Sinead MacDughlas's Blog, page 3

Interview with the Dragon

A collaborative piece by Ressa Empbra and Sinead MacDughlas Posting Date: September 27, 2012

Today I’m going to share something really different. I’ve gone into undercover reporter mode to interview a Dragon-shifter by the name of Mazar, from Ressa Empbra’s uber-hot new release The Dragon Dimension - Caught in Dragon Cove! Check it out on her fanpage . Now that the US Government has declassified enough of the information, I can finally share it with you! I hope you enjoy it!


 Interview notes begun: October 30, 2011

Now, it won’t be easy to question a three-hundred and twelve-year old Dragon-shifter who’s never seen a human before, but a good reporter always finds a way, and a good writer always has some magic on standby. With the help of a top-secret US Government department, I was able to get access to the Dragon Cove Realm. I also managed to score an introduction to an inside agent, with a talent for Faerie magic.

Please don’t ask for details, because I really can’t share them. If you really want to know, you’ll have to look inside the gorgeous cover of “CDC.” (Designed by someone my readers should be familiar with, the fabulous Dave J. Ford )

As a mature male Dragon-shifter, Mazar will have been suffering for a very long and lonely two-hundred and eighty-some years now, with a constant buzzing in his head that won’t subside until he finds and claims his Truemate. I’ll be posing as a seven-hundred year old dragon, from a distant, secluded Weyr with a surplus of mature unmated females. With a little magic and a lot of luck, I should be able to find out a little about this male. Wish me luck!


Notes continued November 15, 2011

Success!! It took some time to set it all up. It was necessary to announce my arrival, in advance, with a message from my imaginary Weyr Chief, and await permission to “fly” into their territory. While I waited what was deemed the appropriate amount of time for travel, I was briefed by my government liaison, on the culture, language and mode of speaking necessary to succeed. Once I had “arrived” I had to gain the trust and permission of the Weyr Chief, Zarckael, to perform my interviews. It wasn’t easily accomplished, but a little Faerie glamour got me through. I was permitted to speak to any unmated male who was willing to be questioned. There must be a shortage of unmated female-young within Weyr Treuamarias, because I had a list of volunteers before the Chief had finished speaking. Fortunately, my target was one of the volunteers. I asked each male to tell me about themselves, and found that most of the males of Weyr Treuamarias are very forthcoming. After a few vague questions to the first nine or ten, I finally got to Mazar.

Now, fair warning, being undercover, I had to adopt the rather formal mode of speech used by the shifters. To make it easy to tell who’s speaking, anything in burgundy is my undercover ID, “Sinelynn,” (a variation of my name more suitable to the Dragon Dimension).
Mazar’s responses will be in bold text.
My personal observations and notes are in this lovely blue print, and I’ll add {brackets}, too, where they’re needed.
Got all that? Lol!

Great, lets get started!

Actual Interview
Date: November 14, 2011

The room I was allowed to use for my interviews was their massive Great Hall, where they all gather for meals and celebrations. Many long tables and benches were pushed up against the outskirts of the room, leaving plenty of space for myself at one of the two long tables remaining, to do my work with lots of room. High walls boasted large, handmade tapestries depicting various scenes of hunting in different stages and seasons. They were intricate and the details were more than a little impressive. The room itself is about five-thousand square feet, its walls lined with torches which provided plenty of lighting and gave off a warm and cozy atmosphere. The single photo of Mazar I was able to secure. My first impression of Mazar was that he was a large male, even among the other large males of his Weyr. He was broad-chested and heavily muscled, and he had deep, emerald-green eyes and long, wavy, dark, golden-blond hair. He held himself with a warrior’s confidence, at first, but when the interview began, I could see him struggling to maintain it. He was obviously eager and nervous, which makes sense, considering how long he’s suffered the lack of a Truemate.

I’m told that the suffering includes insomnia, what we would call nightmares, but they refer to as terror-dreams, and a constant and oftentimes painful buzzing in their ears, all of which become more impossible to control over time. Some men have even been known to go completely mad, and I wonder if Mazar is on the verge of that madness. That would explain the government’s interest in this particular male, and their recruitment of me to interview him, but I’m speculating.

He wears the typical leathers of a Dragon-shifter warrior, brown, like his deeply tanned skin. I wonder what happens to those leathers when they shift? No one saw fit to enlighten me in my pre-interview briefing. Lol.

{Once he was seated, I began the questioning} Greetings, Mazar! I am Sinelynn from Weyr Dugalias. We are a small, secluded Weyr, far from here, and I have travelled a long and weary journey to your home. I am sure you have heard of my purpose here, by now. Will you answer my questions?

{When he speaks, his voice was deep and smooth. Very sexy, I must say}
It would be my pleasure, lovely Miss Sinelynn. Before I address your question, though, would you mind if I ask you one of my own?
{In his obvious eagerness, he forges ahead without giving me time to answer}
First, if it is not too forward of me, I must say you have the most exquisite, beautiful eyes. I cannot imagine that you are without a Truemate, or that you don't at least have a suitor or perhaps more than one, in mind for that highly coveted place in your life. Am I correct, or are you searching, as I am?
{He’s quite charming. Not many men can make me blush, but this one does}

Ah, what a sweet, silver-tongued male you are! I am over seven-hundred years old, my lad, and my Truemate is still hale and hearty at his seven-hundred and twenty years. I come to search for potential, suitable mates for our unmated female-young. 

Sweet?
{He chuckles here, a rumbling sound, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. His lips quirk a little in a self-deprecating half-grin}
I have not been called such in a very long time, if ever. I will admit, you do not look even close to your years. Although I know not how I missed it before, it is quite obvious you are Mated—felicitations, and apologies for any affront on my part. Pray, excuse me, for the only words I heard after your age were; potential, suitable, and unmated female-young.
{He pauses to arch a brow at me. And his next words rush out a little, again giving away his eagerness}
More apologies, for asking—but how many unmated female-young, and how far away are they from here?
{A look of near terror flashes over his face. His hands clench slightly and his brow is suspiciously shiny. I’m guessing he’s made some kind of social blunder. I feel badly deceiving him. He seems so desperate to find his Truemate, it seems cruel to bait him this way, but I have my orders. I'll never get an opportunity like this again, if I don't follow them.}

I am afraid I am not at liberty to share so much information. The Chief and elders wish to prevent an inundation of healthy and possibly aggressive males in our Weyr. We are a small and peaceful Weyr, and not prepared to host or control so many. This is why they sent only myself, trusting my age, discretion, and instincts. As Weyr historian, they believe I will return with a detailed report, which will permit them to choose only the most suitable matches, and only they will be invited to Weyr Dugalias to meet our unmated female-young. With the blessing of Meynix, it is our sincere hope that some may find their Truemate then.

Now, will you tell me a little about yourself, Mazar? Your age, what you do, and what your goals are in life, perhaps?

Those are very valid and respectable reason, you have my gratitude for your openness and honestly. Of course, I do not mind telling you about myself. I am three-hundred twelve-years old, and counting … always counting, it seems.
{He looks down at his feet for a moment, his shoulders sagging. I’m really beginning to dislike this assignment. Some of the others seemed desperately eager, but this man is truly suffering!}
Currently, I am one of our Chief's lead-warriors, so I predominately guard his Holdings. I shift and fly over our territory at least three or four times per day, and do whatever else I can to ensure the safety of our Weyr. Goals, you ask?
{I can almost see modesty warring with necessity. I’ve made him uncomfortable again.}
My main and perhaps only goal, other than to keep my Weyr safe, is to find my Truemate. It has been a long and difficult wait, and I am beginning to think I may never find her.
{Mazar is staring at nothing over my right shoulder. The conflict in his face is heartbreaking. My liason has provided me with a tiny camera, hidden in my outfit. They tell me electronic and digital technology doesn't work here, so this works on a simple trigger/shutter system, and I can only get one shot. I hope this works!}

And what do you hope to find in your Truemate, Mazar? What type of female makes your blood run?

I hate to do this to all of you, but since this interview runs quite long, I’ve chosen to break it up a little. The entire story will be posted in three parts. I’ll have the second portion posted for your reading pleasure tomorrow, including Mazar’s answer to this question. In my best Sinelynn persona:
I hope you will honor us with your presence.

HELP! Hatter's gone too far!

I knew it! Catherine Stovall's muse, Hatter, came flutterwhacking through my blog and made a mess of the place. He knows I have an obssession with neatness here, and my muses like things tidy too.

Of course, since he's such a fan of chaos, he couldn't possibly leave things alone. Until this mad critter is stopped, I'll never get my own muses to behave. The only way to stop him is to find the mess, (somewhere in this blog), solve the riddle he's surely left behind and capture him! I can't get my muses to stop hyperventilating and tell me what he's done and where. You can help.

This poster should tell you everything you need to know: If you can find the spot he's made his mess, come back here and let me know? If he's left one of his riddle calling cards, you may be able to solve it, too. If you can, email the answer to CathStovall@aol.com, and see if you can find the others he's left lately. Maybe he'll still be mucking around, but I wouldn't count on it. He just loves playing pranks like this, and Catherine tells me they're usually hit and run pranks. -_-   Good luck!

Adventures in Diagnosis - Day 2

If I don't smile, you can't really tell... If you haven't read about my first day's adventures, you might get a little lost here. I want to try to keep the posts within reason, so I'm not going to rehash it all, but he first day is detailed in the last post , if you'd like to catch up.

So where was I? Oh, yes. I had just realized that I still had the "migraine", and I needed to figure out what the Doctor had told me to do about it...

As I said, I was a bit high on the administered migraine medication, when the second doctor from day one had talked to me. I wasn't sure what he wanted me to do if the pain returned. I was also concerned that other symptoms seemed to be worse. My right eye no longer closed at all, and my mouth was an even bigger mess than the day before. I couldn't pronounce certain letters without some serious concentration. "B", "P" and "F" were giving me a hard time. Trying to tell the kiddies to "Whinish your lunch bwefore you pwhlay with that!" brought on a fit of giggles all 'round. lol

In Ontario, we have this nifty toll free number we can call 24/7, and talk to a registered nurse for medical advice. It's called Telehealth , and they've helped me avoid unnecessary trips to the hospital with the kiddies in the past, so I dialed them up again. Within five minutes I had a nurse on the line, and told her the whooooole story, right from Saturday night. Funny enough, even in my distress, the writer in me had to come out. She commented that I was a very detailed story teller. I told her I'm an author. She asked what I write. Blah, blah, blah — she'll be looking for my book on Amazon sometime this week. lol. It's amazing how, even in times of distress, we can find a way to plug our books, isn't it? lol Anyway, the upshot was that she told me to go back to the Emergency, and she'd send the file ahead to speed up the admission process.

Now my hubby, smart man that he is, (after all, he married me, right? lol), had already called into work. He was concerned that I'd slept almost 18 hours in a go, considering four or five hours a night has been enough the past four years or so. He'd taken the day off "just in case". 

Again, we packed the kiddies into the car, and headed to the hospital. Again, Miss Monkey had to potty when we arrived. So, I took her in to the waiting room bathroom, waving at the security guards I'd seen the day before, on the way by. After I'd taken her back to the car, and given kisses all 'round, I returned to find all three guards watching expectantly at the window. Two visits and I was already a regular. lol

One of them came out to hold the door for me and ask me, jovially,  if I had a reservation. I told him, "I do, in fact, Telehealth should have called ahead to reserve my bed. VIP room please." He found that rather amusing, and waved me in with a little bow.

Unfortunately for me, the Emergency ward was twice as busy and half as staffed, so I was forced to take a number and a seat in the waiting room with all the people who hadn't made reservations. (*sigh* So much for fame and fortune. lol) My head was still pounding, but I'd almost become accustomed to it, after five days, so I chose to accept it, and try to be a patient patient.

While I was waiting, I managed to distract a woman in obvious agony from her knee pain, by regaling her with horror stories of hospital visits past. I told her about a childhood stay, where we'd entertained ourselves by playing baseball with the indestructible dinner rolls, in one hospital. She even laughed when I told her of another hospital that made such horrible jello, we'd stick it to the bedsprings and take bets on whose would fall off first. (All true stories mind you.) Before her number was called, she asked about my profession, and then if I could direct her to my book. I gave her one of the dozen bookmarks I keep in my wallet. (That's two for two. Maybe I promote myself better when I'm in pain.)

The admissions nurse was not the same I'd seen the day before, so I had to tell the whooooole story to her, too, in extremely scant detail. She waived me to the next window to collect my bracelet, chart and directions. The young man at the window recognized me, and made a light joke about frequent flyer miles. I joked back that lightweight drinkers and red wine are a spell for trouble. He asked why I'd been drinking it, and blah, blah blah — before he directed me back to the Yellow Zone, I'd left him a bookmark as well.

In the waiting area, the first doctor from the day before glanced at me and then backed up a step to say hello, and ask what I was doing back. He was very pleasant, but he seemed to be in a hurry, so I just told him it had gotten worse. He sighed and carried on. He didn't seem annoyed with me or anything, just disappointed that I'd had to return. Nice man. I really should find out his name. lol

I guess being a good patient gets you noticed, because everyone I'd seen the day before seemed to remember me this second trip. I had a lovely lady  give me the intial interview, set up my IV and take my blood. She let me rest a few minutes on the examination bed until the doctor could come over. I recognized the second doctor from the day before, bustling around in his efficient way, taking care of as many patients as he could handle. Another doctor, an older gentleman, was in the exam area next to me, patiently explaining to what sounded like a frightened young girl, what her vertigo was and what her treatment options were. I listened to one of the ladies at the desk, (my eyes were drying out, so I'd had to close them), tell the others how she'd been chased up a playground slide, by a fox, on her lunch break jog a few days before. In all, I'd say it took half an hour, from the time I walked into the hospital alone, to when I spoke to the doctor who would diagnose me.

This time it was the older gentleman who entered the exam area. He smiled and asked me to tell him everything I could about what I'd been through. lol. I knew this story by heart now! So I told him everything. He had me back up a couple of times and explain why my symptoms worried me. Whoa! I hadn't told any of the doctors about that! He wanted to know how this migraine was different from my usual migraines. Then he asked me something I thought was odd. He asked me to try to wrinkle up my forehead. I tried. He nodded, smiled, and pulled up the chair beside the bed.

Normally, when a doctor pulls up a chair in the Emergency ward, you're in for something pretty earth-shattering, but somehow he made it seem like he was going to pull out a tray with tea and cookies. lol.

Tea and biscuits were not forthcoming, but a new diagnosis was. He said, "Your migraine isn't your problem, it's a symptom. You see, there are twelve sets of cranial nerves that control the different things your head does. Sometimes, for no reason at all, set number seven stops working, and that causes paralysis of the facial muscles."

The doctor went on to explain that this phenomenon was more common than I'd think, and definitely treatable. He explained that, with a treatment consisting of steriods, (
I'd heard of Bell's Palsy, but I had no clue what it was. If he'd told me that name before he explained what it was, I think I'd have passed out. The word "Palsy" stirs up such terrifying thoughts! This doctor's beside manner was above and beyond the call of duty, and I wish I'd taken the time to commend him for it. Perhaps I'll send him a thank you card.

The doctor told me he wanted to run a CT scan , just to ensure he hadn't missed anything. He was sure the scan would come back clean, he said, but they had to be sure there was absolutely no sign of stroke, tumour or fluid build-up in the brain, since it's only possible to properly diagnose Bell's by elimination of any other cause.

"When we have the negative CT scan," (notice he didn't say 'if'), we can get you out of here, and you can start your treatment."

Back to the pods I went, after refusing the same medication I'd had the day before and accepting an offer of Advil. The pods were hopping! Unlike the day before, the Yellow Zone was packed to the rafters today, and I settled into Pod B with five fellow patients in various states of consciousness.

Once the Advil dampened the pain, I was able to engage some of my podmates in random smalltalk, beginning with how to get blood out of a new pair of pants, and moving from subject to subject, as my crack-squirrel of a brain is prone to do. lol

Before I was called for my scan, I'd given away two more bookmarks, (one to the bubbly nurse from the day before, and one to a lovely couple seated across from me). I'd come prepared for the cold and discomfort of sleeping in the chairs this time, but since I didn't have the IV drugs, I needed neither. The lady across from me certainly did, though, so I happily leant her the fleece jacket and tiny pillow I'd brought, so she could rest. It wasn't long before a nurse noticed her discomfort, though, and paged for some warm blankets.

A tall, dark, handsome gentleman arrived to take me to the CT scan. He insisted on "pushing you around", with a hearty laugh, and finally suceeded in talking me into a wheelchair. We had a few laughs on the way to Diagnostic Imaging , where my scan was done within ten minutes, and I was slightly disappointed that he wasn't my driver for the return trip. But, he has my bookmark, so I'm sure he'll find me one day. Don't ask! I seriously have no clue as to how the subject came up in the five minute trip. lol

While I waited for the test results, I struck up some more conversations, told a couple of funny stories and gained a new podmate. A gentleman from Pod C slipped in, whispering that we sounded like more fun than his group, so he was crashing the party. He didn't stay long, though. He realized he might be missed, and snuck back before the nurses caught him jumping ship. lol

When the results came back, confirming Bell's Palsy as the diagnosis, the doctor went back through my treatment options. He warned me that the steroids could effect my emotions, making me angry, depressed or overly jolly. I asked if I could choose jolly, which he found amusing for some reason. (Hubby's been warned, so if he comes home to find me on the roof with all the kitchen knives, he'll be prepared. lol) Once I'd chosen, the doctor gave me the prescriptions and wished me well. I called my hubby to pick me up, had a nurse remove my IV and made my exit as quickly as possible!

One of the things the doctor had warned me about was the danger of damage to my cornea from the right eye drying out. I'd have to put a moisturizer in at night and tape the eyelid shut with cloth tape to keep it shut. I spent part of the trip home trying to think of how I'd prevent dryness during the day, and decided to pick up an eyepatch. Now the question was, how would I wear it, without the kiddies, (3 and 4 years old), getting  freaked out? Arrgh! Rocking the pretty pirate patch, with a laugh! I knew my 3 year old son would probably think it was cool. "Mama's a pirate!" lol. My four year old daughter might be a little less okay with it. That's when I got the bright idea to have her help me bling it up a little. When we got home, I pulled out her beading box and my glue gun, and we prettied it up together. Now she wants to borrow it to be a pirate princess on Halloween! lol

So now I'm rocking a blinged out eyepatch, and practicing my pirate-speak. It could take anywhere from a couple of weeks to a year, to get my muscle control back, but it could have been so much worse. I might scare some small children for a while, but at least I can fend off the door-to-door sales people, and shake up any neighbourhood stiffs. lol.

I may have one more blog, about how the early adjustments are going, if anyone is interested. Until then, be grateful for your blessings, I know I am! Have a happy and productive day, everyone! :D

Adventures in Diagnosis

Here I am, blogging about me again. Yes, most of my blog posts, and guest blogs, tend to use the word “I” a lot. There is a reason for it. You see, I can’t really claim to be an authority on anything. All I can offer is my own perspective and experience. Therefore, my posts tend to sound either intimate, or egomaniacal, depending on your viewpoint.

 This blog will, once again, be about me. Hopefully it will entertain you, or inform you, or a little of both. It’s about my recent adventures with my health.

 Like most people, I don’t look into things too deeply unless they affect me, or those I love. In the past few days I’ve learned something new, that without my personal run-in with it, I’d have never given a second thought to. So! On with the adventures!

 Last Saturday night, I had a little get-together with some friends, to celebrate the recent release of my first full-length novel. Those  invited were long-time friends who’d agreed to beta read for me, and they'd come to catch up and pick up their signed, print copies of the book. We had a lovely potluck barbeque and a few drinks. One of these friends, knowing my love of dry red wines, brought a rather large bottle of Wolf Blass , Yellow label, Cabernet/Sauvignon. It didn’t take much to convince me to sample a glass or two. Lol

About 9 pm that evening, I started to feel the beginnings of a headache. Of course I blamed it on the wine, not being anywhere near the drinker I'd been in years past. When I woke with a mild migraine the next morning, I assumed it was the wine, as well. I was a bit suspicious, though, since I’d only had the two glasses. I even joked, on Facebook, about what a “lightweight” I’d become.

When the migraine intensified, I looked for other sources for my discomfort. The weather gave me a ready scape-goat. Low pressure and impending thunderstorms often bring migraines home, so I prayed for rain.

The migraine persisted through Monday with pockets of relief from Advil and the occasional downpour. I considered performing a rain-dance in the front yard, but decided against frightening the neighbours with my dubious dancing skills.

Tuesday, feeling some relief from the migraine, I settled down to get some writing done. Later in the evening I posted this Facebook status: “Writing and nibbling on my new, favourite snack. Dill pickle flavoured, roasted, pumpkin seeds. I can't stop eating them, even though I can no longer feel my tongue! I CAN feel my arteries hardening from all the salt, though. I may need an intervention. Someone bring chocolate!”

That night, the migraine returned, but it was different. Where my migraines are usually in the temples and crown of my head, this one was concentrated below and behind my right ear. When the pain was at its peak, I wanted to sleep, and when it ebbed I’d start to feel nauseous.
Normally the nausea is synchronized to the pain, and my body only wants to shut down when both are at their height. The weather had been clear that day, so low pressure could no longer be blamed, and my normal womanly cycle was at the furthest point from being the cause, as well. As I brushed my teeth for bed, I discovered I could no longer “spit”. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t touch another pumpkin seed for a whole week! Okay, so two whole days. Lol. 
 
On Wednesday morning, I woke with the migraine again. It took some time to realize that my mouth still wasn’t cooperating. I had children to feed and dress, practicing for the start of school in a few days. Once I had them settled in, I tried to brush my teeth again.

Now, I’m not one to spend long in front of a mirror. I hardly ever wear makeup, and there are days that the children keep me so busy, brushing my teeth is all I get accomplished before I dive into my day. This morning was different. When it dawned on me that my mouth wasn’t working, I decided to inspect the rest of my face in the mirror. The entire right side of my face was frozen! My tongue was still numb, and I couldn’t get the right corner of my mouth to so much as twitch. When I attempted to wink my right eye, the left side of my face contorted into something that looked like a constipated gorilla, attempting to relieve itself. Crude, I know, but I really can’t think of a more apt description. I laughed at myself and suddenly had a horrible day-mare of being possessed by former Prime Minister Jean Chretien. I had to remind myself that the man is still very much alive and well. Besides, his spirit would be too busy haunting Parliament, when his time came, to be bothered with little ol’ me. My new face. Kinda scary, isn't it? I called my family doctor for advice, told her my symptoms, knowing what the receptionist would say when she returned to the phone. “Get to Emergency, NOW!”

I called my husband at work, 45 minutes away, and rang my neighbour to see if she was working. Hubby raced home, a bundle of nerves to help me pack the children into the car and drive me to the hospital. 

On the way, I contemplated the worst. Had I had a stroke? Was there a time-bomb sitting in my brain as we drove, waiting to go off? I tried to think positive, and engage my husband and children in conversation, to distract them from the mad thirty minute dash for the hospital. When we arrived, my 4yo daughter, (who hates the car and often gets carsick), had to go potty. I took her in to the bathroom, and back to the car, kissed my family goodbye, and walked into the hospital without looking back.

I must say, here, that I’m lucky to live near one of the best hospitals in the province of Ontario, as far as emergency services go. I was checked in and waiting to see the Clinical Decision Unit , (Yellow Zone), doctor, within forty minutes. Despite being one of the last to sit in the waiting area, a quick scan of my chart bumped me into second place to be seen. After a ten minute wait, I was directed to an exam area, by the first available doctor.

I’m ashamed to say, I can’t remember the doctor’s name, but I do remember him being young, fresh-faced and cheerful, as we discussed my symptoms. Somehow, we even ended up discussing my recent book release, and he took one of my bookmarks, promising to buy my book as a gift for his mother, whom he said was an avid reader. lol He set me up with an intravenous connection, took several vials of blood and asked for a urine sample, before sending me back into the waiting area.

I assume the first doctor was called into the Emergency proper, because a few minutes later I was summoned into another examination area where another doctor proceeded to ask me for the whole story. Again, I don’t remember his name, but this gentleman was a little more brusque in manner, all business and medicine. Now, don’t get me wrong, I completely understand the need for efficiency in a hospital overrun with patients. It was just such a contrast to the previous doctor, that it stunned me a little. People in Ontario know the reputation of the hospital and many drive an extra hour or two to get there, avoiding up to twelve hour wait times at their local facilities. I patiently recounted my story, and he nodded in all the right places and took notes, stopping me occasionally to ask pointed questions, before he took his leave. A nurse directed me to a “pod” then, to wait a little more.

Pods are new to the hospital. They are somewhat like the exam areas, with their shortened medical tables, but instead of tables, each holds six to eight waiting room chairs, with hooks behind each one, I assumed for coats and purses.

My assumption was proved wrong when a nurse approached me with my intravenous set-up; a bag of, (I presume), saline, and  two smaller bags of medication. She smiled and chuckled gently as she told me she was going to hook me to the wall, and apologized for the shortage of portable IV stands, as she hung the whole thing on the "coathook" behind me.  The nurse was young and friendly with a warm smile, openly chatting with the patients, and quick to get them anything they requested, within reason.

The first medication I was given was a dose of Benadryl , to help my body cope with the next medication they planned to administer. The Benadryl made me drowsy and a little tipsy, so I don’t remember the next medication very well, only that it started with the letters “Pleth”, it was to ease the pain of the migraine, and the nurse warned me that it might create a “flight response”. She asked me to warn her if I was feeling “antsy”.

“Ansty” was not the word for it! By halfway through the medication, I was ready to run a short marathon! I flagged the nurse down and asked to be disconnected to visit the ladies room. When I returned, I begged for a chance to take a little walk around the halls. Given permission, I walked out of the hospital, and all the way around the building, sneaking in a nasty cigarette while I did, before finally slinking back to my pod, praying the stink didn’t give me away. lol

By the time the migraine medication was ¾ empty, I wanted to peel off my own skin. I convinced my brain, and body, that sleep would help, and tried to find a comfortable position. The IV was making me feel positively frigid, but in my anxiousness not to be a PITA patient, I turned down a warmed blanket and the proffered pillow, electing instead to curl into foetal position in the chair, lay my head on my arm and pray I didn’t slip out and land on my backside, yanking out the IV in the process. The delusions of the medicated mind. Lol

It took the nurse some effort to wake me. It wasn’t until she slapped my forearm and called out my entire name that I snapped upright in the chair, yelling, “Yeah, Ma, I’m up!” The other patients in the pod found this immensely entertaining, and I smiled in response. The resulting
grimace must have scared them into silence, as only half of my face participated. Lol

Somehow I'd gotten one of my feet tucked up underneath me, and the other hooked around the arm of the chair, while I slept. Once I'd untangled myself and shaken off the pins'n'needles in the foot under me, I was escorted to another exam area. The second doctor I'd seen was waiting. He fired a few questions at me, and my groggy brain struggled to come up with answers. One of the questions was, “Is the migraine gone?”

“Um, well, the pain isn’t just behind my ear anymore. Now it’s kinda all over, but more like just a headache, y’know? Bearable.”

“Is the migraine gone?” he asked again, and my brain asked, “Didn’t I just answer that?”

Then I thought, “He must mean, “Is it a migraine anymore, or just a headache?’”

So, I answered, “Yes.”

What he said after that was a bit of a blur. I thought about it after they’d removed the IV and released me, while I waited for my husband to drive back down to pick me up. What I concluded was that I had a Complex Neurological Migraine , and if the pain returned I was supposed to go back — or go to my family Doctor — or something like that. He’d said that the fact that the medication had eased the migraine was the deciding factor in the diagnosis. I’d been at the hospital for a total of six hours.

It’s my own fault that I didn’t turn my husband around halfway home, when I realized the pain had returned, as strong as ever. I had all kinds of reasons not to: “I don’t want to sit in the hospital anymore. Maybe the pain is just a kink in my neck from sleeping in that weird position. They have so many other patients with much more severe symptoms than I. It’ll make hubby even more stressed and upset. I’m tired and still woozy from the drugs. All I want to do is sleep.”

 So sleep I did — off and on for eighteen hours, before I finally decided I needed to shake it off and see whether the returning pain was just from oversleeping, or if it really was the same pain I’d had since Tuesday evening. It was.

This is already too long of a blog, so I’ll write part two of this tomorrow. I need to get a bit of rest now, anyway, before I get back to it. I think this is going to end up being three parts, with maybe an update here and there as I progress in recovery. For now, know that I’m alright. The final diagnosis, (Bell’s Palsy), next to the Complex Neurological Migraine, is the best diagnosis I could hope for, and I have a good chance of full recovery of my facial muscles in the next few months.

Meanwhile, stay well, and have a productive day! 

A Temporary Death

Once upon a time, a writer stopped writing. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Life just got really complicated. I had a demanding job, physically and emotionally exhausting. Often, I’d be on my feet and jogging, for anywhere from six to twelve hours a day. When I wasn’t doing that, I was working on fixing up a house, catering to my (ex)husband’s seemingly extensive needs, or trying to keep in touch with friends and family. When I did have the urge to write, it was impossible to find the time, concentration, or energy. Great excuses, huh?

Any writer, reading this, will recognise themselves here. We’ve all had sabbaticals from writing, I think, whether by choice or chance. My eight year sabbatical was more likely a mixture of both.

I’d been writing for nearly 20 years at that point. I’d even attempted to acquire an agent, to no avail. The multiple form rejections were hard to take. As a writer who lives for feedback, each form letter became another brick in a prison cell for my creativity. I tried to see them as an indication that I wasn’t ready to publish yet. “My writing just needs more work.” I told myself, but I was getting harder to convince.

When life became hectic, I embraced the excuses to not write, I suppose. After all, you don’t have to suffer rejection, if you don’t try.

Over the years I tried to express my creativity in other ways. My oil paintings were flat and lifeless, more technical than talented. Carving was an utter failure. Candle making was nice, but my husband, (now my ex), couldn’t stand the strong scents in the house. Folk art, crafts, crochet; all were enjoyable, but not one was truly fulfilling. I had more interest than skill.

As each attempt met with failure, my emotions became more volatile. Without an outlet to express them, they bottled up inside me. I ignored it at first. At work, I was losing patience more quickly, an employment disaster in retail. Coworkers were tiptoeing around me, customers were becoming put off by my attitude, even my family was avoiding me more. At home, my soon-to-be ex-husband was hiding in the basement all the time. He could do nothing right in my eyes. Something had to give.

The blow-ups, when they came, were emotionally violent and exhausting. It was almost as though I was picking fights everywhere I went. I couldn’t stand looking at myself in the mirror anymore. When I did, I saw an angry, bitter, genuinely unhappy woman, with nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. Never had I experienced such self-loathing. So, I locked myself
up.

Instead of anger, I chose apathy. I was no longer bitter, but numb. I woke up, went to work and went home to bed. Sleep became my favourite activity. Food became my best comfort. I gained fifty pounds.

For someone who’d never had a headache, aside from a childhood concussion, I was devastated by the onset of debilitating migraines. My alcohol and cigarette consumption increased and health deteriorated. I wasn't living, but barely surviving, and I was slowly killing myself.

It took the collapse of my marriage to break free of the emotional shut-down, and then I was back to the angry, bitter woman I’d been before. With just me and my cat, in a basement apartment, with only a computer  for company, I found myself again. I’d begun to write. First was a poem you’ll  find in my anthology, The Unscheduled Stops , titled Living Dead. Next came Too Much, another of the "TUS" poems. Finally I wrote the introduction to a full novel. It was titled, Learn To Love Me. That’s right, the very first version of Learn To Love Me , was going to be my own story, a "chick-lit" about life after divorce.

 Just writing out the pain and anger helped more than anything. I was living again! I put the prologue away and wrote more poetry, I poured out short stories. Whenever things became tense in my tentative rebirth, I wrote about it. I’ll never quit writing again! It would kill me, for
sure.

So, I issue a challenge! If you are a writer, even a dabbler in the art, and you’ve quit writing, (now or in the past), write about it. Post it on your Facebook profile as a note, put it in a blog, write it on your Google + profile. Share it somehow, and link it here in the comments. If you know a writer who is thinking of quitting, send them here. Perhaps all of our stories will help them through the crisis. Don’t let them give up!

Note: I still have the original draft of the very first Learn To Love Me prologue. If enough people ask to see it, I will post it here, in the blog, or on the webpage. It’s very rough, completely unedited, and over nine years old now, but I’ll still share, if people want to see it.

A Short View

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/ We live in a micro-byte society. Everyone who can, works at least one job, and often two or more, just to make ends meet. Our families need our time and attention; our homes require cleaning and maintenance, and vehicles, yards, gardens, computers —we're buried in "To Do" lists we have little hope of keeping up with. When we get online we're deluged with social networks, blogs, webpages, and email. It's almost as though life has become one long episode of the six o'clock news, with every piece covered in ten minutes.

Even relaxing with our favourite hobby is often done in short bursts. I suppose that's one of the reasons short stories and anthologies have seen a resurgence in popularity lately. In a fast-paced life, where we never seem to be able to finish anything, short stories and flash fiction offer that bloom of satisfaction we get from a goal accomplished.

For many authors, short stories are the appetizer we offer the reader, in the hopes of stimulating their appetite for a full meal. Photo courtesy of Lissette E. Manning Over the next few weeks, I'll try to bring you a virtual buffet of literary  hors d'oeuvres.

I'll begin by introducing you to Lissette E. Manning, who has a fabulous selection of short stories available. You can find her  on   Facebook , Twitter , Google + ,  Goodreads , and Amazon , among other online places.

Don't miss her webpage, at http://www.simplistik.org/ , either. Cover art courtesy of Lissette E. Manning Most recently, Lissette released an Omnibus Edition of Books 1 & 2 of her Closure series, Memories .

"He wanted to remember. She would rather forget."

Memories is a compilation for the Closure series which includes the first two books, Closure and Broken.

Follow Ben and Ellie Morgan as they recall pieces of their past and deal with the pain and heartache that ensues from the decisions they've made, decisions that will change their lives forever.

A heart-felt and bittersweet journey, it's one anyone can relate to.


Lissette has graciously provided us with an excerpt:


"I’m leaving, Ben."

Ellie’s words still rang with crystal clarity within my head. For the life of me, I could not brush them off. The devastation my wife had wrought upon me still resonates with each passing day.

I tried to make sense of what she’d said to me, but my mind refused to acknowledge every word that had spilled from her lips. We’d spent so much time together, building a life that had spoken volumes. Everything had seemed so perfect. And yet it was not. With those three words, she had shattered the very world I’d built around her.

Taking a deep breath, I walked throughout the house she and I had shared. Everywhere I looked, I saw something that reminded me of her. The Prince of Tides, a book she had always meant to read, lay forgotten upon the coffee table. A misplaced pen lay haphazardly on the mantle. A pair of worn slippers were tucked discreetly underneath the edge of her desk. Seeing these things brought forth a wave of heartache so deep that it suffocated me.

Leaning across the doorjamb as I surveyed the contents of my living room, I brought to mind the day she had told me she was leaving. The memory of it was still so vivid it left a sour taste within my  mouth.

Download your copy of Memories today for only $1.99 (http://www.amazon.com/Memories-Closure-Omnibus-Edition-ebook/dp/B008O66YFM), and don't forget to visit Lissette online to let her know what you think. Reader feedback and reviews are like oxygen for the muses. Without you, the words can't breathe.

The Indie Author & The Contract.

Oh, hello there! 
I'll bet you didn't expect to see me here. After all, it's just my blog that I haven't written anything for in ... forever. Sorry about that. I guess I have a lot of news to catch you up on.
 
Well, not really. I do, however, have some BIG news to share.  For those of you who haven't already heard, I've signed a contract for publishing "Learn To Love Me"!  (Release will be  August 10 , 2012).

For the people who've been following the blog, and didn't know about it, I can already picture the head scratching, scrunched up noses and quizzical squinting.

"What did she say?"
"A Publisher?"
"But I thought she was going to self-publish!"
"What happened to 'proud indie'?"
I know it's a little confusing, but bear with me for a minute. I am still an Indie author. See, the company I've signed with is Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing . CH&BB is an Indie Publishing company founded by the brilliant Indie author, SJ Davis .  Her vision is a Publisher that will bring the best and brightest of the Indie writing scene to readers, without shaking the Indie out of them.

So how is that different from a traditional publisher or a small press? Well, I can give you my impressions from this side of the fence. If anyone reading this finds that I have misconceptions, please correct me.

First, I have creative control over my work.  CH&BB does include editing in their services to their authors, (as part of the contract, btw, not at an extra charge), but the authors aren't chained to a desk, and forced to change everything about their book that makes it different from every other book on the market. (Okay, so that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my meaning).

As you may know, I had already contracted Simon Marshall-Jones to do my editing, and he did a wonderful job of it. It wasn't a sticking point with CH&BB, at all. I have a say in my book cover, too. In fact, SJ has very graciously agreed to keep the cover art created for me by Dave J. Ford , though they use an excellent cover designer, Para Graphics , for most of their publications.

I didn't require an agent.  Literary agents are your advocate with the publishing company. They woo the publisher, (many of whom won't so much as glance at your book without an agent), review the contract, negotiate the terms, and fight the important battles for you. They also take a cut of your royalties in exchange.

Well, CH&BB accepts submissions without an agent. Their contract is simple straightforward and fair, and the terms negotiable within reason. And to date, I have yet to have a single "battle" over my work. (There's that creative control thing again.) Granted, I didn't sign the contract without having a trained legal professional read it through, but that's just common sense.


Then, there is the promotional backing. From what I've read and heard, from authors who've gone the traditional route, if you aren't a big name in the industry, you can't expect much by way of promotion.  Yes, I still have to do my own work. Signing with an Indie Publisher doesn't mean I'm going to just sit back and have them plug my book for me, without making my own effort.  Besides, CH&BB isn't looking for that type of author. A promotions company, Sizzling PR , will provide me with a plan, and a schedule, for promoting my work. I'll be doing a blog tour, (something I was at a complete loss about), interviews, guest blogs and more.

My fellow CH&BB authors will back me. In most publishing companies, you'll rarely see one author going out of their way to promote the other authors in the company. CH&BB is a publishing family.  The authors support and promote each other, and the company. We make an effort to inspire each other. Critiquing and beta-reading are readily accommodated.  We believe in SJ, her vision, and each other. I believe that's just as important, in terms of the big picture, as the work we produce individually. 

They care about the readers. Many publishers view the readers as numbers, or sales figures, (with the odd mega-fan thrown into the mix).  I'm thrilled to be a part of a company that understands that the readers are the most important part of the process. CH&BB authors appreciate their readers and fans. They regularly offer swag contests, and genuinely want to connect with their readers via social media and fan mail. The authors don't view the time they spend as an inconvenient interruption in writing. They enjoy doing it.

 Of course, the bottom line played a role as well. The almighty dollar must rear its head somewhere in the equation.  So, here's a little peek at my reasoning:

 I could self-publish  the book, garner 70% of a ridiculously low selling price, promote the hell out of it, work 24/7 to expand my fan base and promotional networks, and pray that I make enough to cover my initial investment.

OR, I could sign with a company that knows what they're doing, price the book a little higher, still make a substantially higher royalty than a traditional publisher would offer, (no, I won't tell you the figure, as I've been raised to believe such conversation is impolite at best). I could accept their promotions plan, (by the way, to date, every CH&BB release has made the Top Ten Kindle Download list in its respective category), and likely sell three times as many books as I would on my own.  The math was pretty simple.

I'm not looking to become rich and famous, though I'd love to sell enough books to finance the next novel I have planned. My dream of dreams? To make enough to allow me to stay at home and write for a living, so I can be here for my children before and after school. To work from home, instead of hauling myself to a minimum wage day-job, and then home to "spit and polish" the house, leaving me an hour or two a day to write. To give my Hubby some breathing room between the two jobs he works, to ensure that we don't slip into debt. I dream of being a self-sustaining author. It may be a pipe-dream, but it's my pipe-dream, and I plan to go for it!

Yes, an Indie Publisher may not be the right way to go, for every writer.  For me, for this book, and with this publisher, it is. I'm still a proud Indie author, but I'm also a proud Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly author. Go Team Crush!

And Now, I Wait.

Yes, Learn To Love Me is off to the editor. Now I can sit back, relax, read a book, and begin thinking about the next book. Bah-ha-ha-ha! Yeah. Right.

Waiting for a manuscript that's in editorial hands is a lot like waiting in your room, as a child, while your parents open, read, and discuss that sealed note the teacher sent home with you. You've tried to be good. You've worked hard, and done your best to follow the rules. But somewhere, deep down in a secret corner of your soul, you know you've done some bad things. You've broken some of those rules, and now you're sitting in your room, trying to think of which one of those rebellious moments might get you grounded until University.

See, writers are creative people. We've chosen a profession that allows us to express ourselves, and our perceptions of the world, in poetic narrative, and passionate rhetoric. We rearrange words; we sometimes create words, and people, and worlds. We pour our very essence into our work, and we pray it's well accepted.

But there are Rules .  The torture chamber of the writer's soul is stocked with rules. Grammar, punctuation, tense, point of view, characters, descriptive, verb, adverb, noun ... and it goes on, and on.  We try to follow the them, really we do, but we're creatives; we can't help but bend, stretch, or break boundaries. It is part of our nature.

"After all", we console ourselves, "didn't some of the most famous and successful writers break a lot of rules?"  Well, William Faulkner did shatter several of the standards, and managed to earn a Nobel Prize. Faulkner said, "Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error." The Paris Review (1956) George Orwell, don't forget, gave us six rules of writing, the sixth of which was,"Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous."  Wikipedia

With the words of such greats rattling around our heads, we sneak around a rule or two. Sometimes we feel guilty, and take it out when we edit. Sometimes it goes to our heads, and we start breaking as many  as we think we can get away with.

That is why we have editors. Their job is to read through our manuscript and point out the places where we ignored the laws of writing.  They are the people who tell us whether our story is strong enough that readers will welcome our miniscule rebellions as brilliance, or condemn them as horrible writing. They are the ones qualified to pat us on the back for bending the rules just enough; or slap us in the head, for letting creativity to flout the them like teenagers on an unchaperoned school trip.

Some writers strive to follow every tenet. I'm not one of them. Some say, "to hell with the rules". I'm not one of those, either. I'd like to think I'm more in the middle somewhere.  I write with the rules in mind, but I'll break them, without a bit of guilt, if I feel the story would be better for it. Well, without a bit of guilt until I turned the manuscript over to the editor. Then I drift into the position I'm in now.

I'm sitting in my house, listening to the echoes of hubby's snoring from the next room, and the hum of my son's humidifier, further down the hall. Like a kid waiting for her parents to read the teacher's letter, I wonder what I'm going to get into trouble for trying to get away with. No shifting tense.  No disembodied parts. Don't begin sentences with conjunctions. Don't use too many ellipses, em-dashes, italics, adverbs, or exclamation points. I've broken them all.

Here is where being an Indie author can be less painful than traditional publishing. I chose my editor. I'm lucky enough to have an editor who is diligent and creative; who can tell me when my rule-breaking works, and when it doesn't. So, when Simon,( FB Profile ), takes me to task for something I've done, (and he will), I will be prepared to take my punishment, ( insert blatant movie reference clip here ), and make the appropriate changes. If I were working with a traditional publisher, I'd be handing my word-baby to a complete stranger, who weilds the ability to have my contract rejected because I don't do as I'm told.

I know that when Simon (Google + contact) is finished pointing out plot holes, info dump, and misplaced descriptive, I will have a novel that I can be proud to put my name on, and present to the reader.

The expected launch date for "Learn To Love Me" is still August 10th, 2012. I hope to have further announcements concerning the launch for everyone soon. Until then, I wait.

Damsel in Distress, Drama & a White Knight

Okay, so I'm not really much of a damsel, but I have been in some distress recently. At least, I've been through a bit of drama.  Where should I begin?

Let's start with the novel. Immediately after releasing the new video trailer, which included the full frontal cover art, (no nudity, sorry if that disappoints, lol), and the official launch date, I hit a major snag.  I realized that I couldn't manage the editing services. I have a system for dealing with such issues; it begins with a leap into denial and procrastination, and then slides into panic, which motivates me to do something about it. A few desperate email messages later, Sir Simon Marshall-Jones of Spectral Press charged to my rescue. 

(Alright, so Simon isn't officially a Sir, but as far as I'm concerned, he should be).  Simon has not only agreed to take my debut novel from pretty to "oooooh shiny!", but he's also managed to salvage the launch date, (and thereby, my dubious sanity). So, Learn To Love Me will still be launching on August 10th, 2012. Though I was sad to leave my original editor behind, I'm thrilled that Simon had the space to fit the novel in. His editing services are first-rate, and, (rather important to me), his expertise in UK English means that my Canadian spellings and grammar will be familiar and comfortable for him. (Side note to Simon: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!)

So what else is new? Well, I've had some other setbacks, I'm afraid. I'd been gearing up to announce that one of my short stories had been accepted by an upcoming anthology. Unfortunately the anthology in question ran into some snags of its own, and had to be cancelled, leaving my short homeless for the time being. There may be another home for the story yet, so I'll be tucking it away for now, to revisit another time.

I also had an exciting/tense/delighted/dejected couple of days recently, when a publishing company took an interest in Learn To Love Me . Now, in the name of professionalism, I won't tell you the company name. What I can tell you, is that I was doing a lot of joyful dancing when I first received the message expressing their interest. The company is one I'd be honoured to join. They certainly have my admiration and respect. However, I have made so many prior commitments with this novel, I've made it nearly impossible for a publisher to take it on. (Side note to aspiring authors: If you want a publisher to accept your novel, sending them a list of prior commitments is not going to help your cause. lol)

Some of you may remember that a small-press traditional publisher was interested in the novel, back in 2010. At that time, I didn't have enough of the novel written, to consider submission to anyone. Since then, I'd made the decision to publish Independently. It's amazing, how the Indie Author scene has grown and developed since then. Who would have guessed that there would ever be a publishing option, which would bridge the vast canyon between vanity publishers, and the traditional process?

Small press publishers have been making the effort for years, but never ventured far enough from the protective shadow of the "Big Six" system to be effective.

I certainly didn't envision the role of Indie publishing companies, when I made the decision to go it alone.  Along the way I made some promises and commitments that now prevent me from from even that option.

What are they? Here's the list.

1. Where I go, Dave J. Ford goes.
I can't imagine anyone else ever creating the cover art for my books.  Dave has put his heart and soul, and mine, into the cover art of The Unscheduled Stops , and Learn To Love Me .  

Yes, we are friends, and have been for over twenty-five years, but this isn't about friendship. This is about vision, co-operation and marketing. Dave "gets" my vision, he's professional and easy to work with, and he knows how to grab a consumer's attention visually.  It's also about keeping my word.  Dave didn't ask for a promise of exclusivity from me, nor would he. I made the promise that Learn To Love Me would not go to market without his cover art, and I don't break my word.

2. Canadian content
Call me a patriot. It was a long, difficult process, deciding whether to keep my writing Canadian, or yield to the larger U.S. market by changing the spelling, and Canadian content. In the end, I chose to follow the old tenet "write what you know". I am a proud Canadian. Ontario is where I was born and raised. Hell, I've only left the province three times in my life, for a maximum of a week at a time. Writing about Ontario comes naturally for me. It seems logical to keep doing so.

There's also the matter of cultural heritage. When I  registered the Copyright and ISBN number for The Unscheduled Stops , I learned that each of my books will be saved in the Library and Archives Canada . This is the national repository for Canadian arts, culture and history. The patriot in me yelled, "Don't you dare send them an Americanized novel!" (lol)  So, even if I do publish an American version of each book, I will also produce a Canadian/UK edition.

3. Free Copies
I have already promised a free copy of Learn To Love Me to each of the twenty-three beta readers. I've also promised five ARC's to the top donators in a small charity I participated in, among other contests and events I've commited to. I couldn't ask a publisher to give away that many copies before they even have a chance to sell a copy.

Now I can add editor to that list, as I've made a commitment to Simon for the editing of the book.

Of course, I didn't tell the publisher I wasn't interested, or that I had a list of demands, because I was interested, and I'm not a superstar in the literary world.  What I did do, was explain to them that I had made prior commitments with the book, I understood if those commitments were "deal-breakers", and I'd love to submit to them in the future, if they were unable to take this novel on.

So, I've unwittingly sabotaged any possibility of signing this book with any publisher. Live and learn. ;/

While you're here, before I wrap this up, I'll share the book trailer and cover art with you...



Now that my personal writer-dramas have all subsided, I can concentrate on the pre-editor edits for the novel.

I won't be online much before May 1st, (the date I send Simon the manuscript), but I hope everyone will forgive my absence until then. In the meantime, if you want to catch me, drop a message on the Fanpage or here in feedback. I love to hear from you! 

Flying By The Seat Of My Pants ... Again!

So, it's three p.m. on a Friday afternoon. My house is a disaster and I've thawed nothing for dinner. I spent all morning working on a blog post for All Things Books, and then realized, when I was done, that today I'm supposed to blog here, not there. I may not even get this post live until after the children go to bed.

Why? Because I am a incorrigable pantser.  I'm trying to recover. I make lists of things to do. Then I make lists of lists. Then I make lists of the places I put the lists. Without a plan, I'm hopelessly lost, in all aspects of my life. My brain just can't function without structure.  It's not that I'm lazy, (per se), but I have so many things on my mind, all the time, it's impossible to keep track of them all. The worst thing is, I'm always adding things.  I agree to guest posts and beta reading. I have a novel that needs editing, and I'm planning promo for it, at the same time. I'm trying to promo my existing publication, participate in groups, write short stories and work on a new novel. I even volunteered to judge a short story contest.  One day, I'll learn how to say "NO!".  Until then, I'll continue to make lists.

I had a schedule of blog posts entered into my hotmail calendar. Unfortunately that only works if I actually check my hotmail.  See, lists are great ... if you implement them!

I also have a weakness for creative things.  Having recently downloaded a new video editing program, I instantly launched myself into the creation of a new video trailer for "Learn To Love Me."  For three days now, I've been compulsive about this video.  Facebook, Google + and Twitter haven't seen much of me, in that time.  I've set down the book I was reading, put edits on hold, missed the weekly writing prompt on The Writer's Block, and forgot all about blogging until this morning.

This is why I call myself a recovering pantser.  Without some kind of structure, my writing begins to ramble off in all directions, and nothing ever gets finished.  I may need an intervention. I'll add that to my list...