Mollie Hunt's Blog, page 70
March 23, 2016
Creation Creates Us, by Eric Witchey
Visualize whirled peas.
Photo Source: iStockPhoto, dschaef
Creation Creates Us, by Eric Witchey
The world creates writers; writers create the world.
On the quantum level, scientists, specifically my brother, Dr. Nick, who is an actual Ph.D. Particle Physicist, say that our perceptions and expectations may actually influence the manifestation of phenomenon. They definitely influence experimentation.
Much has been made of this concept in the fields of science fiction and fantasy. It’s not a new idea. Writers have been using and abusing it since the thirties. However, we rarely step back and think about the concept as a social phenomenon. Self-help gurus twist it around and talk about it a lot. The Secret movement of ten years ago is an example. It touted the law of attraction and the power of visualization, but it forgot to mention the correlation of success with long, carefully considered, constantly focused hard work. It also forgot to mention…
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Keep Your Pets Safe at Easter
Keep Your Pets Safe at Easter, reprinted from the Dove Lewis Newsletter, 03/23/16
It’s Pet Poison Prevention Week, and with Easter just around the bend, be sure to steer your furry family members away from floral décor and sweets.
“With any holiday, there’s an increased likelihood of toxin ingestion for companion animals because of families and friends gathering, and exchanges of flowers and festive candies,” says DoveLewis critical care specialist Dr. Ladan Mohammed-Zadeh. “It’s always good to be extra vigilant during these times to ensure your pets stay safe.”
Here are some common pet toxins to watch for around Easter Sunday:
Easter lilies – Lilies are highly toxic to cats and can cause kidney damage and kidney failure. If you think your cat has chewed or eaten any portion of a lily plant, seek immediate veterinary care.
Easter candy – Many Easter-themed candies contain chocolate, which, aside from causing an upset stomach, can be toxic to cats and dogs. Keep treats out of reach, and seek veterinary treatment if your pet ingests anything chocolate.
Decorative grass – The plastic decorative grass that lines Easter baskets can be harmful to cats if chewed or swallowed. It cannot be digested and may cause internal blockages requiring surgery to be removed.
Happy Easter to all!
March 21, 2016
ALCOHOLISM: NOT AS BAD AS KARL
I knew I had a drinking thing, but I didn’t call it a problem. There’s an old joke found primarily on tee shirts: I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink, I get drunk, I fall down. No problem. That was me.
I could always gage the status of my “thing” by comparing it to that of my friend, Karl. Karl was a big teddy bear of a man whose dedication to booze was unsurpassable. He could – and did – drink hard liquor from dawn till dusk and back again. As long as I never caught up with his intake, I could assure myself I was okay. I wasn’t as bad as Karl.
Nor was I as bad as Stewart who relapsed within an hour of getting out of treatment and not long after, went to bed one night and never got up. Certainly not as bad as Stewart.
I never had a DUI or got in an alcohol-related accident. I never wrapped my car around a tree like Gordie. The last thing his buddy, Dave, remembered were the words, “Shit, we’re going 85!” A month later, Dave made the mistake of getting into a car a with Tom. They were coming home from the pub, a 5-mile drive at the most. Tom went off the road and this time, Dave didn’t make it. I guess he couldn’t go through that pain again. I wasn’t involved in either accident, since I wasn’t as bad as Gordie or Tom.
John passed out in the parking lot of the pub and was run over by another drunk who didn’t see him lying there. I wasn’t as bad as either John nor the unknown driver.
Scotty was passed out when his apartment building caught on fire. He never knew what hit him. I wasn’t as bad as David.
A friend of a friend of a friend committed suicide by throwing herself off a cliff when she relapsed. Having stayed a healthy distance from killing myself, I figured I wasn’t nearly as bad as she.
Eight years ago, I got sober. I looked back at my life, the comparisons, justifications, and denial. I now know they were symptoms of my alcoholism. As long as I surrounded myself with Karls and Stewarts and Johns, I could bundle myself in the comfortable fantasy that I was doing okay. The irony is that, in alcoholism as in all things, we stand alone. Addiction, though it takes different forms, is addiction, no matter how banal or how lethal the outcome. No one else’s behavior is responsible for my own. And chances are, there was someone out there watching my madness and saying to themselves: “I’m okay. I’m not as bad as Mollie.”
**I wrote this blog some time ago but didn’t post it because it’s harsh. Last week Karl passed away. In his early 60s, he went before his time. I can’t say I’ll miss him – I haven’t seen him since I sobered up – but I’m sad. Here’s to you, Karl – not a drink but a eulogy.
March 12, 2016
CAT’S PAW: COAXING THE 2ND DRAFT
CAT’S PAW, Book 3 of the Crazy Cat Lady mystery series is happening fast. Well, not that fast – I’m only on the 2nd draft. But I have a launch date in August, so I’m on it. Let’s see where adventure takes Lynley this time.
When sixty-something cat shelter volunteer Lynley Cannon attends an exclusive art retreat at the world-famous Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary, she gets more than a lesson in cat art. Accused by a vigilante group of double homicide, she persuade them of her innocence and heads for home, only to have murder follow in her wake.
Chapter 1.
I’ve been called a crazy cat lady all my life, but I never knew what crazy was until now. Languishing in this dingy hole, knowing my freedom is in the well-meaning but inept hands of amateurs, I fear I shall lose my mind. The options are simple: I could be released or I could be arrested. If released; I put the whole thing behind me; if things go the other way, well, that’s where it gets really crazy. I would need a lawyer; I could go to trial. I could be convicted, sentenced, and sent to prison for a very long time. You know I didn’t do it, don’t you? I’m a cat shelter volunteer, for goodness sakes! I’m not a killer.
I have to laugh—the thing I regret the most in this gray limbo of incarceration is not the fear of an uncertain future; not the anger at being judged without proof; not even the horror of what’s going on outside that door. It’s the absence of cats. The absence of my cats.
My name is Lynley Cannon, and on any normal day, I would be helping out at my local cat shelter, visiting with my lovely and intelligent granddaughter, researching my labyrinthine Scottish ancestry, or enjoying some other innocuous old-lady pursuit. Since I am retired, my time is my own. There is little I cannot do as long as I plan it properly with no heavy lifting and many convenient bathroom stops. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I’d become to that freedom until it was so rudely ripped away from me.
As with the cats I so love, I possess an innate curiosity which makes my life both interesting and adventurous. At my age, however, adventure poses a certain amount of risk. Circumstances that for a younger person would be fun and athletic could land someone like me in the hospital. Yet I persevere. I rush in without considering the consequences. It’s my nature.
That’s how I came to be at the Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary Annual Art Retreat. I’m not an artist but I have always wanted to visit the celebrated shelter located on its very own island among the beautiful San Juans. When the opportunity arose, thanks to an old school friend who happens to run the program, I jumped on the it like a cat on catnip.
Though most of the other participants were younger, more extroverted, and certainly more creative than I was, we all got along like kittens in a clowder. By the second day, it was as if we’d known each other forever, and I figured we’d stay in touch long after the retreat was over, Facebook friends if nothing more. Only one among them had rubbed me the wrong way, a bitter, spiteful woman who had no business being there in the first place since she seemed neither artistic nor sociable. But now she was dead, and I was locked in the basement until the storm died down and the police could make their way across the heaving waters.
How had this happened? Where had things go wrong? One moment there was as much comradery as a hippie love-in, – and I should know, having been there and done that – the next, only fear, hatred, and this howling Northwest thunderstorm. I had lots of time for contemplation since it didn’t look like I would get out of here any time soon.
Cat at Sunset, by Serkan Sarikef
March 9, 2016
Ask Me by William Stafford
I have seen this river.
Frozen Columbia River: 1929
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
March 2, 2016
SELF-PUBLISHING: IS IT THE S-WORD?
The debate is on – Is self-publishing a dirty word? Can real writers self-publish or is it merely a club for writer-wanabees? I won’t even get into the dispute whether Amazon is a viable publisher; I don’t have those answers, and I don’t really care. If a bookstore refuses to sell self-published books, it’s their loss.
Here’s how it worked for me.
I am sixty and have been writing mystery and sci-fantasy for over 20 years. I have completed over 13 full-length books. Each time I finished a book, edited until I felt like it was perfect, and sent it out into the wide, scary world of agents and publishers, I was rejected. Rejections didn’t daunt me though, after all, Steven King and J.K. Rowling are said to have files of rejection slips. At least that’s what I told myself as I ripped open yet another SASE, only to find the form letter beginning, Not for us…
I refuse to believe I was rejected because of my writing. I’ve read published books far worse than mine. So when I got sick of cranking out query letters, outlines, and the dreaded synopses, I began another book. Then suddenly it would all come clear: I don’t write to be rich or famous; I write because it is home to me. It’s the joy that sweeps me away, stops time, takes me to other worlds. Writing is the one gift I can give of myself, and I’m not about to stagger because I can’t produce a best selling “product”.
Still, the writing alone isn’t quite enough. The act of publishing is important too. I want to share my story. I want it out there where strangers can read it over small cups of coffee a thousand miles away; where a child I’ll never know can learn something about cats; where things I’ve not imagined might happen through a twist of a phrase.
As I was working on this blog, I recieved an email that about sums it up. It was for an upcoming writers’ panel titled Succeed Better: The Many Ways Our Words Can Bear Fruit.* The description reads:
“Faced with Amazon rankings, bestseller statuses, and zero-sum ‘top writer’ lists, you might think that success is all about numbers–but numbers are the palest measure of what our work can do in the world. …Writing can lead to poignant encounters, salved wounds, changed lives, and empowered people… (We must) broaden the definition of success to encompass the things that mean the most.”
*Panel organized by David Ebenbach for the AWP Conference, March 30-April 2, 2016 in Los Angeles, California https://www.awpwriter.org/awp_conference/event_detail/5035
This blog is a continuation of 10 THINGS WRITERS LOVE ABOUT SELF-PUBLISHING.
10 THINGS WRITERS LOVE ABOUT SELF-PUBLISHING
You’re published! Screw you, New York City Big Publishing Syndicate!
2. When you Google yourself, your name comes up with your book title instead of a defunct LinkedIn page or an ad to find your classmates.
Write what you write: Stories, novellas, and books of any length are okeydokey. No more fitting into a 75,000-word box.
4. You get to choose your own cover design. Yes, it can have a cat (horse, eagle, rhinoceros, zombie with dripping fangs) on it.
Promotion is up to you. You decide how much or how little you can fit into your schedule.
6. For the author, printed books are cheap, which means you can give them out for reviews, praise, and to assuage the ever-present family pressure.
Higher commissions.
8. You retain the rights to your material. Publishers have strict rules what you can and cannot do with your work once you sign that contract.
9. If your book sells well, you can move it into the professional publishing circuit; if it doesn’t, you can always self-publish a different book.
Self-publishing isn’t a dirty word anymore. Many famous authors self-publish their work for the very reasons listed.
Read more about my thoughts on self-publishing in SELF-PUBLISHING: IS IT THE S-WORD?
February 29, 2016
PARTY ON THE PLACID RIVER! COME AS YOU ARE
Welcome to my little Virtual Launch Party. My mystery, Placid River Runs Deep, comes out on Amazon today. (See it here.) Grab a glass of champagne (or more likely cup of coffee if it’s as early for you as it is for me), sit back in your computer chair, and I’ll tell you a story.
For me, Placid River was a labor of love. Not that I don’t enjoy Lynley Cannon and her crazy cat escapades, but Placid made me think, made me feel. Things came out in the writing of that book that literally had me on my knees.
There are several facets to this story: love; revenge; family history; summer getaways; living with hepatitis C. I’ve had personal association with them all. I’m both cursed and fortunate to have those elements in my life. Placid isn’t biographical in any way, but my spirit lingers near; I hear the river call.
You may not think of a fictional mystery as being significant, but as a writer, I try to do more than entertain. Hopefully the reader will see a glimpse of new concepts, of another way of life. Maybe they will even learn something, such as the shame of hepatitis C sufferers or the beauty of the ghostly Indian Pipe flower.
Now on to the celebration! Publishing anything is good excuse for a party, but this is a special case. Thank you, my friends, fans, and readers, for accompanying me on this journey of the heart.
I received a lovely comment from noir mystery writer, Lily Gardner. Her new book, Betting Blind, will be out soon.
“Ember Mackay retreats to her family cabin at Placid River only to find a murderer hiding somewhere in her beloved woods. A thrilling combination of menace and pastoral beauty. After reading this book you may want to rethink your summer holiday.” —Lily Gardner, author of Betting Blind lilygardner.net
Here is a Pinterest board I’ve dedicated to Placid River and its origin, the Washougal River in southwest Washington: Placid River Pinterest Board
And what would a book launch be without a reading, or in this case an excerpt? For those who like to begin at the end (no spoilers) here is a piece from Chapter 26:
One sick puppy, Roy thought to himself. Not that he cared. He wasn’t sorry, but on the other hand, he wasn’t glad either. The elation he had felt at the onset of his vendetta had vanished some time ago, he suddenly realized. Now he just wished it were over. Wished the morning would come so he could go home.
“I see her!” Ember exclaimed. Her eyes were cast toward a corner of the crypt where a large marble urn stood sentry to the tombs behind it. “There,” she pointed. Without hesitation, she rose lithely to her feet and moved to the urn.
Roy gasped; there wasn’t a trace of a limp in her step, not a sign of the acute pain and weakness she had displayed only moments before.
Her miraculous recovery wasn’t nearly so strange as what she did next, however. Placing her hands on the dusty chalice, she began to caress it gently, like a lover. Swaying as if to a rhythm of her own making, she intoned a little song.
Roy sat stunned, incredulously watching every move. He strained to hear what she was singing, but when the indistinct notes coalesced into “Row row row your boat…” Roy shook his head in disbelief.
Soon the song petered out and Ember began to mumble. Her voice was soft. Roy could only pick out the odd word. He had no idea what she was saying to the inanimate object, but he didn’t like it. It was weird. Roy didn’t mind being weird himself; after all, he had built up an arsenal of “weird” while he was in prison in order to keep the other inmates out of his face, but he couldn’t abide nonconformity in others. Weird people were unpredictable. He knew all too well from his own experience how perverse and volatile true weirdness could be.
Roy lurched to his feet. “Quit it!”
Ember seemed not to have heard him, continuing her conversation with the urn. Every once in a while, she would stop and listen as if the ornament were talking back, then she would take up again in a jaunty manner that Roy thought would drive him crazy—crazier than he already was.
“I told you to quit it!” he charged, moving up behind her. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and swung her around in a motion designed to hurt her. He fully expected a wail or cry. He wanted one in fact—that would be normal—but instead, she just trained her bloodshot gaze on him. Her expression was untroubled—and unreadable. Even in the dim candle light, he could see her pupils were big as plums.
Ember studied him for a moment, then glanced over at the urn. “What should I do with him, grandmother?” she asked it. “He’s going to kill me, you know.”
For those who begin at the beginning, the link to the book preview: Placid River Runs Deep
I hope you enjoyed this launch as much as I did. (Yay to anything I can do in my bathrobe and slippers!) Jump over to my Amazon page if you want to; it’s just a click away at: Placid River Runs Deep on Amazon
Books will also be available at: Another Read Through Bookstore, Portland Oregon
Thank you and Happy Day! Mollie
February 28, 2016
BODY MIND… SOUL
The body is pain,
The mind is fear,
The soul is God.
Painless, fearless God.
In my vision, my soul was made of water. It’s shape was vague; rainbow colors striped both arms and legs. The funnel head was pure and clear. It rippled like a banner in the wind.
I knew God was within me,
but here, for the first time,
God was my soul.
