S.R. Karfelt's Blog, page 17

My Joy List

The Glitter Globe/S.R. Karfelt



Every once in a while I like to rework this list. It’s simply a list of things that bring me joy. Years ago I attended a lecture where we were encouraged to write one. The idea is to come up with 100 things of any size, shape, or form that bring you joy. 

Despite all the bad in the world, there's still plenty of good too.

Can you do it?Sex.Sex.Sex.I’m married, I can say that.And I’ve been married thirty years, so if you’re a perv trolling the internet keep right on going. I only like sex with a guy who’s adored me every day for thirty years.Freaking my kids out a bit. (See above.)Surreptitiously snapping photos of other people’s dogs. Storing them on my phone. AND naming them.My sonic toothbrush. To each her own.Laughing with other writers.Laughing with my kids.Talking to my kids when they toss out something wildly inappropriate for a mom to hear. That means that we’re actually communicating.The mint that grows wild around my house.Making tea from the mint around my house.Bright yellow lemons.Hummingbirds.My hummingbird feeder.Wild foxes in my backyard.Garden tomatoes.Houseboats in Amsterdam.Riding trains.Skydiving.The Grand Canyon.Phantom Ranch.Hiking.Roughing it in the wilds of Canada.Car trips with my husband.Flying.Night writing.Autumn.Summer.Blackwing pearl balanced graphite genuine incense-cedar pencils. So sexy.Writing with pencils on good paper.Dancing.Loud screamo music.Walking.Sorta jogging (but not really).Smencils.Kinderfest supersticks classic colored pencils.Doodling.Amsterdam.Rome.The shire.German beer. This is very new.The people I meet in Alonissos.The beaches of Alonissos.The rocks on the beaches of Alonissos.Writing with pencils in Alonissos.The Acropolis Museum in Athens.The woods.Old cemeteries. It’s my list, I get to pick.When my kids are happy.When my kids are safe.When dogs howl.Stickers.Autumn leaves ironed between sheets of wax paper.Striking up deep conversations with strangers.Good dental floss. My list again.Fountain pens.Irreverent rotten cats that belong to other people.Working dogs.Old books.Classic novels.Good books.More books.People who trash stereotypes. The Democratic gun enthusiast. The eighty-year old lover playing the field. The obscenely wealthy woman who lives in a trailer and rides her bike everywhere.Rainy nights.Misty mornings.Sunsets.Wildflowers.Including dandelions—but not when they go incognito prickly cactus in the grass and I step on them barefoot.Fall foliage.Naked trees.Hamsters running on wheels.Hedgehogs in the wild.Snorkeling.Open-minded people.Passionate people.Kind people.Honest people.Determined people.Dependable people.Trustworthy people.Magic markers.Halloween.Greek salads in Greece.Styling blank notebooks.Picnic baskets.3M Scotch Tape.Walking a strange city at night.Crispin apples.Good cucumbers.Iced water to drink.Lavender Chamomile Tea.When my Levis are roomy in the waist.Overgrown lavender bushes.Pots of fresh basil.Those teeny tiny sea snails that crawl across the bottom of the sea near shore.Smooth egg shaped stones.Sea glass.Beeswax candles.
Can you tell I was getting into it? It was hard to stop. How about sharing your list? It's a good way to turn your day around, and dig up some enthusiasm. I promise. Volcanic rocks. Prickly pear. Babies. Flying—in dreams or for real...I could go on...obviously. Your turn.

Happy Halloween Witches! I Have a Surprise for You!

The Glitter Globe/S.R. Karfelt
If you saw how much candy I’ve been stockpiling, you’d never suspect I’m a bit anti-sugar. It’s been many Halloweens since anyone has ventured to my house deep in the forest primeval and breached my writer moat. I’ve created a night-writer’s paradise here in the shire, but on Halloween it kind of bums me out. I always have full-size candy bars AND glow sticks, but all I’ve gotten for my effort is crickets.
This year that’s all about to change.
This year I’ve been promised an epic Halloween involving 400 Trick or Treaters. I'm willing to breach my own moat for that! I've been prepping for this event for weeks now.
Because 400?! That requires at least 1,200 pieces of candy, right? Amiright?
This means pumpkins, autumn leaves, black bean soup, glow sticks galore, and bag after bag of candy! (Only some of them are banana/apple chips.) I’ve stocked up on stickers, feather boas, and even face paint in all the most shocking colors. I’m ready to FAKE being an extrovert for possibly FOUR hours!
And you’re invited to join in the fun because I made something just for you! It’s a book, of course, because you didn’t think I actually baked or anything did you? And I can't mail you candy because I'd have to actually going to go to the post office and mail something. I’d have to talk to people if I did that. In person. With spoken words.
No silly! It’s a FREE copy of BITCH WITCH! Whaaaaaa?! This took some serious finagling. Free books are quickly becoming a thing of the past, but in celebration of the spirit of Halloween (read FUN and GAMES baby), everyone gets a book.
Yes, you get a book, and you get a book! Everyone gets a BOOK.
This extravaganza lasts two days only. Sunday and Monday! And then Bitch Witch will never again be free for everyone. I’m excited about this, because this book will make you laugh out loud. What other Halloween treat can offer you that?
The Glitter Globe/S.R. Karfelt

It’s so hard to be good when evil is your legacy, but Sarah Archer is one determined witch. Unless the temptation is lasagna, chocolate, or men.

But it's so easy to get into the Halloween spirit. Autumn is one of my favorite seasons. I have three, but this is the only one that involves too much sugar and a free book! It doesn't matter how old you are, there's just something magical about Trick or Treat, isn't there?
And enjoy your time with Sarah Archer, I certainly did. Happy Halloween! 

Relaxation. Meditation. And Metaphorical Squirrels.

The Glitter Globe/S.R. Karfelt




Once I took a class where we were instructed to close our eyes and focus.
“Now picture a beach…”
Beach? Wow. Like a South Carolina beach? Man, remember when there were black flies on the beach there? Remember how you always get sand in your contact lenses on beaches? Why do they always say beaches? I can’t relax on a beach!
“The waves are gently rolling toward the shore and the sun…”
And the sun always BURNS me. I have to hide under the beach towel with sand crawling up my swimsuit. Maybe they mean beaches like in Maine. Acadia National Park has those amazing beaches. Remember the whales? Remember the starfish? I should take the kids there. I should set a book there…
“Let yourself go—go with the waves. Float away toward the sunset. Do you feel it?”
Although the black fly beach would make a better setting—gotta make those characters miserable. It could be a first date on the beach. She has sand in her contacts, she’s trying to disguise her thighs, and she gets her period. Yep, definitely a perfect first date—from a writer’s perspective.
Then I tried meditation DVDs. They instructed me to stretch and sit on the floor cross-legged, while listening to a voice tell me how to breathe.
“Inhale through your nose, slowly-slowly, feel your lungs expand…”
This floor needs vacuumed. How long is this DVD? I need to vacuum, put dinner in the crockpot, shower, and finish my novel.
“Can you feel them press against your ribcage? Sit up straight, clear your mind…”
Don’t think about chores…I think I need more shampoo—stop! Clear your mind…this is when images of a book enter my brain. They’re very visual, like a movie scene and I’m the director—although the characters sometimes ignore me. Sometimes they audition. It’s a rainy night. The heroine storms away from the hero and climbs into a boat. He starts to follow but is interrupted by…
“Exhale slowly.”
Shoot. I was supposed to be breathing…I need to work on that fourth Covenant Keeper novel again. I've got the whole thing in my head. I'm never going to be able to get it out until it's written down. Sometimes writing is like an exorcism! Delphine is on that boat headed for Ireland, and Augustus—gah, I crush on that quester. But no! I need to write that other book first! If I can finish that next month, then I'll have time to finish three books for next year!
“Roll your neck—slowly, slowly.”
Wait! Why can't I focus? What am I supposed to do? Breathe? No, roll my neck…I should bake some apples with dinner tonight. That sounds so good. 
And that’s about as far as I get. Getting dinner into the crockpot and me into the shower win out because I can’t wait to get back to writing. It took me a long time to realize that my relaxation and meditation happen when I’m deep into my writing flow. Sometimes the things I write then are good, sometimes they require a whole lot of rewriting and edits. But I’m exactly where I want to be and doing exactly what I want to be doing.
S.R. KarfeltWhen I want to quiet my mind I have more success with walking, running, hiking, or even exercise, than I have ever had trying to meditate. For me quiet time and being still equal time for the brain to go over its to-do list, or slip into story mode. Maybe I’m just not a cooperative person. 

If you’ve mastered the magic of meditation, feel free to defend it. Or do you have the same problem? Is anyone else plagued by metaphorical squirrels?

Gummy. My Evil Plan. And Maybe Dementia is Contagious.

Are evil geniuses immune to dementia?

Or are they first in line?

No, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I don't think I'm either, but allow me to present my case and you be the judge. 
Just because I have three books I'm writing simultaneously AND moved my mother-in-law into my house, because of her memory problems, is not proof of anything.

Sometimes you have to be the one who does what needs to be done.
After raising dozens of children (MATH FACT: 2.5, but they had a lot of enthusiasm and friends), I'm used to being followed to the bathroom 24/7, and answering the same questions over and over again.
And things were going just fine.
Yeah, that's a lie. You don't have to cross examine me. I'll admit it. Things have not been fine. Anything involving dementia/Alzheimer's is not fine. The person with the disease struggles. Everyone around them copes. Mostly poorly because it's a Herculean task for all involved. 
Remember Ten Second Tom from Fifty First Dates? It's exactly like that, only we're not in a comedy no matter how often it feels like that.




Gummy isn't a character actor with a juicy role. She's a woman with hopes and dreams and plans that could fill up another seventy years of life. But dementia doesn't give a damn what she wants. It's taken root in her brain and knows only destruction. Every moment of every day she battles that monster. The people who love her are often reduced to worn out cheerleaders or strangers.

No matter how much enthusiasm you bring to this game, it's never enough. The fallout from this disease will take everything and every minute you have. Still. I believe in solutions and thinking outside the box. Plus I learned to multitask from those legions of kids I raised.

The only way I could write with Gummy here was to wait for her to fall asleep (parents, does this sound familiar?) and then write, but only in my bedroom. My office is too close to the room Gummy sleeps in. If a sound or light escapes, Ten Second Tom must investigate. The fact that I'm up working is a shocking surprise. Every. Single. Time.
Even though this care-taking had been happening for the past months, while simultaneously juggling regular life, I'd been doing pretty well with it. Not physically because you can never get in front of it when you're shoveling sand against the tide, and there's not much time to sleep, but mentally. 
This was my job now, until we could figure out what was best for Gummy.
But then DUDE SERIOUSLY day hit, and it had nothing to do with dementia. Not really.
Gummy was tired all day, because she had gone late into the night worrying and packing. This is what she does. Every. Single. Day. She can't remember not to. She can't remember why she's here. She can't remember where she should be. Like that sand and the tide, she can't hold onto anything. 
Thought is transient. Memory is muddled. Intent is insoluble.

My job was to calm her down. To answer the same questions over and over again, and get her to stop packing and go back to sleep. Then I tried to sleep, until the packing and questions started again. So when the straw dropped onto my camel back that day, I had no patience for anyone else on the planet.

THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what triggered my confession for all the world to see. Because the whole world comes by The Glitter Globe. (Another lie. I think we're establishing a precedent.) Fine. But the whole world does get on Facebook, and that's where I pasted my manifesto.
My DUDE SERIOUSLY is because rumors in her hometown crossed state lines and triggered my inner Bitch Witch. It's no coincidence I wrote a book about one. She's in here, and sometimes she gets out.

I probably shouldn’t address rumors, but DUDE SERIOUSLY, Judge, I’m gonna.




Dear Haters and Gossipers,
Subject: Me Selling Gummy’s House and Keeping All the $$$ for Myself. 
IT IS ENTIRELY TRUE!

I shall be purchasing a Yacht to Sail the South of France and Live off the Proceeds.
SO SUCK IT. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Yes. I married Gummy’s son and hung on for thirty years so I COULD DO JUST THIS.
HAH!
Yes. Working all these years WAS A FRONT.
Hell, investing every cent from the work in order to found my own start up photonics business was also a FRONT.
All those engineering conferences I wanted to jam picks into my ears during was ALL JUST A FAKE OUT!
BABIES. LATE HOURS. BEING DRAGGED AROUND THE COUNTRY. ROOM MOTHER. RAISING BUTTERFLIES. THE INSANITY OF SIXTEEN HOUR WORK DAYS FOR YEARS. IT’S ALL JUST SMOKE AND MIRRORS BABY!
The night owl writing and the books I’ve written and published and sold? Just part of the trickery. HAH YOU ALL BOUGHT IT DIDN’T YOU?
I admit the whole damn thing. The entire thing was with my eye on waiting for the right moment to sell Gummy’s house and WALLOW IN THE BANK. Everyone knows that three bedroom one bath 1,200 SQFT fifty-year-old homes in Small Town America (where all industry left decades ago) is SOLID GOLD bitches.

Everyone knows that Memory Care units in Assisted Living are virtually FREE. Like a hotel in New York City free. Like a first class airline ticket FREE. Like a trip on the Mars shuttle CAKE. I'll just stick her in there with my pocket change from my WRITING EMPIRE and sail away like I've always planned! 
I’m going yacht shopping.
SEE YOU LATER SUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!! 

Sincerely,

S.R. Karfelt's Inner Bitch Witch

P.S. — Bite me.




Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, you be the judge. I'm of the opinion that the ones losing the fluff out of their bean bag chairs are the gossip-mongers. If I were the judge, I'd sentence them all to dementia duty. It builds character, and strengthens the inner Bitch Witch.

I Want to Say...

I want to say…
Nothing.I’m ready to bake in the sunListen to the wavesFloat in the seaHear other voices.
I want to say…Hushing.I’ve written all the wordsCrammed them into booksCrashed Microsoft WordDocuments over 650,000 words will do that.Who knew?
I want to say…Napping.The to do list is endlessArbitrary deadlines exhaust meShades of grey cloud my visionShut down the inquisition.
I want to say…Recess.Time to be stillBe still to timeStill time to beTo still time—be. 

Kahtar's Shieldmaiden—A Vignette by S.R. Karfelt

www.TheGlitterGlobe.com/S.R. Karfelt




"Listen, I love you. Joy is coming." Kahtar waited.
Carole didn't answer. She sat cross-legged on the cot and didn't move, didn't flinch. If not for cold fury emanating from every cell he might have thought she'd gone deaf as well as mute.
"It's my fault," he said.
Nothing.
"Beth thinks so too."
Carole slanted her eyes in his direction. Muscles in Kahtar's shoulders tensed. He hadn't forgotten their last fight. She'd nearly kicked his nuts into his stomach. He hadn't approached his wife for sex for nearly two weeks after.
"Beth. Forgave. You," Carole said, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.
"I'm not asking your forgiveness."
Eyelids opened. "Good."
"I'm saying I want you here with us. This is your home now, and in time—" Carole moved with the suddenness of a stone ball shot from a catapult. One sensible loafer caught him square in the chest. Kahtar tripped over his piles of hunting boots and fell against the wall of the closet-like room.
Carole shot out of the doorway and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed into the rafters of the cabin.
Pressing fingers against his ribs to check for a fracture, Kahtar finally understood. Carole wanted joy on her terms, not what they offered.

It wasn't going to be easy living with his mother-in-law.



This scene takes place after the third book of the Covenant Keeper Novels. Just a little glimpse of how life carries on between behind the scenes. Currently I'm working on the fourth book in the series. If you read the third book, you might have an idea that the next book will pick up somewhere other than Willowyth. 
The next book will be released later next year, with another stand alone novel released in May 2017. That book has been in the writing pile for years. Obviously I've bitten off more than I can chew, but I love writing. There's always another scene/book/story anxiously awaiting. This vignette is proof of that, and how sometimes stories just can't wait.
Or maybe that's me. I'm sure you have all the patience in the world. I can tell that by the fact that I get emails and messages on book release day asking for the next book. Allow me to assure you, the muse is on your side. 

On Writing, Flow, Zen, Nirvana, Blood

TheGlitterGlobe/S.R. Karfelt 




This is the flow. Zen. Nirvana.
It’s had at a tray table in my room.
I feel sorry for people who don’t have this. People who don’t know all it takes is a pencil and paper. And the muse. She has the best ideas.
I didn’t realize then that she has two faces. One is worse than a resting bitch face, straight from the depths of hell.
It’s my fault.
I treated her like cake.
Wow. This is sooo good! Bet more is better.
Delicious story. Yes, please, I’ll have some more.
Score more.
Bigger is better.
If I’m really going to do this I need classes, conferences, workshops, an agent, a publisher, lots and lots of books about writing, writer friends, writer mentors.
An office.
Plenty of stationery.
More books.
A couple laptops.
A desk top computer too.
A great big desk.
An office chair.
That one hurts. Let’s try another.
How about a yoga ball?
A kneeling chair.
A standing desk.
The mat to go under it.
Bigger monitors.
Prescription computer glasses designed for distance to the computer when writing.
Two pair.
One for sitting. One for standing.
Software.
MSWord sucks ass.
Or my computer skills do.
Let’s buy the manual and learn how to paginate that MOFO.
Wait—we need the manuals for MSWord 07 and 10—the laptops have an old version.
Flash drives.
An external hard drive.
A computer bag with wheels to take to conferences.
Oh, Amazon! You excite me.
Editors.
Cover artists.
Interior designers.
Another editor.
Conference. Conference. Conference.
Now I’m watching football at the house of a famous horror novelist.
He’s sitting in the armchair with a cat on his legs.
It’s name is Tinkerbell.
I’m having trouble with that.
It’s my anniversary and I didn’t call my husband, because the author’s wife has invited me to stay here tonight.
I think about how I’ll never sleep here.
About my toothbrush.
My husband.
I go back to the hotel and fall asleep without calling him.
I decide to join writer associations.
SFWA. NANOWRIMO. ACFW. RWA. Ragged Blue Monkeys. Obey the Muse. Read Write Muse.
It makes no sense.
A mishmash of conflicting direction.
But I don’t want to miss anything.
They all want something.
Proof I’ve sold enough books.
My pledge to read and judge six new erotica books.
My attention.
My soul. For reals.
I drop that group.
I’m a bad Christian anyway.
Too much science.
But I love you guys.
Really.
Paperwork waits impatiently.
Eternally.
Business cards.
Book marks.
Release parties.
Giveaways.
Blogs.
Frequent Flyer numbers.
Airline credit cards.
Marriot rewards.
Hilton Honors Program.
Starwood Preferred Guest.
Write. Write. Write.
The muse is wearing stiletto thigh high boots and carries a whip made of anchor chain.
She hides behind the office door and jumps me when I walk inside.
I need to get sales up.
More social media.
No. Less.
A presence in bookstores.
Signings.
You need three books out.
I meant four.
Six.
Eight.
Ten.
Contests.
Meaningless awards.
Impossible awards.
Reviews.
More reviews.
Who do you have to do to get reviews?
Hysterical laughter with other writers late into the night.
A patient husband.
Children who do not want to hear about my GD effing books again.
A mother-in-law with dementia.
“You write books? Real ones? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
The muse is hanging onto my ankles, pulling my pants down, begging.
The ideas never stop.
The fingers are mortal.
Authors say I’m one of the lucky ones because the ideas never stop.
Enjoy your obscurity they say.
More attention is more pressure they say.
I hear.
And I’m thinking about…
Flow. Zen. Nirvana.

Time spent in worlds of words.

Dancing with the page.
Versus.
Monetary justification for years of work.

And the pursuit of validation.

Black holes and glittery rabbit trails.
Maybe writers are crazy for obeying the muse. 
But she has cake.
For blood.

Witch Time—An Aunt Lily Vignette by S.R. Karfelt

TheGlitterGlobe/S.R. Karfelt.com

Looking into a mirror is never a good idea.
The Archer house didn’t have any, hadn’t in the two hundred fifty years it had been standing.
Vegas hotels were a different matter.
Lily risked a glance, hoping to check out her new Vera Wang. She froze.
“Are you coming?” Sissy shouted back at her, not waiting for an answer. She hurried into the casino with the bellboy dragging their luggage behind her. Lily sensed her sister’s spell ripple throughout the hotel. That was Sissy. Excess. Too much luggage. Too much wasted energy on a simple spell. Too much mean.
Dozens of slot machines lit up and clanged. The deafening sound of excited voices rose with the promise of hit jackpots. But of course no money came out. Within seconds the excited voices turned to shouts and protests. That was Sissy’s specialty. F*cking with people. Even as a child she’d been a mean-ass witch. In Lily’s experience time didn’t make anything better.
Most especially witches.
“Aunt Lily?” Her niece came up behind her to warn, “Be careful. There are mirrors along the right wall all the way to the elevators.”

“No shit?” Lily pulled her eyes away from them and hurried down the corridor. “You had one job. All you had to do was find a hotel without mirrors!” Her heels clicked over the marble floor and men stopped to watch, as always answering the question of how she looked. She didn’t need mirrors to answer that. Normally she’d wallow in the reaction a bit, but the mirror’s vision had ruined that. Maybe she’d never enjoy it again—at least not for much longer. How long did she have before it came true? Ten years maybe. She and Sissy would be dead, and that meant that the world’s worst witch—her niece—would be alone to carry on the Archer legacy.
The girl wasn’t ready. Despite what she’d already seen in the mirror, Lily couldn’t resist another glance. This time all she saw was herself, and she did look fabulous, like a European model. Tossing her head back, she rubbed her lips together to more evenly distribute the red lipstick. She could see her niece hurrying along in her wake, shoulders hunched, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and nearly stumbling in dollar store flip-flops. Hell’s bells that kid is pathetic. The chaos in the casino made it hard to get through to the elevators. A faint cast of pheromones took care of that. Even the handful of security guards, in the midst of trying to figure out what had happened, ushered people out of her way.
Lily let the aftershock of the spell hit Sarah. This time she did trip over her own feet and hit the well-polished floor. No one paid her the least bit of attention. The kid scrambled up and hurried to catch up. She had to know that had been payment for the spell, but she didn’t say a word. Didn’t even point out that there were no Vegas hotels without mirrors for bat-frek sakes. Without a doubt she was the worst witch Lily had ever seen. She’d scratch another witch’s eyes out for talking to her or using her like that.
But Sarah was a softie. She cried if they so much as killed a freaking cat. They clambered into the elevator together. At least the girl clambered. Lily positioned herself in the middle and lifted her chin, the better to give the security camera a great view of her cleavage. They were watching. Lily could sense it as easily as if they were doing it beside her. She’d make sure to run into them later. If she only had ten more years, she wasn’t going to waste a day.
“Are you going to hit the button, or are we going to stand here and play floor roulette?” Sarah reached toward the control panel but Lily grabbed her hand. “Not with your hand.”
Sarah widened her blue eyes. At sixteen she still wore no makeup, and she definitely hadn’t discovered tweezers. The kids was well on her way to a uni-brow. “There’s cameras,” she whispered it as though there were microphones too.
“That’s half the fun, numbnuts. Do it. And try to direct the aftershock at me. I dare you. Let’s give them an urban legend to play with.”
*** This little bit of pre-Bitch Witch came out during a writing workshop this summer. Even while writing the book, the history of Aunt Lily kept taking shape in my mind. She influenced Sarah Archer, and there’s a delicious story about Lily hidden within the pages of that book. Did you notice? Do you wonder about her? Do you love a good bad guy as much as I do? Since this is October, and I’ve been on the blog lam quite a while lately, this is a little treat for my readers. I like Lily better than dark chocolate, and that’s saying something.

If you haven't read Bitch Witch yet, tis the season. It's available at bookstores, and on Kindle HERE RIGHT HERE WITCHY BOOK LINK HERE. And if you'd like to leave me a Halloween treat, leave a review. That way I know which book to focus my energy on next. 

Yankee-Belle Cafe: Orange Cookies "Courtesy of Gummy"

Yankee-Belle Cafe: Orange Cookies "Courtesy of Gummy": You know how sometimes things just strike you? Like you see them and you know that you're looking at something special, something lastin...

My Brian The Night Owl

S.R. Karfelt/The Glitter Globe
Book dedications are private things. The story is for you. All the months of writing and editing, editors, and revisions, covers, and formatting—it's yours, yours, yours.
The acknowledgements are thanks to all the people who helped make that book possible.
But the dedication. That's private. Between the writer and someone special. I'll tell you I delighted in this one, slipping it through quietly and waiting.
I don't make anything but books. There will be no handmade quilts or paintings for people I love. This is all I've got. So for me it's heartfelt and the most I can give.
It was a delight when Brian saw it. He sent me a message right off, and not much more than a month later he left this world of books, chaos, sickness, and friends you can call at 3:00 a.m.
I will miss him forever.



My Brian.
That's what Dear Hubby always called him.
“Your Brian” to be precise.
Brian was a night owl like me. I'd play this game with him. After I wrote until the words blurred on the page, whether it was three or four or five in the morning, I'd call him and try to wake him up. Not once did I ever wake him. I don't think it was that he woke up fast and faked it either. I doubt he ever faked anything, and usually I'd hear sports on in the background, or he'd get another call while we were chatting.
Brian was like the guru of the night owls. I wasn't the only one he talked to at night.
Once in awhile dear Hubby would ask, “What the hell were you two on the phone talking about until 5:00 a.m.?
Nothing, I'd respond. It's the truth. We talked about nothing for hours. Spent a good deal of time laughing about nothing too. Usually we'd hang up when the sun came up. He'd lament having to get up for work in a few hours, I'd lament the fact that no one respects a night writer’s need to sleep until noon. It never stopped us from doing it again.
Every day lights go out around the world, flitting to the other side, and leaving those of us who warmed ourselves in their presence the only witness to what was lost.
Brian wasn’t mine. Plenty of loved ones and fellow night owls lay claim also, and what a fortunate lot we were to have spent so much time with him. Even if it was talking about nothing. It meant absolutely everything.