Cairn Rodrigues's Blog: The Light Stealers Song, page 6
June 4, 2014
The Fat Chick’s Guide To Physical Fitness
My new ride
When I was a child, an adult family member took it upon herself to shame me at every turn about my weight. It’s a freaking miracle I didn’t develop an eating disorder, because what she did verged on abuse.
The good news is I never liked that particular family member. If I don’t like you, I don’t listen to you. Call it a character flaw, if you must.
I have always been big. Big hair, big smile, broad shoulders, long legs and impressive upper frontals. It’s my genetic make up to be large and hungry. Eating is one of the easiest pleasures in life and exercise for the sake of exercise bores me to tears. Leading an active life in general kept my weight in check, but I don’t own a restaurant anymore.
When my dad got sick last year, I began stress eating in earnest. All the unease, fear and anger were most easily balmed by chocolate cupcakes with white frosting. There’s no shame in it. Stress eating is better than turning to alcohol, in my book.
I’m not ashamed of my current state of fatness either, I just can’t stand the way I feel. Simple walking has become lumbering, none of my clothes fit. It’s just too much weight to burden my aging skeleton with.
And, let’s face it, I’m stuck in my head because I’ve been ignoring my body. It’s part of the reason, anyway.
Still, fitness clubs/groups just aren’t my thing. Belly dancing used to be my thing. It shall be my thing again, weekly at the Y. The great thing about belly dancing is that it’s DANCING, not exercising. An important distinction.
For daily exercise, I invested in a new bike so I can ride around town doing errands. My goal isn’t to be super skinny, when I dip below 175 lbs, people tell me to eat more.
YES! I said 175! My body is unique, those “standard” height/weight ratios don’t apply to me. I AM BIG. They may not apply to you unless your goal is to be a starving model.
My ideal body weight is pleasingly plump. What’s yours?
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June 3, 2014
The Grand Experiment
Let’s see if I can sell 1,000 copies of The Last Prospector.
Really, from here 1,000 seems like an unattainable number. To be fair, I don’t promote all that much. I waste my valuable Twitter time actually talking to people, and not tweeting ads.
With a second book coming, one would think I’d throw all my energy into the new basket. But Prospector is the first in a series. He’s my lynch pin, the ground floor from which all else springs. If I can get 1,000 people to read book one, there will be 1,000 new book series addicts on the market.
Plus, I have a mild form of OCD. First things first.
Recently, the kind folks at Fiction Frenzy TV allowed me into their clubhouse. FFTV is a show on YouTube featuring videos from indie authors and those who support us. Last week, I saw this interview with Tim Grahl, founder of Out:think and became inspired.
I do not purchase self help or how to books as a rule. I bought Your First 1,000 Copies before the second half of the interview.
Tim has a system, many people used it and found it good. Since I’m not getting anywhere under my own tutelage, it’s time to try something new.
In the coming weeks, I’ll be reporting my efforts and any tangible progress. I’m going to follow the book exactly and not edit according to any perceived inadequacies.
This is another leap of faith. I’m willing to put in the work to make that jump.
But first things first. Can’t build a house without a strong foundation. I’m going to finish the book today. Tomorrow, we leap!
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June 2, 2014
Claiming, Reclaiming and Exclaiming My Life
Sometimes you plummet, sometimes you soar.
Good morning, Travellers!
I’m sorry to admit how neglected this blog has been. But the blog is a symptom of my life – and I’ve been neglecting a lot.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to list my woes.
What I am doing is taking it all back. My life, my emotional state and my expanding waistline. I’m tired of flailing and bathing in self-loathing. It doesn’t suit me.
First things first. I planned to publish book two of the Song of Solstice, Travellers and Tramps this month. This self imposed deadline has been a huge problem for me. It triggers all my inadequacy voices. Clearly, I’m not ready to publish.
It’s time to take a step back and re-strategize. More on that tomorrow.
Yes, you read that correctly. I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. Part of reclaiming my life is this little blog. In the coming weeks, there will be some improvements in the layout and design. Hopefully 
More importantly, there will be fresh content daily. My cat is quite the action hero, so you can start looking forward to some kitty videos right now.
It’s time to start my journey afresh. Life has beaten me down, but I’m getting back up. My 50th birthday is rapidly approaching. I’m going to roar into my golden years wearing a big smile and a well broken in pair of Chuck Taylors.
If you’re looking for some Monday inspiration, please check out my debut on Fiction Frenzy TV. Feel free to submit your daredevil videos, I DARE YOU!
Happy Monday, Travellers. See you tomorrow!
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May 19, 2014
Suburban Badass
I LEAPT FROM AN AIRPLANE AT 13,500 FEET!
Believe me, I knew it was crazy. Crazy was kind of the point. I needed a shock to my system, to break out of the frustrating stupor that’s defined my recent life.
Our ride
We took the short trip to Lodi, CA, it seemed like a lovely day to hurtle from the sky. I was only vaguely nervous driving down, mostly excited for the experience. My husband hadn’t needed any persuading. When he got home from work Saturday evening, I asked if he wanted to skydive on Sunday. “Okay,” he replied, both promptly and casually.
Pretending not to be terrified.
It was an impulsive decision, made that afternoon. Neither of us had the life-long dream of skydiving, but we’d both said it would be worth a try. Someday.
The longest four steps of my life.
There wasn’t any real apprehension until the plane took off. That’s when my inner rational person started berating me. The farther away the ground became, the louder that voice got. There were no visions of the chute not opening or my body impacting the ground with a squishy thud. Those things didn’t occur to me.
The worst was over!
What terrified me was that first step, the actual leaving of the airplane. Who deliberately jumps from any type of moving vehicle unless there’s no better option? Not this lady, not normally.
Hurtling
Fortunately, my tandem Raj told me in advance he would push me, I was not to jump. And that was fine with me. I’m not sure I would have gone out if not pushed
I really was trying to lift my head up for the camera.
My first impression? IT WAS FREEZING COLD! I should have dressed in layers. Me and cold don’t have a good relationship, it shocked my system to the point of not noticing I was falling from the sky.
My brown valley.
Raj didn’t warn me he was releasing the parachute. When it happened, I finally screamed. It was an abrupt change from plunging downward to shooting back up. Then we were floating! It was amazing, flying through the air as Raj spun us 360 degrees, feeling the air rushing against my skin. We did all manner of acrobatics up there.
Coming back down.
Seeing my beloved homeland from the parachute was spectacular. Even though the ground is parched and the waterways sluggish, it’s still the most beautiful place on Earth.
And down I go.
It’s long been my custom to fall grandly on my butt for just about any occasion. Skydiving is no different, falling down into a heap is kind of a trademark.
But I got right back up again. That’s also a trademark! It was over too quickly, but all so thrilling. I loved it.
Skydiving was a lot like a roller coaster. All the sensations of coaster riding times a billion. It was exhilarating, terrifying and enormously satisfying. I feel like a rock star, I feel almost like me again. This might be marking a new chapter in my life, I’m craving new experiences. Can’t wait to see what’s next!
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May 16, 2014
Meet Dirk McAwesome
Get me on Amazon for only 99 cents!
Who is in the mood for a good laugh today?
This space is given over to author Richard Junk, which is a pretty awesome pen name. He tells me his real name is Christopher Smith, uh huh. Sure it is. He also told me I could make up a name for him. I like Cosmo Corkington, but it’s just a demo.
Richard/Christopher/Cosmo is a member of the bastion of manliness known as Prose Before Ho Hos and contributed to the anthology Whiskey & Wheelguns.
He shared this with us on Twitter yesterday and such delicious silliness must be given to the world. Please enjoy…
DIRK GETS THE MAIL
Dirk McAwesome twisted his supertech screwdriver and made the final adjustment to the throttle of his sweet space motorcycle. It was a nice day, full of birds that made pleasant noises and light from a few of the planet’s suns. Dirk didn’t know how many suns there were, because he left the science-doing to the men of science back at the Corporation headquarters.
He slipped the screwdriver into one of the many pockets on his awesome, recently back-in-style cargo pants and hopped onto the bike. A red light swept over his eye and a sultry robot voice spoke to him from the console.
“Hello, Dirk.”
He patted the fuel tank, which didn’t hold fuel since it ran on some sort of nuclear power or something, but it was still an iconic part of the look so space-motorcycle designers wouldn’t ever consider making one without it.
“Hey baby,” he said, not realizing that the space-mailcarrier was walking up the driveway. When the mailcarrier cleared his throat, Dirk looked up. He probably would have been embarrassed if he wasn’t Dirk Mcawesome.
“Are you talking to your motorcycle?” the mailcarrier asked skeptically.
“Do I look like I’m talking to my motorcycle?” Dirk queried standoffishly.
The mailcarrier paused, slowly sliding his hand into his intergalactic mailsack. “Actually, Dirk McAwesome…” he started, but Dirk cut him off, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. One hand dropped to the holster at his side, coming to rest on the grip of Punch, one of his two favorite pistols.
“How do you know my name?” he asked slowly and dramatically.
“Because I deliver your mail.” Dirk heard the words spill from the mailcarrier’s mouth, but something didn’t feel right. In his years of being a supergalactic hero, he had learned to trust his instincts. He tightened his grip on Punch and with a thought his space-motorcycle roared to life. Even though technology was super advanced, the roar sounded cool, so it was another design staple of space motorcycles.
“I don’t remember seeing you deliver my mail before,” Dirk challenged, but even as the words spilled from his mouth, he realized what was really happening here.
“THAT’S BECAUSE I AM ACTUALLY A BOMB!” the robot mailcarrier-bomb yelled.
The mailcarrier-bomb’s eyes flashed. Literally, like with lights, and Dirk twisted the throttle hard. The bike soared out into the street because it didn’t have tires because it’s a space-motorcycle and not everything could be retro-styled on it.
Dirk felt the heat of his exploding house, yard, and driveway as the flames licked at his back. He didn’t have time to waste though, since two pursuers fell in behind him, each on their own space-motorcycles.
Knowing that there was a school full of tiny space-children nearby, Dirk had to think fast. He couldn’t put their fragile lives in danger! He turned the bike toward the space-freeway and opened the throttle, reaching speeds that normal men probably wouldn’t dare to go. He glanced behind him to assess his followers.
They were hot on his heels. Dirk cursed as he saw them each pointing something at him. At these speeds, he couldn’t tell what they were, but he guessed that they probably weren’t candy-and-gift-throwing guns. Looking ahead again, a smile crept across his lips as he saw it – a construction site, devoid of workers since they had all gone to Spacelbees for lunch because it was Tom’s last day.
Dirk heard shots whizz past his head – sure enough, that sounded like .44-caliber space-slugs, not chocolate coins or small-yet-tasteful gifts. One of these days…he shook his head and bore down on the throttle, riding toward that construction site.
The two were in full-speed pursuit when he got to the site. They chased him around for a little bit, but he kept avoiding them by being a better driver. Finally though, Dirk found himself cornered, surrounded by large blocks of spacecrete that boxed him in on three sides. The fourth side was pretty much the two riders who had been chasing him. Now that they were closer, he could see that they were half human, half robot warriors. Their bikes weren’t as sweet as his was though.
“Dirk.McAwesome,” one of them said. “You.Have.The.Right.To.Die!”
“Not today, Reverse Cyborgs!” he answered, glancing around for a means of escape. He spotted a large plank right in front of him that was resting on something, forming a ramp. A plan began to form in his head.
“Yes.Today,” the other Reverse Cyborg said, raising his pistol. “We.Will.Have.Your.Human.Parts.To.Add.To.Our.Machine.Selves!”
Dirk hated Reverse Cyborgs, because all they ever wanted to do was pretty much what that Reverse Cyborg just said. They were a race of robots who were always looking for human parts to replace their robot parts with, though nobody could figure out why. Maybe Dirk would visit their planet someday in the future to discover why they did this. Dirk’s motorcycle engine roared awesomely again.
“Not today, tin-man!” Dirk nearly shouted, wishing he had said something cooler as the bike hit the ramp in front of him.
Flying through the air, Dirk stood up on the seat of the bike, having unholstered both of his pistols now. The Reverse Cyborg assassins looked astonished, which is really hard for robots to do so that’s how you know they were really super surprised. Punch roared, YouInTheFace (his other pistol) roared too, and the assassins’ bikes exploded. The Reverse Cyborg assassins were ripped into pieces, the shrapnel flying towards Dirk as he landed the bike, still standing on the seat as he coasted to a stop.
Dirk blew the smoke from his awesome twin pistols and re-holstered them.
“It’s gonna take more than a few recycled assassins to keep me from collecting my mail,” he said, hoping someone was nearby to hear him.
Behind him, the busload of construction workers leaned out the window of their space-lunch-bus, cheering for him. He nodded to them, dropped back onto the bike, and took off for home, forgetting that his home was a smoking crater now. He would remember, though.
When he got there.
Good stuff! If you must know more about Richard and his Junk, please avail yourself of these fine clickable links.
Twitter: @Reckoner67
Amazon: Dirk McAwesome and the Giant Fire Breathing Space Ants
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May 8, 2014
How To Die In America
Believe it or not, the act of dying in America has more bureaucracy than living.
My dad doing one of his favorite things.
My father made his funeral preparations shortly after my mother died more than ten years ago. He was as prepared as could be for his demise and did his level best to make sure I was prepared as well. It was incredibly loving gesture because closing out a loved one’s estate while you’re grieving is a responsibility most of us will have to face in our lifetime. My father died in March after a short but brutal fight with cancer. In the months leading up to his death, he saw the end coming and tried to prepare me. But little can prepare a rookie for the sheer volume of paperwork, all the agencies involved and how unforgiving the “system” will be towards your emotional state. I’ve made many mistakes along the way and have some insights to share. I am not an expert, I do not know the legalities of death in all the states. These are some very general tips and things to think about from someone in the trenches. Please consult professionals about professional services.
PREPARE YOURSELF!
WRITE IT DOWN. It doesn’t really matter to whom or how often you just say what your final wishes are. The law only cares about what has been specifically stated in an official document. See an attorney, make a will, or a trust, or whatever works best for your family. An estate without a will is a billion times harder to close out. Do it for your family.
WRITE IT DOWN (2). The law allows for you to die exactly as you wish, but you have to state those wishes on a document. If you don’t want heroic measures, such a life support or feeding tubes, then make sure you fill out the forms easily available from your health care professional. Give a copy to your doctor, keep a copy easy to find in an emergency. Make sure your family knows that you did express your wishes and where they can find the information.
MAKE A LIST. Take some time to list all of your assets, such as bank accounts, investments, property holdings and life insurance. Put all the information like account numbers, addresses and policy numbers on the list too. You want your heirs to get all they are entitled to, but they won’t know unless you tell them.
MAKE YOUR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS. Do it now, it’s not going to get any cheaper, you know. Funerals are expensive and planning a funeral when you’re grieving is fraught with emotional challenges. Pre-need burial plans are easy to obtain and financing is generally available. YOU decide how your body will be disposed of, so your heirs don’t have to guess or bankrupt themselves putting you in the ground.
BANK ACCOUNTS. If you want your money to go directly to someone upon your death, put that person on your bank account(s). If the account is held jointly, there is no waiting, that person can access the account without legal dispensation. Even with the funeral arrangements paid, there are still plenty of expenses involved in settling an estate.
BE PREPARED!
GET AN ATTORNEY. Please don’t try to settle an estate on your own unless that is your business. Most of us simply do not know all the legal technicalities. The State is unforgiving about paperwork, it must be done as The State demands. Your grief is not an acceptable excuse for dropping the ball.
INFORMATION. Get all your death documents in one place. Everything. Even stuff you don’t think you will need. Put it all together in a folder and take that folder EVERYWHERE you go to handle estate business. Trust me on this, if you’re missing as much as one address, you will have to start over from scratch.
REMEMBER. If you’re in charge of an estate, you are also in charge of settling all the debts of the estate. This includes all the normal bills and taxes. The deceased will owe state and federal taxes, it’s your responsibility to make sure they get filed.
DELEGATE. When possible, let the professionals do their jobs. Let your family help you, let your friends help you. Even writing an obituary can be devastatingly difficult. If you have people to lean on, start leaning. I hired an estate liquidator to handle my dad’s things. It was a very good choice.
BE KIND TO YOURSELF. Grief is hard enough on its own. Add it to the work of settling an estate and the stress of it will put you in an early grave. No one expects you to be perfect. It’s completely fine to let your house get a little dirty and order pizza often.
Death and dying are unpleasant topics, taking care of yourself before it’s necessary will give you peace of mind. I hope this helped some of you to make those important arrangements. If you’ve been through this before and find something missing from the above lists, please add a comment.
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May 6, 2014
What Happens When You’re Not Ready To Write
Available on Amazon.com
I do not have Writer’s Block, just to be clear. What I suffer from currently looks a lot like WB, there is much staring at blank pages and self recriminations aplenty.
But it’s not a matter of blockage. The words are there, the road ahead is still clear and well marked. I wrote two chapters in two days and didn’t hate them. Book four of the Song of Solstice was already a third finished when I resumed writing last week. It’s been over a year since stopping to publish The Last Prospector.
I stopped again, after those two chapters, because I’m just not ready to write. Fortunately, my Twitter bud @CantrellJason wrote a blog about his writing process recently and tagged yours truly. It gives me an opportunity to try to explain how it works for me.
The word that seems to get used most often in the reviews of Prospector is vivid. Frankly, it’s a good word to sum me up in general. My normal mode of being is in your face like a lightning strike. It’s not something I purposely strive for, it’s just always been so. Long ago, I stopped trying to be “normal”, this is who I am so that is how I do everything. Vividly.
It served me well as a chef because vivid flavors are worth all the effort they take to create . It serves me well as a writer because I want the whole world to see Solstice as I see it. Wait – not merely see it, but experience it, with all the senses.
In order to impart the sensory experience of Solstice via the written word, I must immerse myself in Solstice. That’s where I’m blocked. Getting back into the world of my creation isn’t as easy as I thought it would be, not as easy as it used to be.
Normally, I sit down to write in the morning with a clear view of the day’s chapter, usually not emerging from a frenzied haze for about six hours. Most of the books thus far were written in my pajamas. In those hours, I truly go to Solstice. I can only see that world, I conjure up the scents and how the dirt feels beneath my feet. I feel the weather and taste the food. I wear their clothes, ride their mounts, climb their trees and hear the songs of the light stealers.
All the while, my fingers dutifully report every detail of note and somehow the story spools out. When I’m writing, I don’t feel like I’m writing. I’m watching the story happen around me and sharing as best I can.
The reason I stopped where I did was because of the imminent death scene. Someone from book one has to die in book four and I suck at letting go. Not only that though, I don’t want to go through the grieving process for a character right now. Both my dad and one of my closest friends have died in the last two months. Grief isn’t something I have to imagine.
I can’t write the story now because I can’t put my psyche through conjured sorrow. By book four, Prospector has been emotionally battered. He feels things very deeply and is still healing from other significant losses, I can’t bear to do this to him (or me) right now. Neither of us are prepared to confront another loss.
And it’s okay. As much as I want to finish this story, I don’t want to do so out of obligation. When I resume writing the series, it will be because I am ready to do so. Ready to immerse myself and feel all the feels, so I can deliver the flavor of Solstice as it deserves.
So, it’s not the writer who is blocked, it’s the heart. Time and kindness towards myself will heal my wounds. Only then will I be able to throw myself back into Solstice with unreserved abandon. As it should be.
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April 21, 2014
The Orient
On a scale of 1 – 10, how goal oriented are you?
I’m a 15. To say I’m goal oriented is a gross understatement. I am a goal driven task harpy, perpetually haranguing myself for not doing more and giving only faint praise to what’s been accomplished. If I was a Maori warrior, my tattoos would be items crossed off a to-do list.
I thrive on goals, setting them, working toward them and achieving them. Not just grandiose plans like writing and self publishing a book, but everyday goals such as chores and bill paying. It’s long been my habit to wake up every morning and make a mental list of the day’s tasks.
Perhaps it was a habit of necessity, formed in culinary school when there was always much to be done in a short space of time. Eventually I owned my own cafe, time was at a premium even more so then. The quietest time for my head and I to confer was always first thing in the morning.
Perhaps I was always like that, it’s hard to say. It feels good to get things done, to keep the machine oiled and productivity high. That’s another big word for me, “productivity”. Some people have said I take on too much, that I don’t know when to say when.
It’s a fair statement.
But I’ve always defined myself by productivity, it’s my daily yardstick of self worth. It’s a yardstick generous with criticism and stingy with forgiveness though. There’s no give on that stick, no wiggle room, and it might be time to put it away.
This is an extremely radical notion for my psyche. The goals and productivity are the fabric of my existence, I don’t know who I am without them. These are patterns I must consciously break because they are no longer good for me. My thinking has to change, how I view myself has to change. It’s hard.
I’m not the same woman I was a year ago. She’s gone, she’s not coming back, too much has happened. Dealing with my dad’s illness and death made me take a hard look at my own life. I won’t bore you with a list of the made for Lifetime dramas that have occurred over the past 10 months, suffice it to say it was a lot and it was dramatic.
It hasn’t been fun to be me, but I’m not crying about that. That’s life. However, it would be a crying shame if I didn’t take stock of the eternal Cairn and figure out what’s best for her. All this pain and loss is a chance to reevaluate and course correct, to shed old patterns and find a kinder way to live with myself.
So I wake up every morning and start making that mental list. Then I gently stop myself and stop thinking. I look out the window, enjoy purring kitty snuggles or just hop up and make some coffee. There are still many tasks to be done, but this old gal needs to slow down, to recoup her strength and just be. I can no longer live up to all those goals, you see. I’m weary and worn down by sadness.
That goal driven task harpy needs to shut the hell up. I’ve had about all of her I can take, she’s never satisfied and I’m sick of her demands.
Frankly, I have no idea what will happen. Without my goal orientation, will I lose my true north or find it? Scary monsters, to be sure. The past has very recently shown me that madness and disarray are always just a heartbeat away, there is nothing reliable about living.
The monsters of madness and disarray aren’t what scare me though. I fear complacency, I fear myopia, I fear not being able to jump off the road because the ruts are too deep. I don’t want to die realizing too late that I was lying to myself. The only way I know to face those fears is to stop being who I was and start being who I am.
Now I only have to figure out who that is.
Available on Amazon.com
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April 10, 2014
Surface Tension
It’s still hard to wrap my head around the fact my dad is dead. It hits me in waves, tsunamis sometimes. But it’s the small, seemingly harmless wavelets that seem to hurt the most.
Today is a hidey-hole day. I don’t want to be in the world, except for a brief foray to the Mexican joint up the street. I went to sleep feeling like this, I woke and canceled the one appointment on the calendar.
It’s been a couple weeks now, since Andy died. The shock is starting to wear off as the grief sets in. Taking care of him towards the end was grueling, I worried every minute and spent many hours seeing to his needs. When he died, he was past ready to go. He wanted out, I wanted that for him.
Have a look at this video please:
At around 1:15 the metaphor for my current emotional state begins. After all these months of everything being about Andy, I felt a surge of release right after he died. I was freed from the constant worry, the decisions and the guilt. The surface of my tension spasmed, liberating a fat droplet of my psyche from the confines of my situation.
Immediately after his death, I was very productive. There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved, plus taking care of the estate, I got a lot done. But, like the fat droplet, I kept bouncing back down and losing a little momentum each time.
Each bounce makes the droplet smaller by half.
Finally, I had to acknowledge that dealing with Andy’s things was too much for me to handle myself. I found an estate liquidator, we went through the house yesterday. Thoroughly. I’m glad to have exported this job, but it made me finally realize how gone my dad is.
He’s dead. My world got smaller somehow. His house got smaller. It’s so lonely here without him, I even miss being yelled at.
My bubble has vanished altogether, swallowed back up by the water.
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April 9, 2014
Book Trailer World Premiere
It’s been a little quiet here lately. I’ve been taking some time to mourn my father and doing my best to jump through all the necessary hoops of modern death.
It’s the Prospector who has suffered most from my inattention. He’s a great guy and very compassionate about my situation, but even his patience is wearing down.
So I put on my battered thinking hat and thought Prospector up a book trailer. Many thanks go to my brother Davi Rodrigues. He supplied the truck, sign and letters. He is even that devilishly handsome driver you can barely see.
I’ve seen quite a few book trailers, some very professional and slick. But none of them tell me anything of note about the book. Hopefully, upon seeing this trailer, potential readers learn about the author. I’m goofy, irreverent, oddly literal and unafraid of dramatic statements. And so is my book
Please share my trailer, I really like the sound of “viral video”. Making one is on my to-do list and that’s a long list people.
Let’s call this one tah-done.
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