R.E. Mullins's Blog, page 3
December 4, 2013
Currier and Ives
Last night I wandered from window to window watching the snow fall. Between the moon and streetlights I could plainly see how snow had covered the pine trees in the backyard. Each green needle was delicately tipped in sparkling white as if a fairy had dusted them with glitter.
Out the front window, I admired the way snow had drifted into mounds. The piles had almost obscured the neighborhood light displays of Christmas cheer. Not a single tire track was visible in the smooth white blanket that coated the cul-de-sac.
Outside everything was still. The only movement was the steady fall of big, fat snowflakes. It reminded me of an old Currier and Ives print, one of those outdoor Christmas scenes where they'd captured a perfect moment and frozen it in time.
So lovely. So picturesque. Surreal.
Inside the house was a different story. I could hear my sons down in their basement mancave as plainly as if they stood next to me. They were almost shouting to be heard over the competing noises of TV and iPod music. One yelled up the stairs and said they planned to watch a movie. I had been invited to join them.
I had left the window with its serene (and quiet) view, and had just gotten to the stairs when suddenly I was startled by a loud clunking noise. With a thud, everything in the house clicked off and it was very, very dark.
For a moment there had been absolute silence. We needed a second to adjust to the unrelieved blackness. To register the fact technology had failed us: no lights, no TV, no music.
Then I heard it. A voice called up from the basement. I held held a wonderful blend of puzzlement and accusation,
"Mom! What did you do this time?"
I admit, for a second I stood there and suffered a moment of mother's guilt. But then I realized it couldn't have been me. I hadn't touched anything. In fact, when everything had gone out I'd been standing on the top of the steps. One hand innocently placed on the railing and the other had gripped a glass of water.
Below a match scraped, a candle was lit. By the soft glow I was able to proceed safely down the steps. One son had, rationally, headed to the window. He reported back the entire street was dark. The other whipped out his cell phone to call the electric company. He set the phone on speaker.
A voice answered and at the sound, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had managed contact. It calmed me to know we were still connected. There was life in outside world.
But though pleasantly calibrated to reassure, the voice was automated. However, it confirmed the power outage (like we hadn't already figured it out) but it also informed us 1700 homes were involved. Maybe only a small portion of the city but I still felt it substantial enough to get the company's immediate attention. The voice further stated they were working on the problem but no estimated time for restoration of power was known.
Then the disembodied voice kindly offered to contact us the next day between the hours of 8am and 5pm to let us know IF power had been restored. All we had to do was press #1 for this service.
The three of us stood there, it took a little time to think that one over. The way it was worded made it a ludicrous and yet hysterical offer.
Did the power company really want to wait until business hours the next day to let us know IF our electricity had been restored?
Didn't whoever had made the recording think we'd be able to figure out if the lights were back on for ourselves?
Out the front window, I admired the way snow had drifted into mounds. The piles had almost obscured the neighborhood light displays of Christmas cheer. Not a single tire track was visible in the smooth white blanket that coated the cul-de-sac.
Outside everything was still. The only movement was the steady fall of big, fat snowflakes. It reminded me of an old Currier and Ives print, one of those outdoor Christmas scenes where they'd captured a perfect moment and frozen it in time.
So lovely. So picturesque. Surreal.
Inside the house was a different story. I could hear my sons down in their basement mancave as plainly as if they stood next to me. They were almost shouting to be heard over the competing noises of TV and iPod music. One yelled up the stairs and said they planned to watch a movie. I had been invited to join them.
I had left the window with its serene (and quiet) view, and had just gotten to the stairs when suddenly I was startled by a loud clunking noise. With a thud, everything in the house clicked off and it was very, very dark.
For a moment there had been absolute silence. We needed a second to adjust to the unrelieved blackness. To register the fact technology had failed us: no lights, no TV, no music.
Then I heard it. A voice called up from the basement. I held held a wonderful blend of puzzlement and accusation,
"Mom! What did you do this time?"
I admit, for a second I stood there and suffered a moment of mother's guilt. But then I realized it couldn't have been me. I hadn't touched anything. In fact, when everything had gone out I'd been standing on the top of the steps. One hand innocently placed on the railing and the other had gripped a glass of water.
Below a match scraped, a candle was lit. By the soft glow I was able to proceed safely down the steps. One son had, rationally, headed to the window. He reported back the entire street was dark. The other whipped out his cell phone to call the electric company. He set the phone on speaker.
A voice answered and at the sound, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had managed contact. It calmed me to know we were still connected. There was life in outside world.
But though pleasantly calibrated to reassure, the voice was automated. However, it confirmed the power outage (like we hadn't already figured it out) but it also informed us 1700 homes were involved. Maybe only a small portion of the city but I still felt it substantial enough to get the company's immediate attention. The voice further stated they were working on the problem but no estimated time for restoration of power was known.
Then the disembodied voice kindly offered to contact us the next day between the hours of 8am and 5pm to let us know IF power had been restored. All we had to do was press #1 for this service.
The three of us stood there, it took a little time to think that one over. The way it was worded made it a ludicrous and yet hysterical offer.
Did the power company really want to wait until business hours the next day to let us know IF our electricity had been restored?
Didn't whoever had made the recording think we'd be able to figure out if the lights were back on for ourselves?
November 23, 2013
Adventures in Authorland Blog
Jean Drew and Adventures in Authorland Blog is hosting me this weekend to spotlight my book, It's A Wonderful Undead Life. You also get a sneak peek at Vampire in the Scrying Glass which is coming out soon.
Please check it out at http://adventuresinauthorland.blogspo.... I'd love to hear your comments on new book cover and excerpt.
Please check it out at http://adventuresinauthorland.blogspo.... I'd love to hear your comments on new book cover and excerpt.
November 12, 2013
Like saying her baby was ugly
I just read an e-mail from a fellow author who has received her first negative review. Understandably, she is upset.
As writers, we understand the grim reality - not everyone is going to like our stories. But sometimes it isn't what is said as much as how it is said. Be constructive not insulting.
It seems as if some reviewers don't understand (or care) how our books are like our babies.
How can you tell a mother that you think her baby is ugly? Don't attack. Don't be a bully. Say what you want but temper your words.
Remember each page carries pieces of the writer's heart and soul. Think about how we've obsessively nurtured our story from the moment of its conception.
Once only a tiny spark that appeared in our head, it slowly grew into a storyline. Once formed enough, viable enough, we started placing it on paper. The labor pains began with those first few words. We struggled over them wanting to get each one just right. After research, verifying facts, and sweating over the bone formation we began to see the bare skeleton of a plot.
Characters were encouraged to grow while we struggled to maintain some control over them.
We often found ourselves sitting up with them late into the nights while they struggled with growing pains. It was sometimes extremely difficult to watch as limbs stretched and contorted. Finally the skeleton was fleshed out and developed a beginning, middle and end.
A writer never forgets when those last words are written. Yet the journey doesn't end there. Even though we've homed schooled our words, phrases and sentence structure to the best of our ability it is now time to send our work off to finishing school.
It's a leap of faith. We love our baby but know it must face the harsh scrutiny of unemotional editors, copy editors, and beta readers. By the time a book is on market it has been read, re-read repeatedly. Each word has been dissected and weighed.
Only when found worthy is the diploma offered. Contracts are signed. With pride and joy shining on each freshly printed page, the published babies are sent out into the world.
We've given them our best. Our hearts laid bare in the hope we'll connect with a reader. We want to believe someone will get a few hours of pleasure from our imaginations.
And then some reviewer cruelly tears down all that effort. Using harsh prose they sneer at all our blood, sweat, and tears. This is what happened to a very talented woman. She is now second guessing her abilities. She was left feeling her best wasn't good enough.
In essence you just told the world her baby was ugly.
Really?
Let me see your baby...
As writers, we understand the grim reality - not everyone is going to like our stories. But sometimes it isn't what is said as much as how it is said. Be constructive not insulting.
It seems as if some reviewers don't understand (or care) how our books are like our babies.
How can you tell a mother that you think her baby is ugly? Don't attack. Don't be a bully. Say what you want but temper your words.
Remember each page carries pieces of the writer's heart and soul. Think about how we've obsessively nurtured our story from the moment of its conception.
Once only a tiny spark that appeared in our head, it slowly grew into a storyline. Once formed enough, viable enough, we started placing it on paper. The labor pains began with those first few words. We struggled over them wanting to get each one just right. After research, verifying facts, and sweating over the bone formation we began to see the bare skeleton of a plot.
Characters were encouraged to grow while we struggled to maintain some control over them.
We often found ourselves sitting up with them late into the nights while they struggled with growing pains. It was sometimes extremely difficult to watch as limbs stretched and contorted. Finally the skeleton was fleshed out and developed a beginning, middle and end.
A writer never forgets when those last words are written. Yet the journey doesn't end there. Even though we've homed schooled our words, phrases and sentence structure to the best of our ability it is now time to send our work off to finishing school.
It's a leap of faith. We love our baby but know it must face the harsh scrutiny of unemotional editors, copy editors, and beta readers. By the time a book is on market it has been read, re-read repeatedly. Each word has been dissected and weighed.
Only when found worthy is the diploma offered. Contracts are signed. With pride and joy shining on each freshly printed page, the published babies are sent out into the world.
We've given them our best. Our hearts laid bare in the hope we'll connect with a reader. We want to believe someone will get a few hours of pleasure from our imaginations.
And then some reviewer cruelly tears down all that effort. Using harsh prose they sneer at all our blood, sweat, and tears. This is what happened to a very talented woman. She is now second guessing her abilities. She was left feeling her best wasn't good enough.
In essence you just told the world her baby was ugly.
Really?
Let me see your baby...
November 6, 2013
I could be wrong
I just watched the YouTube video from the Fine Brothers. Children are shown two gay marriage proposals. The older children are immediately supportive while several of the younger children appear more than a little surprised. One even questioned why a boy would like a boy. He doesn't seem offended but curious.
I noticed there were more questions over the gay couple than the lesbian one. What does that say about our society?
Yet after being asked their opinions the children were quite supportive. One little girl exclaimed, "I don't know how anyone could get mad about that."
I think it shows we are not born with prejudice, it is learned.
I hope these future lawmakers grow up without having prejudices and archaic values rammed down their throats. Hopefully they will finally and completely remove the stranglehold that has been placed on some of our citizens.
Imagine a world where America lives up to its hype that ALL are created equal regardless of gender, religion, race, or sexual orientation.
I noticed there were more questions over the gay couple than the lesbian one. What does that say about our society?
Yet after being asked their opinions the children were quite supportive. One little girl exclaimed, "I don't know how anyone could get mad about that."
I think it shows we are not born with prejudice, it is learned.
I hope these future lawmakers grow up without having prejudices and archaic values rammed down their throats. Hopefully they will finally and completely remove the stranglehold that has been placed on some of our citizens.
Imagine a world where America lives up to its hype that ALL are created equal regardless of gender, religion, race, or sexual orientation.
October 31, 2013
Halloween
Yellow Aspen leaves coat the front lawn and dance around the cul-de-sac. The water in the birdbath is has an icy crust. It's Halloween and I've yet to dig out my decorations - yet to buy candy. When did I lose my excitement for the holiday?
I can't blame it on my children growing up. For many years (after I was no longer needed to help create eerie or fun costumes) I excitedly opened the door to see what others had devised. I looked forward to the wide eyes peering from painted faces, the little voices threatening tricks if they didn't receive their treats. And watching my dogs go nuts every time the doorbell chimed.
I need to shake myself out of this stupor. I know my inner vampire is still lurking somewhere.Perhaps tonight is just the time to find her and release her on the unsuspecting neighbor kids. Bawahhahaha
I can't blame it on my children growing up. For many years (after I was no longer needed to help create eerie or fun costumes) I excitedly opened the door to see what others had devised. I looked forward to the wide eyes peering from painted faces, the little voices threatening tricks if they didn't receive their treats. And watching my dogs go nuts every time the doorbell chimed.
I need to shake myself out of this stupor. I know my inner vampire is still lurking somewhere.Perhaps tonight is just the time to find her and release her on the unsuspecting neighbor kids. Bawahhahaha
October 9, 2013
Book Spotlight
Check out It's a Wonderful Undead Life book spotlight on Candace Shaw's page. There's a sneak peek at the new cover art for Vampire in the Scrying Glass - Plus a blurb.!!!!!
http://candaceshaw.net/2013/10/09/boo...
http://candaceshaw.net/2013/10/09/boo...
September 29, 2013
The Day the Jury Summons Arrived
Legal Document: Jury Summons
I admit when I read the words printed in bold black across the front of the document, I felt all the horror and revulsion of inadvertently touching a snake. A big venomous snake.
I refused to open it for several hours. It lay on the desk taunting me.
As you might have guessed, I don't want to do it. I'd rather have a root canal or colonoscopy. Okay maybe not a colonoscopy but you get the picture.
You see, I believe THEY-somehow-pick on me. Maybe it's my name: the number or combination of letters that shoots me to the top of the list. I've been summoned before. FOUR TIMES in the last ten years. Some might say that isn't excessive. Especially, not for such an important civic duty but I know others who've never been called up.
It doesn't seem fair.
Since Citizenship Class was a long time ago, I did a computer search.
Jury of One's Peers - Definition: Jury of one's peers n. a guaranteed right of criminal defendants, in which "peer" means an "equal." This has been interpreted by courts to mean that the available jurors include a broad spectrum of the population, particularly of race, national origin and gender. Jury selection may include no process which excludes those of a particular race or intentionally narrows the spectrum of possible jurors.
This guaranteed right of Americans, the ability to be judged by a panel of their peers, can be traced back to the Magna Carta written 1225. It states in Chapter 29: "No freeman shall be taken or imprisoned, or be outlawed, or exiled, or any other wise destroyed; nor will we not pass upon him, nor (condemn him), but by lawful judgment of his own peers, or by the law of the land."
In 1791 the Sixth Amendment was added to the Constitution. Stating: The Sixth Amendment entitles defendants to a jury pool that represents a fair cross section of the community. From the jury pool, a panel of jurors is selected to hear the case through a process called Voir Dire. The presence of even one biased juror is not permitted under the Sixth Amendment.
This is an important right. An intrinsic part of being an American and if I was ever accused I would be grateful. I would be kissing the ground grateful such a right existed...but I still don't want to do it.
I admit when I read the words printed in bold black across the front of the document, I felt all the horror and revulsion of inadvertently touching a snake. A big venomous snake.
I refused to open it for several hours. It lay on the desk taunting me.
As you might have guessed, I don't want to do it. I'd rather have a root canal or colonoscopy. Okay maybe not a colonoscopy but you get the picture.
You see, I believe THEY-somehow-pick on me. Maybe it's my name: the number or combination of letters that shoots me to the top of the list. I've been summoned before. FOUR TIMES in the last ten years. Some might say that isn't excessive. Especially, not for such an important civic duty but I know others who've never been called up.
It doesn't seem fair.
Since Citizenship Class was a long time ago, I did a computer search.
Jury of One's Peers - Definition: Jury of one's peers n. a guaranteed right of criminal defendants, in which "peer" means an "equal." This has been interpreted by courts to mean that the available jurors include a broad spectrum of the population, particularly of race, national origin and gender. Jury selection may include no process which excludes those of a particular race or intentionally narrows the spectrum of possible jurors.
This guaranteed right of Americans, the ability to be judged by a panel of their peers, can be traced back to the Magna Carta written 1225. It states in Chapter 29: "No freeman shall be taken or imprisoned, or be outlawed, or exiled, or any other wise destroyed; nor will we not pass upon him, nor (condemn him), but by lawful judgment of his own peers, or by the law of the land."
In 1791 the Sixth Amendment was added to the Constitution. Stating: The Sixth Amendment entitles defendants to a jury pool that represents a fair cross section of the community. From the jury pool, a panel of jurors is selected to hear the case through a process called Voir Dire. The presence of even one biased juror is not permitted under the Sixth Amendment.
This is an important right. An intrinsic part of being an American and if I was ever accused I would be grateful. I would be kissing the ground grateful such a right existed...but I still don't want to do it.
September 24, 2013
First snow on the mountaintops
If I had to pick my favorite time of year in Colorado, it would be Autumn.
The first layer of snow now blankets the top of Pike's Peak. It glistens and sparkles in the sunlight, a taunting glimpse of the winter to come. It's a visual taste I never tire of looking at. Nights have developed a few teeth and have me reaching for a blanket. The days, however, remain pleasantly warm. In the lower elevations the grass is still verdant green and late season flowers bloom.
It makes it hard to stay inside and write. I want to be out enjoying the dichotomy of nature.
The first layer of snow now blankets the top of Pike's Peak. It glistens and sparkles in the sunlight, a taunting glimpse of the winter to come. It's a visual taste I never tire of looking at. Nights have developed a few teeth and have me reaching for a blanket. The days, however, remain pleasantly warm. In the lower elevations the grass is still verdant green and late season flowers bloom.
It makes it hard to stay inside and write. I want to be out enjoying the dichotomy of nature.
September 14, 2013
Flooding in Colorado
Let me begin by saying I lived the majority of my life in Missouri. I have lived through tornados, wildfires, flooding, blizzards, and extreme temperatures and weather fluctuations. I've even experienced a mild earthquake and fallout from hurricanes. I have witnessed the horrific power and beauty of electrical storms. I have seen the influx of locust and tiny frogs where it seemed one crunched underfoot with each step. And, yes, it all happened within southern Missouri.
I thought by moving to arid Colorado and living at an altitude of around 7000 feet, I would leave some of those disasters behind. Take flooding for instance...
You see, it's been my lot that every house I've ever lived in has flooded at one time or another. I hoped to break the curse.
Well, I'm here to inform you the curse is alive and well. The annual rainfall in my CO city averages around 30 inches a year and we received around half of it in less than two days. The basement, of course, flooded. Yesterday was spent syphoning out water and throwing out everything we'd stored down there. I've salvaged a few Christmas items but anything fabric had to go.
I was so focused on my own woes, I hadn't turned on the news until last night. Poor Boulder CO and others even closer who have had such devastating losses. My heart goes out to you.
In comparison, we got off easy.
I thought by moving to arid Colorado and living at an altitude of around 7000 feet, I would leave some of those disasters behind. Take flooding for instance...
You see, it's been my lot that every house I've ever lived in has flooded at one time or another. I hoped to break the curse.
Well, I'm here to inform you the curse is alive and well. The annual rainfall in my CO city averages around 30 inches a year and we received around half of it in less than two days. The basement, of course, flooded. Yesterday was spent syphoning out water and throwing out everything we'd stored down there. I've salvaged a few Christmas items but anything fabric had to go.
I was so focused on my own woes, I hadn't turned on the news until last night. Poor Boulder CO and others even closer who have had such devastating losses. My heart goes out to you.
In comparison, we got off easy.
September 6, 2013
My muse went on holiday without me
I thought it was just computer problems. At least that's what I've been blaming. And it's partially true. My old computer flat-lined and purchasing a new one was traumatic for me. Dealing with Windows8 has been a nightmarish ordeal. How do I toggle between pages? I still haven't discovered the proper shortcut.
Yet I've slowly overcame these obstacles only to discover my muse up and left on vacation. She left without a word or requisition filed for time-off.
She didn't say where she was going or when she'd be back. And the bitch hasn't even bothered to send a postcard.
Now I can't seem to write anything worthwhile. This post is the perfect example.
Instead I spend my time stretched out on the couch, which is my favorite percolating spot, and wait.
When is she coming back? Believe me, I've looked for her. She isn't hiding among the black eyed daisies growing in the field along my favorite walk. I haven't found her peeking out from behind the mountain range. She wasn't at the park playing in the high pitched squeals of happy children. I didn't find her in the ice-cream cooler at the grocery store. I've looked for her there and on the candy aisle several times.
I've not discovered her on TV as I surfed through the channels. I can't hold a decent conversation as I don't have anything to contribute.
She isn't in the late afternoon sunlight that spills into my living room. Nor do I find her dancing among the dust motes highlighted by the sunbeams.
Maybe I'll take another nap...Maybe she'll be back tomorrow.
Yet I've slowly overcame these obstacles only to discover my muse up and left on vacation. She left without a word or requisition filed for time-off.
She didn't say where she was going or when she'd be back. And the bitch hasn't even bothered to send a postcard.
Now I can't seem to write anything worthwhile. This post is the perfect example.
Instead I spend my time stretched out on the couch, which is my favorite percolating spot, and wait.
When is she coming back? Believe me, I've looked for her. She isn't hiding among the black eyed daisies growing in the field along my favorite walk. I haven't found her peeking out from behind the mountain range. She wasn't at the park playing in the high pitched squeals of happy children. I didn't find her in the ice-cream cooler at the grocery store. I've looked for her there and on the candy aisle several times.
I've not discovered her on TV as I surfed through the channels. I can't hold a decent conversation as I don't have anything to contribute.
She isn't in the late afternoon sunlight that spills into my living room. Nor do I find her dancing among the dust motes highlighted by the sunbeams.
Maybe I'll take another nap...Maybe she'll be back tomorrow.
