I found that gesture quite useful in Sturgis when I wanted to signal to another bike, or God forbid an automobile, that we were going to change lanes, and intended for our bike to end up in "that spot, right there, the one I'm pointing to." So I stick with the upside down V salute. (In South Dakota, by the way, during Bike Week, you just give up on waving altogether because we're all here and we're all cool as hell without the wave. And anyway, there are so many bikes that you'd be stuck in a permanent wave, and that just wouldn't be very safe).

On this most recent trip we stuck to quiet little highways in northern WI. Highway 35 from Superior to Danbury, Highway 70 from Danbury to Woodruff/Lac du Flambeau, Highway 41 to Hurley, Highway 2 back to Superior. There weren't a whole lot of bikes. In fact, for 150 miles on Highway 70 (freaking phenomenally idyllic ride, btw) I think I only got to wave 5 times.

[image error] casino run by Lac du Flambeau bandWe rode through a lot of national and state forest areas, a lot of small lakes and small towns (I fell in love with a town called Stone Lake, WI and daydreamed for quite a while about moving there). We rode through two Indian reservatsion - Lac Courte Oreilles (and a town phonetically named Couderay, which totally cracked me up) and Lac du Flambeau.

I had no idea now many national forest campgrounds there are in my home state of WI. Kind of made me wish that I cared more for roughing it. Maybe we'll try that next summer, although I suspect we'd all hate it.

I really love nature. Except for the mosquitoes. And the spiders. And the discomfort of morning dampness. Oh yeah. And the part where the only thing I can cook over a campfire with any success at all is a hot dog on a stick.

Yeah, never mind.

We stayed at a couple of casinos - St. Croix and Lake of the Torches, and that's always a bunch of fun. My husband and I like the games, and we don't play more than we're willing to lose, so if we're entertained for a few hours, that's a good time, win or lose. (He usually wins, and I usually lose - LOL).



I did play this slot machine called Black Widow literally for HOURS on the same 20 bucks. I was pretty sure the Widow had the hots for me. I was seeing these faces in my sleep that night, I swear. It's my new favorite. Wish there was an app for my iPhone - LOL. (Obsessive much?)

So sitting on the back of the bike leaves a lot of time for thinking.

And thinking leads to ideas, yeah, and ideas lead to all sorts of trouble.

My girl, IzzyG (formerly known as Sprite) is growing up. Yesterday was her 9th birthday.

And there is a price to be paid for naming a child after a hurricane.

This child has an explosively outgoing personality. I mean, come on - she was onstage with Lit. And maybe Lit's been kind of on hiatus for a decade, but I saw them up close and live, and I'm telling you, they are a Major Rock Band.

IzzyG has been working on a video series - she's all energy and ego - and she's been after me to post more of her videos on YouTube, which I've been avoiding doing because I'd like to edit them and get them looking a bit more professional (the Virgo in me) and I know it's going to be time consuming. And as a writer of novels, I tend to be stingy about giving my time away.

But. Here's the kicker. I'm wrapping up DeVante's Choice, the 3rd book of my Vampire DeVante trilogy. This has been, literally, a 20 year project. And obviously I'm not going to be making a living  as a writer any time soon. And I'm perfectly okay with that.

Truth is, lately I've been getting more pleasure writing my impossible romance short stories than I get out of writing the full-length novels. Novels require a major time investment which doesn't leave room for much else.

from meme generatorI recently saw this picture on Facebook (bear with me, there's a point to this rambling).

This picture hit my gut.

I was born a few blocks away from Lake Superior. And I continue to live within view of this huge, beautiful, freshwater lake.

And it occurs to me that there is a worldwide shortage of water, which is almost incomprehensible to me. It's like a myth, or a fairy tale. And yet... it isn't.

And how on earth is IzzyG ever going to top singing on stage with Lit?

What if we found a way to channel IzzyG's outgoing personality, energy, and ego into something positive? We're getting to the tween years. Raising her thus far has certainly been a challenge, and somehow I don't think she's ever going to be easy. But what if we had a collaborative project, something to work on together? What if we got involved with Global Water or a similar organization that helps villages in third world countries get access to clean water, one village at a time?

I've always said this child will change the world.

And maybe waiting for her to do that isn't enough. Maybe I should help her get started.

What do you think?

Happy Thursday, darlings! I hope you all have a stellar weekend!

SM Johnson ~ Bloody Monday ~ Dreaming

Good morning, and welcome to Bloody Monday.

I am on vacation. Hopefully I'm not sitting on the back of a bike soaking wet while you're reading this. If the formatting is goofy, highlighted in white (which seems to be a problem I'm having), forgive me. I'll fix it when I get home, I promise. I am much too Virgo to ignore weird formatting.

I just don't have much to talk about in the way of fiction at the moment - been too busy packing Sprite for camp and myself for our little bike trip.


So.

I mentioned dreams on Thursday.

I love dreaming. Partly because I usually know I'm dreaming, and therefore am aware that I am spending some quality time relaxing into sleep. I especially love the kind of wonky dreams I have when I'm just starting to drift off - the lovely feeling of floating that, if someone wakes you up (which always seems to happen), makes you startle practically right out of your skin. These are the moment when the imagination really takes off. (Maybe held in the beak of my Seagull muse?)

I'm going to tell you about one of my re-occurring dreams. And it would be super fun if you'd leave descriptions of your own re-occurring dreams in the comments (and we can laugh about how hard it it to capture a dream in actual words). We can even explore their meaning. There are lots of free sites to help interpret dreams.  (Start with the free dream dictionary at Dream Moods by clicking here.)

So I had this dream.

I was in a car, going somewhere. Or maybe I was leaving somewhere. And maybe I wasn't in a car, but walking down a path.

Anyway. I had a secret.

Or I was hiding an object, something that would help me escape. It was a key. Or maybe a book?

And there was this man, he definitely didn't want me to have the key or the book or whatever it was, so I was acting all innocent and compliant, but inside my head I was being very devious, plotting and planning my escape, waiting for just the right moment...

*


"I'm Being Chased!" Chase dreams are one of several common dream themes, stemming from feelings of anxiety in your waking life. Flee and flight is an instinctive response to a physical threat in the environment. In such dreams, the scenario often features you being pursued by an attacker, an animal, a monster or an unknown figure, who wants to hurt or possibly kill you. Consequently, you run, you hide or you try to outwit your pursuer... (click the "I'm Being Chased" headline above to read more from the original site). 
*
[An interesting note here - if I'm having stress or anxiety, it's the good kind - I'm on vacation from work, planning and packing for a short trip - and yet I've developed a nasty cold sore, and also a migraine - sure signs of stress. Blah]

Anyway, in this dream: there were other people around - I have no idea who - but they knew I had the key or the book, in fact, they'd help me get hold of it, and were helping me hide it, but just a little, because this man, this bad guy, was very controlling and sort of angry, and everybody was afraid of him.

I don't remember feeling afraid. I just remember feeling sneaky.

And I was the only one trying to escape.

*

Escape
To dream that you escape from jail or some place of confinement signifies your need to escape from a restrictive situation or attitude. Alternatively, it suggests that you are refusing to face your problems. You are avoiding the situation, instead of confronting them.To dream that you escape from injury from an animal, or from any situation, signifies your good health and prosperity. You will experience a favorable turn of events.... (to read more from the original source, click the headline above "Escape")
*

And there was a buffet.

WTF? Yes, a buffet table full of food.

Odder and odder.

That's the problem with writing down dreams. Or even telling people about them. This one was really fascinating to me, especially since during the dream I was aware that it was a dream, and aware that I'd had this exact dream before. So I knew what I was trying to do - escape - even though I have no idea what I was trying to escape from or why.

The sense of having been there before, of having dreamed that exact dream, was odd, too, and comforting in a strange kind of way.

It all made perfect sense - in my sleep. But already most of it is gone. If I had jumped out of bed and into the shower, and cranked the water really hot, I would have been able to translate the dream into words and maybe even a story, but alas, I wasn't that motivated.

I have another re-occurring dream that involves walking through a house, opening and closing doors. There is some significance, in dream interpretation, about house dreams. What I feel when I'm dreaming it, though, is this giant sense of deja vu - the sense that I've been here before, and I like this place. I always feel like that dream is a gift, because it somehow comforts me.

There's one dream that I remember very clearly even though it has never re-occurred.

One of my best male friends in high school committed suicide at the beginning of our junior year. I had never known anyone who died, except my grandfather when I was 6, so I think I kind of went more into shock than grief. Shock throughout the day that I got the news. Shock riding the city bus home, looking around at the people and being unable to fathom how they could possibly function normally when everything about the world had suddenly and irrevocably changed. Of course, now I know that one person's death doesn't change the world, it just feels like it should...

I was absolutely shattered. I'd had sex with this boy maybe 3 weeks before he died, and I even had a few days where I hoped desperately that the condom had failed and maybe I was pregnant (yes, teenage girls are that stupid).

And just when I was wondering how I was going to live through this loss - I dreamed about Adam, and he told me he was okay, and that I would be okay, and he wrapped his arms around me and gave me an Adam-hug - which was the kind of hug you feel from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes. And then he said goodbye.

And in the morning, I was better. Not all the way better, but probably 90% better than I'd been when I'd gone to sleep the night before.

I wanted to have that dream every night, but I never had it again.

*

Dead To see or talk to the dead in your dream forewarns that you are being influenced by negative people and are hanging around the wrong crowd. This dream may also be a way for you to resolve your feelings with those who have passed on. Alternatively, the dream symbolizes material loss... (to read more from the original site, click "Dead.")
*
What are dreams, anyway? Are they images, like watching television? Are they thoughts? Emotions?

Emotions that create images, like the wandering beams of light in Windows Media Player that jump around and change according to the music?

Whatever they are - it's hard to catch the exact flavor of a dream using words. And if you do, it's still usually disjointed and boring as hell.

In one of my books, Out of the Dungeon, I originally had written a dream sequence that Jeff experience while in his coma. It was an actual dream I'd had, so I just kind of transcribed it into the story to increase my word count - because I wrote the first draft for NaNoWriMo, and words counted. Any words. Every word.

Later in the editing stage I removed that sequence - pages and pages of a dream that made absolutely no sense. But I liked the idea of visiting Jeff's psyche while he was unconscious, so I gave him some dreams about the accident that were more relevant to what he was going through.

Click here for 10 Interesting Facts about Dreams. And to see some really awesome dream-like art.

What say you, my darlings? Do you ever get story ideas from dreams? Do you remember your dreams with any kind of coherence? Or is it more of a general impression sort of memory?

I hope you have a great week, Darlings. Meet you back here on Thursday, k? Thx!

SM Jonson ~ Bloody Monday ~ Dreaming

Good morning, and welcome to Bloody Monday.

I am on vacation. Hopefully I'm not sitting on the back of a bike soaking wet while you're reading this. If the formatting is goofy, highlighted in white (which seems to be a problem I'm having), forgive me. I'll fix it when I get home, I promise. I am much too Virgo to ignore weird formatting.

I just don't have much to talk about in the way of fiction at the moment - been too busy packing Sprite for camp and myself for our little bike trip.

So.

I mentioned dreams on Thursday.

I love dreaming. Partly because I usually know I'm dreaming, and therefore am aware that I am spending some quality time relaxing into sleep. I especially love the kind of wonky dreams I have when I'm just starting to drift off - the lovely feeling of floating that, if someone wakes you up (which always seems to happen), makes you startle practically right out of your skin. These are the moment when the imagination really takes off. (Maybe held in the beak of my Seagull muse?)

I'm going to tell you about one of my re-occurring dreams. And it would be super fun if you'd leave descriptions of your own re-occurring dreams in the comments (and we can laugh about how hard it it to capture a dream in actual words). We can even explore their meaning. There are lots of free sites to help interpret dreams.  (Start with the free dream dictionary at Dream Moods by clicking here.)

So I had this dream.

I was in a car, going somewhere. Or maybe I was leaving somewhere. And maybe I wasn't in a car, but walking down a path.

Anyway. I had a secret.

Or I was hiding an object, something that would help me escape. It was a key. Or maybe a book?

And there was this man, he definitely didn't want me to have the key or the book or whatever it was, so I was acting all innocent and compliant, but inside my head I was being very devious, plotting and planning my escape, waiting for just the right moment...

*


"I'm Being Chased!" Chase dreams are one of several common dream themes, stemming from feelings of anxiety in your waking life. Flee and flight is an instinctive response to a physical threat in the environment. In such dreams, the scenario often features you being pursued by an attacker, an animal, a monster or an unknown figure, who wants to hurt or possibly kill you. Consequently, you run, you hide or you try to outwit your pursuer... (click the "I'm Being Chased" headline above to read more from the original site). 
*
[An interesting note here - if I'm having stress or anxiety, it's the good kind - I'm on vacation from work, planning and packing for a short trip - and yet I've developed a nasty cold sore, and also a migraine - sure signs of stress. Blah]

Anyway, in this dream: there were other people around - I have no idea who - but they knew I had the key or the book, in fact, they'd help me get hold of it, and were helping me hide it, but just a little, because this man, this bad guy, was very controlling and sort of angry, and everybody was afraid of him.

I don't remember feeling afraid. I just remember feeling sneaky.

And I was the only one trying to escape.

*


Escape
To dream that you escape from jail or some place of confinement signifies your need to escape from a restrictive situation or attitude. Alternatively, it suggests that you are refusing to face your problems. You are avoiding the situation, instead of confronting them.To dream that you escape from injury from an animal, or from any situation, signifies your good health and prosperity. You will experience a favorable turn of events.... (to read more from the original source, click the headline above "Escape")
*

And there was a buffet.

WTF? Yes, a buffet table full of food.

Odder and odder.

That's the problem with writing down dreams. Or even telling people about them. This one was really fascinating to me, especially since during the dream I was aware that it was a dream, and aware that I'd had this exact dream before. So I knew what I was trying to do - escape - even though I have no idea what I was trying to escape from or why.

The sense of having been there before, of having dreamed that exact dream, was odd, too, and comforting in a strange kind of way.

It all made perfect sense - in my sleep. But already most of it is gone. If I had jumped out of bed and into the shower, and cranked the water really hot, I would have been able to translate the dream into words and maybe even a story, but alas, I wasn't that motivated.

I have another re-occurring dream that involves walking through a house, opening and closing doors. There is some significance, in dream interpretation, about house dreams. What I feel when I'm dreaming it, though, is this giant sense of deja vu - the sense that I've been here before, and I like this place. I always feel like that dream is a gift, because it somehow comforts me.

There's one dream that I remember very clearly even though it has never re-occurred.

One of my best male friends in high school committed suicide at the beginning of our junior year. I had never known anyone who died, except my grandfather when I was 6, so I think I kind of went more into shock than grief. Shock throughout the day that I got the news. Shock riding the city bus home, looking around at the people and being unable to fathom how they could possibly function normally when everything about the world had suddenly and irrevocably changed. Of course, now I know that one person's death doesn't change the world, it just feels like it should...

I was absolutely shattered. I'd had sex with this boy maybe 3 weeks before he died, and I even had a few days where I hoped desperately that the condom had failed and maybe I was pregnant (yes, teenage girls are that stupid).

And just when I was wondering how I was going to live through this loss - I dreamed about Adam, and he told me he was okay, and that I would be okay, and he wrapped his arms around me and gave me an Adam-hug - which was the kind of hug you feel from the roots of your hair to the tips of your toes. And then he said goodbye.

And in the morning, I was better. Not all the way better, but probably 90% better than I'd been when I'd gone to sleep the night before.

I wanted to have that dream every night, but I never had it again.

*

Dead To see or talk to the dead in your dream forewarns that you are being influenced by negative people and are hanging around the wrong crowd. This dream may also be a way for you to resolve your feelings with those who have passed on. Alternatively, the dream symbolizes material loss... (to read more from the original site, click "Dead.")
*
What are dreams, anyway? Are they images, like watching television? Are they thoughts? Emotions?

Emotions that create images, like the wandering beams of light in Windows Media Player that jump around and change according to the music?

Whatever they are - it's hard to catch the exact flavor of a dream using words. And if you do, it's still usually disjointed and boring as hell.

In one of my books, Out of the Dungeon, I originally had written a dream sequence that Jeff experience while in his coma. It was an actual dream I'd had, so I just kind of transcribed it into the story to increase my word count - because I wrote the first draft for NaNoWriMo, and words counted. Any words. Every word.

Later in the editing stage I removed that sequence - pages and pages of a dream that made absolutely no sense. But I liked the idea of visiting Jeff's psyche while he was unconscious, so I gave him some dreams about the accident that were more relevant to what he was going through.

Click here for 10 Interesting Facts about Dreams. And to see some really awesome dream-like art.

What say you, my darlings? Do you ever get story ideas from dreams? Do you remember your dreams with any kind of coherence? Or is it more of a general impression sort of memory?

I hope you have a great week, Darlings. Meet you back here on Thursday, k? Thx!

SM Johnson ~A Year of Sundays~ ch 13, pt 3

(I apologize for the shortness of this week's installment. So much to do, so little time!)
Chapter 13 – July 24thPart 3
~Jessamine~
We attempted to confront Melanie, but she turned on us with a fire and fury that was completely out of character. White-hot anger that left her shaking, shouts that frightened her roommate out of bed and brought the nurses running. The panic in her eyes was real, the desperation that twisted her mouth and made her clench her fists completely genuine.
If she was telling the truth about the letters and the phone calls, then someone was totally fucking with her,  or she'd completely lost it and was unable to tell reality from fantasy.
Liz tried to talk some sense into her, but her efforts only led to Mel screaming that Craig was a traitor.
A nurse poked her head in the door and said, "Melanie, knock it off. You're agitating the other patients." I don't know. I peeked out Mel's door and the only patients I saw were watching TV, and they looked pretty calm. Maybe she was agitating the nurses.
Silas finally wrapped his arms around Melanie and held on tight. She fought him for almost a full minute, and then started sobbing.
She pulled away from Si and sat on the edge of the bed, Liz coming to sit beside her to smooth large circles against her back. Josie picked up a hairbrush from Mel's night stand, positioned herself cross-legged behind Mel, and started to brush.
I sat on the floor and took Mel's feet into my lap, pressing my thumbs hard into the soles, keeping my eyes on my hands so I wouldn't have to look into her face.
Melanie pretty much had no choice but to succumb to the comfort-attack of three sisters. She calmed.
"I don't know what's worse, to have him loose, or to have him loose only in my head, and be trapped with that, basing all my decisions on something not even real. I mean, that's really, really sick. Multiple personality sort of sick."
"I think you need to get out of here," Silas said. "None of this seems to be helping."
"How many ECT's have you had?" Elizabeth asked.
"Four," Mel said in a dull voice. "But I've called him from here, I swear. He said if I try to escape him, he'll take Caleb. So I got his number out of my cell phone and called to explain where I was, why I was unavailable."
Silas, who'd been sitting back in one of the heavy chairs, jerked to his feet. "You have a phone number for this asshole? Where is it? I want it."
Melanie paled. "That's a bad idea."
"No," Silas said. "It's a great idea. We can prove or disprove his existence."Melanie shook her head, violently. "But what if –"
Silas cut her off. "What if what? What if he tries to hurt you? We rally. What if he tries to take Caleb? We watch him, and don't allow it. If this asshole is only in your head, nothing will happen. If he's not, we find him and get him locked up again. But you've got to get out of here so we can help you. Now, where's the number?"
Melanie sighed, a sigh that ended like a sob. I could feel the rigid tension in her feet beneath my thumbs.
"On my nightstand," Melanie said, her voice a quiet simper. "I’m not supposed to tell anyone. I only told Craig because I wanted him to watch Caleb extra carefully. I needed Craig to know the danger."
Silas shuffled through papers, then held up a hand-written list of numbers. He scanned them, then pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
"You're not supposed to have that in here," Josie said.
Silas smiled at her. "Yeah, well. It'll be our little secret."
He showed the list to Mel. "Which number?"
Her hand was shaking as she stretched out her arm and pointed to a number written so lightly in pencil that it almost wasn't there.
Silas tapped the numbers into his phone, and none of us dared to breathe.
~Melanie~
Silas was just going to dial up the Doll Collector, right now, right from here, dial him up and tell him he was done.
Melanie could physically feel her heart beating fast in her chest, hear it pounding in her ears, and felt physically ill.
She watched Silas, and the edges of her vision grew dark, putting him almost in a spotlight.
What if they were right? Had she dreamed it all up, so determined to punish herself that she'd go back to the shed?
But he'd been in her apartment, made her drink glass after glass of water, then made her stand in the bathtub for hours, fully clothed, while he waited for the inevitable excuse to punish her for wetting herself, just like before.
She wouldn't do that to herself. That was sick.
Her vision continued to narrow and she held her breath, maybe even lost consciousness for a few seconds while Silas dialed his phone.
She found herself silently begging answer, answer, answer because she didn't want to be this crazy. If she was disassociating, or becoming her ten-year-old self again, she'd never be able to be trusted with Caleb, and that was worse than having a real enemy. A real enemy could be found out, defeated. 
An imaginary one was pure defeat, all on its own.
"Who am I talking to?" Silas demanded, and Melanie's world went black.