A little traveling music...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WCL7h2tRjY

I thought you all might like to hear some of the music that Thelma loves so much. Here is the one she is singing with on the way to Indy in Rainie Err. "In a bathtub full of mayonaise!"  Ha ha... fun song...

www.melodymuckenfuss.com

A short story by Melody

I had to kill her.

I hate to do it; I have, after all, considered her my best friend since adolescence. But I've tried to kill her before... many times, in fact. But still she keeps coming back, like some monster in a B horror movie, you know the ones: the hero stabs it or shoots it or burns it up (or perhaps all three of those things) and yet, just as the hero starts to relax and kiss the girl, the monster reappears over his shoulder...

Yeah, she's just like that.

And yet, I always welcome her back. She is next to me through thick and thin, sharing my joy and my sorrow, my triumphs and pain. When I feel that all the world is against me, there she is, by my side, hand in hand... comforting me.

The thing is, she's trying to kill me, too.

She's a little more subtle about it than I am, but nonetheless, I know what she's up to. She seduces me with her comforting ways, whispering that it's all good, that everything will be okay, even while she is positioning the knife to cut me.

I'm running out of ways to try to kill her. She's amazingly tough; more resilient than linoleum and cockroaches. I've tried drugging her, strangling her, even tied her up in a garbage bag and watched the truck carry her off to the landfill.

Yet, here she is, back again, looking as fresh and innocent as a newborn babe.

How can someone so small have such a huge presence in my life? She's only a few inches tall, slender as a pencil, nearly as light as a feather. Oh yes, Cigarette is tiny but mighty...

But I will kill her.

Go ahead, push me around if you want...

Recent events in my life have gotten me to thinking about bullying.

There are many forms of it, from a little touch of meanness to outright cruelty, and it can be physical as well as mental.

I have been subjected to both in my life, and I must say, I would prefer a punch in the face to mental abuse any day. Bruises on the flesh heal. Bruises on the psyche... not so much.

I have often said that I simply don't understand "mean." I don't get why one person feels a need to deliberately hurt another. But getting up at three in the morning gives me time to contemplate such things, and I think I have figured it out.

I think that some people actually derive pleasure from inflicting pain on others. While most people take pleasure from laughter with friends or eating chocolate or riding roller coasters, I think there are some whose pleasure centers are activated by the tears of others. Serial killers get intense pleasure from their "work." I think there may be a bit of that in play with a bully, who may not feel the need to actually murder someone, but crave the joy they extract from hurting another, whether it is from shoving them into a wall or humiliating them to tears.

Actually, maybe more people than not; that would certainly explain the proliferation of "reality TV," where the point seems to be humiliating others. I worry about our society when the masses gather at their TV screens and grin with delight over others being embarrassed and bullied for millions to see.

Maybe not all of those folks are getting their pleasure directly from hurting another. For some, it could well be that they merely feel a need to prove their superiority because they themselves are so insecure. Perhaps they are intimidated by another person's success, and they believe that if they knock that person down a peg, they are leveling the playing field. That is certainly easier than striving for success yourself. It's sort of like tripping the leader in a foot race so you can run past them. Win by cheating if that is the only way. Only, there is no true win.

I have known a few people who seem to believe that they truly are superior to everyone else, and seem to think it is their duty to point out everyone else's shortcomings. Perhaps they feel they are actually educating others when they correct them publicly (and often sarcastically) like Alex Trebek upbraiding a contestant on Jeopardy: "Oh, no," with a smirk on his face. "Of course, the answer is 'DaVinci.'" (It's easy, of course, when you have all the answers on a card in front of you, carefully researched my interns. And I can certainly understand how Mr. Trebek might have developed an inferiority complex over the years, being constantly surrounded by people who really do know most of the answers.)

I have many faults, some which shame me, but I am truly grateful that wanting to cause another person pain is not among them. I am not saying I never hurt anyone else, but I can tell you that when I do, it hurts me, just as it hurts me to see anyone bullied. Does that make me a bleeding heart? So be it.

I would direct this toward those bullies, but there would, of course, be no point. Those that are wired to derive pleasure from another's pain will simply enjoy knowing that bullying hurts, and the others will probably not recognize themselves.

Of course, the irony in this might well be that I consider myself superior to the bullies...

What do you think?

Tortured metaphors and other painful aspects of Midwestern weather...

Do you feel that? A subtle shift in the wind, in the angle of the sun... we have reached that tipping point, where the tight grip winter has had starts to slip, and we start to slide into the warm embrace of spring.

Oh yes, it does happen to be snowing this morning, but you can feel that it has no real strength, like an exhausted baby throwing a last little fit before falling fast asleep after a long day. To continue this tortured metaphor, in the morning the baby will wake up refreshed... and be called Spring!

Wishful thinking, you say? Well, my crocuses, which are a beautiful green peeking through the snow cover, tell me differently. I have bought seeds, and I am making plans for new raised beds. I am thinking about making an appointment to get my dog shaved into his spring "fru-fru" coat, and I no longer mind so much that the heat in my car only works sporadically. So there you have it, all the proof you need that Spring is springing upon us.

Before we know it we will be feasting on fresh strawberries and then sun-warmed tomatoes picked right from the vine and eaten while strolling through the garden. It's the best of what the Midwest offers us; to me, the sole purpose of winter is being a contrast to spring, summer and fall. Sort of like the white stripes on a zebra; you couldn't appreciate them without the black stripes to make them stand out.

Okay, that's really silly. It's more like if you were being subjected to some form of torture, say, having your teeth pulled one by one with pliers and no pain killer, and suddenly they stop and give you novacaine...

No, I don't really hate winter that bad, but... yes, I am very pleased that spring is arriving!

A Busy Mind...

What kind of blogger only updates their blog every month or so?

Well, maybe it’s the kind that doesn’t want to overwhelm you with too much media to keep up with.

Or maybe it’s the kind that has nothing to say.

Or maybe it’s the kind that works fifty-five hours a week besides trying to write a book, promote the ones she’s already written, and maintain some kind of relationship with her family.

Yep, that would be me.

Although, in truth, some days it seems that while I have a lot to say, none of it sounds all that interesting, even to me, so I prefer to keep it to myself. It’s very sad when your own thoughts make you yawn with boredom.

So, I thought I would give you a quick update on what I’ve been up to.

Home care, of course. I am with my client six days a week, and he has become much more than a client to me; he is part of my extended family and a big priority in my life.

Hanging out with my grandkids. They are all amazing, but my biggest projects right now are playing guitar with one of them, and BIG NEWS: I am collaborating with my granddaughter on a children’s book. I did the writing, she is doing the illustrations. She is very talented, and I am excited to see the end results.

Promoting the books I have already written. Thanks to all who came out to my first reading at the Buchanan Art Center. It was great fun, especially the question and answer period. I will be set up at Shipshewana on the Road in Kalamazoo March 23 &24, along with my brother Sam, who will be selling his cigar box guitars. Amazing stuff, people! Check them out at

www.samkindleyguitars.com

I also recently discovered I had not made Rainie Whether available on Kindle. I have corrected that error, and it is now there for you.

Speaking of errors, I am also working on writing book five, Rainie Err. This time around, Rainie makes a huge error in judgment… not her first time… but this one might well get her and someone she is very fond of killed…

In between doing all of that, I am also preparing my other series, The Red Wolves, for reissue, under the name Melody Muckenfuss. My plan of using Mel Kindley (my maiden name) to avoid confusion has backfired, and I plan to right that. Also, I am going to reissue the Rainie Series clearly marked “book one” “book two” and so on, so if you have a copy of the originals hang on to them… they may yet become collector’s editions.

So, enough of this, I had better quit blogging and get back to work… 

I Know I Should Reread This Before Posting, But....

I apologize for not updating my blog for so long. You see, the problem is, I haven’t had anything to say, and really, the best policy in that case is to just keep our mouth shut, right? I mean, no one wants to hear a person rattle on and on about absolutely nothing… unless perhaps you are Jerry Seinfield, and you are capable of making absolutely nothing hilarious. Hmm… that was rather ambiguous sentence structure, so take it however you prefer to read it.

Now, to be completely honest, I have actually had quite a bit I have wanted to say these past weeks, but sometimes what you want to say and what you should say are two different things. Frankly, I am not always good about clamping my mouth shut when the discussion is in person, although I have gotten a lot better at it this past decade or so than I ever was in my misspent youth.

On the other hand, when it comes to writing I have the magic of the delete key to aid me in my endeavors to filter what I say. So when I start to write something that is snarky or sarcastic or just plain rude, I can read it over, and if it is maybe a bit meaner than I intend I it to be (I really don’t like to hurt people’s feelings) I can highlight and delete, or simply backspace and voila! The hurtful thing was never said.

That is, provided I reread it before I hit “submit” or “send,” depending on whether it is an email or a blog post.

How many of us have wished for such magic keys in everyday life? For instance, someone says “I’m sorry I stepped on your foot,” and you, in a bad mood because your cat hawked up a hairball in your favorite shoe that morning reply “Watch where you’re going with those clod feet of yours!” The little old lady who apologized leans back on her walker and looks up at you with tears in her eyes. Now, don’t you wish you could just tap your nose a couple of times and the words would delete themselves?

There are many times when it would be nice to be able to erase the spoken word. A few phrases people commonly wish they can take back: “I’ll do it.” “I love you.” “Go ahead and shoot me.”

Of course, there is no such magic delete key, but there is always the apology. This works in some cases (although once heard, some words are never forgotten, no matter how many times a person tells you they hardly remember it at all, sometimes telling you that every day for the next thirty years). Sometimes an apology won’t help at all (see three sample phrases, above. Go ahead, try it out loud; you see? An apology won’t work with those.)

Where was I going with all this?

Oh yeah, I remember. I simply haven’t had anything to say that I thought it was really a good idea to say (or write.) So I’ll leave you with this: try to remember to say a phrase to yourself, inside your head, before you spew it out for the world to hear. And always reread what you’ve written before you send it out.

And one more thing: I apologize for the things I didn’t say, because even if they weren’t out loud, I feel a little bad for being so mean-spirited.

Happy Monday, all!

A word about Buchanan...

A word about Buchanan:

The city of Buchanan has a rich history, and I have had the pleasure of getting a firsthand recounting of it from my much loved client, who has lived most of his ninety-three years here. This small town was once a bustling place, with several large industries, five major grocery stores and shopping opportunities that made it possible to never have to drive to Niles or South Bend.

That has changed; there are two small grocery stores and a hardware store, barber and beauty shops, a single chain drug store now that the last independent has been driven out by the rising cost of insurance and processing, a few nice eating establishments and a great coffee shop. Hardly the bustling city of past days, but still a nice place to be, and really, does anyone miss the several “houses of ill repute” that Bob told me used to thrive here?

We might not have big box shopping opportunities, but we do have a few treasures here. We have a great library, an amazing coffee house (The Union) which offers live music, Slocum’s (for that unique gift you won’t find at those box stores… which is a good thing) and of course the Buchanan Art Center. Yes, that’s right, an art center. Not only does it showcase regional artists (a very talented bunch!) but it offers classes for those wanting to develop a talent, and a great little gift shop featuring local artists.

I would be remiss if I didn’t put here a note about our police department. It’s possible my readers might assume from reading the Rainie Series that I don’t like the Buchanan cops. That simply isn’t true. Please remember, first of all, that these books are works of fiction, and the characters are figments of my imagination.

That being said, I have witnessed firsthand the part about small town cops being either the bullied or the bullies from school; I grew up in what was once a small town (although it seems to be sprawling and crowded now) and I knew several of the police officers from school. Yes, they were past bullies, or past bullied. This does not preclude them from being good officers, but it can make dealings with them difficult. Just ask the woman I knew from school who was hauled away in handcuffs after a domestic dispute with her halter top untied and falling to her waist. Yes, by her own admission she was being obnoxious: it was an emotionally charged scene. But did that give them the right to strip her of all dignity, to literally expose her?

As for the Buchanan police, unlike Rainie I have had few reasons to deal with them directly, but when I have, or when friends and family have (traffic stop, medical assistance) they have always been professional and competent. In fact, I did have to report a very scary incident that I feared would be laughed off; that was not the case. My concerns were taken very seriously, and the police department left me feeling protected and watched over in the days following. I won’t recount the details here, as the story will probably surface in a future Rainie book.

I would also like to point out that I have never heard of meth labs exploding in town or gunshots being fired in the business district. Again, remember that these books are works of fiction.

Just know, if you come to Buchanan, don’t expect the danger and excitement Rainie experiences to break out… but if it does, be assured our police department can handle it.

Want to know more? Go to www.cityofbuchanan.com

Come on over and see us some time!

                                                  

Who Are Those People?

Since I seem to be having difficulty concentrating on writing again today, I thought I’d write a little bit about writing.

Often, people ask me about where my characters “come from.” Sometimes it is a family member or friend who thinks they have recognized themselves or another person in one of my characters. Other times the question comes from aspiring writers looking for a few tips.

I don’t know if I can fully answer the question, but I will try.

Rainie is not me. Sure, we share some characteristics; that’s only natural when writing in first person. But she isn’t supposed to be me…

That being said, when I read back on books I wrote much earlier than Rainie, it is odd that the main characters also have many of my characteristics and quirks, and their thoughts seem to reflect a bit of what my life was like at the time. I read what Natalie and Katrin and even (in a book probably never to be published) Ilsa are thinking, and I can see my own evolution as an adult human being. The way I thought and felt and behaved thirty years ago (Ilsa) is a far cry from the person I am today (Rainie.)

I am not saying my novels should be read as autobiographies; quite the contrary. My main characters might share my opinions and fears, but they tend to behave much better than me in most cases. They are braver and stronger than me… and they certainly have far greater adventures. In many ways, they are what I wish to be, maybe even what I aspire to be.

Then we have all the peripheral characters. For instance, Rainie’s friends. The best way I ave found to explain where they came from: I took all of my friends and some acquaintances (past and present) and threw them into a big pot. I gave it a good stir and scooped some out a bit at a time, and each scoop was another character. So one of Rainie’s friends might look like one of my friends, but be married to a totally different acquaintance, and behave like two or three others.

I assume all writers do this, to one degree or another. After all, fiction, while “made up,” is really just a construct of our thoughts and memories, which in turn are constructs of our experiences and dreams. So whether I’m putting my characters in a fictional world like Shivan or the real (but still fiction-distorted) world of Buchanan Michigan, they are the product of what I know and feel.

Some things are easy to identify: for instance, Rainie’s pet iguana, George, is just my old pet, Iggy, who yes, was a very large iguana who lived in a very large cage, who loved his fresh veggies and would show his displeasure with a whip of that magnificent tail.

Thelma, Rainie’s outrageous elderly companion, is based on my own wonderful mother. My mom’s true nature, I believe, was often suppressed by circumstances and health issues, but that spark of mischief was there, and she was one of the bravest people I ever had the honor to know.

Rainie’s siblings might seem to be based on my own in some respects, but actually they are just other aspects of myself at different stages of my life, exaggerated for a bit of comedy and drama. If my actual siblings happen to also have some of those characteristics, well… genetics might play a part in that.

And the bad guys in my books? Well, they are all around me, and while I choose to exclude them from my actual life as much as possible, it is rather amusing to let Rainie get revenge on them. The funny thing is, those people will probably never recognize themselves if they chance to read the books, but that is just the nature of bad people, and a philosophical discussion I don’t plan to get into here.

I don’t know if this clears anything up for you, but it is the best I can do. Feel free to leave a comment on this blog… but also keep in mind that I often wear the sweatshirt my editor gave me which says “careful, or you’ll end up in my next novel.”

It's not the end of the world....

Well, well, well. Here we all are. So the Mayans had it wrong, and the world didn’t come to a crashing, spectacular halt.

I’m not really surprised, but I am a bit disturbed by how many people seemed to be looking forward to it. I mean, some people seemed to be looking forward to the world’s end with something like glee!

I’m not sure why this would be. Maybe they see the world through such cynical eyes they think everyone deserves to die? Or maybe they are just depressed and want to die, but can’t bring themselves to do themselves in?

Of course, I am sure there are some out there who believe that the “end of the world” just means that most people will die, but a chosen few will live, and they consider themselves part of that elite group. Some religions believe that; some survivalists do. Imagine if they are both right, and the world is suddenly plunged into a dark age of primitive living with nothing but religious nuts and rabid survivalists left to repopulate. What would future human beings evolve into? I’ll give you a minute to contemplate that…

Okay, now that I have caused you to shudder in horror, I would like to point out that our race probably already evolved from just such types.

Take the survivalists: they are really just practical (albeit often paranoid) folks who are prepared for just about any eventuality. Paranoia is not necessarily a bad thing, especially when the world is a scary, unpredictable place. (Wait, it always is, isn’t it…?) Besides, as someone once said, “Just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” And in a post-apocalyptic world, that is probably even more accurate. Or, for that matter, back when human beings were first coming into their own, fighting for a place in a wild world, paranoia and preparation was surely the difference between who survived and who didn’t. Just ask Noah. (Now there was the “original survivalist.” Can you imagine the way his neighbors made fun of him?)

As for religious nuts, we’ve also had them from the beginning, when people were worshiping the sun and the moon, desperate to find meaning in what must have seemed to be a chaotic existence, where storms could blow away their fragile shelters, the moon would grow and recede, the sun would blaze down and burn their skin one day and hide behind cloud cover for weeks at a time…

Having faith that the proper behavior would keep those frightening phenomena from destroying you would be a great comfort. I think the same holds true today; we might have a better understanding of weather and the phases of the moon, but there are still plenty of forces in the world that seem bent on our destruction… many of them fellow human beings. Nice to think someone is watching out for you, and that in the end they will take you to a better place… in the meantime, the true believers will treat their fellow humans better, so that isn’t a bad thing.

I think what I have just described here is a basic division of human beings: those that believe helping their fellow man will keep them safe, and those that believe they have a right to anything that allows them to survive.

I think I had a point here, but now I have just depressed myself. So I leave you to consider this on your own…

And hope that the Mayans didn’t mean midnight tonight….

I Can See the Headline Now...

I haven’t blogged for awhile. Actually, I haven’t written anything for awhile. I’ve been doing something I don’t usually do a lot of: sleeping. I mean, actually going to my bed and slipping into the world of dreams for as many as eight hours at a stretch. In my whole life I have only done that when I was sick or pregnant.

At the moment, I am not ill, and I am certainly not expecting a child. I’ve passed the procreation torch on to my children, and trust me, they are doing a fine job at the task.

But I don’t really want to talk about babies or sleeping. Those were just random thoughts I needed to get out of the way so I could talk about my real subject: self perception, and how it is affected by those around you.

I don’t think everyone is affected by other’s opinions equally. In fact, from my observations, it seems there are some people in the world who are pretty much oblivious to other people’s opinions about them.

There are times I wish I was one of them. Especially times like this, when it is three o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep because other people’s words about me keep running through my head, making me doubt myself. I had thought I had reached an age where other’s opinions no longer bothered me much, but then today came along…

First there was a very harsh criticism of my book, “Rainie Daze.” Well, it wasn’t actually a criticism about the book; in fact, the lady in question said it was well written, the characters well developed, and that it was worth the read. But before she said all that, she made a personal attack on me.

Now, I can take personal criticism okay; I don’t like it anymore than the next person, but the truth is I spend plenty of time criticizing myself, so there isn’t much another person can say about me that I haven’t already pointed out. But this lady said something about me that simply wasn’t true: she called me a liar.

Okay, that hurts, because like Rainie Lovingston (yes, I know, there are many similarities between me and Rainie… it’s just coincidence, I’m sure) I am a lousy liar. For one thing, I don’t have the self-confidence to lie. The mere thought of getting caught telling a falsehood makes the heat rise in my face, so if I actually try it… well, you can imagine. People will either immediately know I’m lying or call an ambulance because they fear I am about to stroke out.

Also, there is the fact that I detest liars. Once a person lies to me, after that pretty much everything that comes out of their mouth is suspect; the trust factor is crushed, destroyed, maybe never to be regained. So this lady didn’t just call me a liar; she called me detestable and untrustworthy.

What did she say, you ask? Well, for one thing, she said I “really wanted to sell that book.” Anyone that has ever witnessed me trying to self-promote is probably chuckling to themselves over that statement. It is ridiculous in the extreme, and if it weren’t for my family and friends telling people I’m a writer, probably no one would know it even now.

Secondly, she said I misrepresented my book, that I deliberately told her it was not exactly what it is. Really? I did that and didn’t burst out laughing or faint? Sorry… didn’t happen.

So anyway, I know I am not a liar, and therefore I know that her criticism of me is unjust and… well, a lie. So it shouldn’t bother me, right?

The problem is, she said it in a public forum, where people who know nothing about me (just as she clearly doesn’t) will read it, and then other people will believe I’m a liar, and therefore detestable and… well, you see where I’m going, right?

So there I am, my shaky self-confidence now wobbling like a top running out of steam, and I have m next encounter.

I am not an accomplished public speaker, as you might guess. And I am bad at self-promotion, as you might also guess. But nonetheless, when I was approached with the idea of giving a talk about my writing, after some consideration I realized that yes, I could do that. Writing is one subject (caregiving being another) that I am passionate about, and I can absolute talk about it.

But then I spoke to the woman organizing the event, and she seemed somewhat determined to talk me out of it. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s because she has been made aware of my difficulty speaking in public. Perhaps she is concerned that I will be a spectacular failure at it and embarrass her, since she is the one presenting me. Or perhaps she is being kind, and doesn’t want me to humiliate myself. I’m not sure, but the thing is, the phone call started with me only expecting details about the presentation, and ended with me realizing that it was crazy for me to even consider giving a talk. Of course I will fail; of course I will make a fool of myself and her and everyone will laugh or be uncomfortable or I will forget what I wanted to say or simply pass out from the stress and they will have to call an ambulance and there will be a big write up in the local paper with the headline “LOCAL WRITER MAKES A FOOL OF HERSELF” and…

Whew! Give me a minute… I think I’m having a panic attack…

So, I handled the first lady with an email, telling her in my most diplomatic manner that I did not believe I had done those heinous things, but that if she was dissatisfied I would gladly refund her money. (Even though at the end of her attack she said she would probably go on to read the rest of the books…)

As for the second lady, I have about twelve hours yet before I have to give my final answer on whether or not I will give the presentation. I am leaning strongly toward taking her advice and chickening out. She is probably right, it will end in disaster.

Then again, there is that headline, and the possibility of a pic of me being stuffed into an ambulance… and really, there is no bad publicity, right?

Don't Make Me Hurt You

I am having difficulty writing the second book of Shadow, and I was trying to explain to someone why I had to set it aside.

George, the main character, is not a nice man, as all who have read “Shadow” already know. The problem is, in book two, he does something so heinous, that I am disgusted with him, and I simply cannot continue to write his story.

“Wait a minute,” this someone says to me, “What are you talking about? You invented George, you can have him do whatever you want him to do.”

Well, that’s only true up to a point.

Once a character is created in my head, they do take on a sort of life of their own. No, I am not Sybil, with multiple personalities struggling to come to the forefront. I promise you, I have never thought of myself as a six foot six inch male with a broadsword who goes around slicing up whoever gets in my way. The thought has never even occurred to me... well, there was that really bad bout of PMS I had back in July 1980, but that’s another story.

So anyway, I created George, and I set him down in a particular scenario that I also created. And then I pretty much turned him loose.

In order for my characters and scenarios to seem real, they must follow the paths set before them, but also have some “free will.” I throw myself into their world, and I “go with the flow.” I usually have a basic idea of where a scene is going, but once I really get into it, the characters often surprise me. Most of them, Like Rainie and Thelma and Nate, make me proud. They have good instincts and ethics, and they tend to do what I would do in a given situation.

But then there is George. Is he my hidden evil twin, like in Stephen King’s “The Dark Half?” I don’t think so. I think it is more that George is representative of the potential evil I see in the world. He represents those people (and we have all encountered at least one in our lives) who seem capable of almost anything so long as it benefits themselves. You know, the ones that you hear about on the news that make you just shake your head, wondering how in the world they could behave the way they do.

So, I put George in a situation and let him go, and he did something so awful that even I can’t believe he did it. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. I should have known he would be pushed to the edge by circumstances, but nonetheless, it really made me angry.

“Well, change it!” This person I was explaining things to said to me. “It’s your book.”

True, and George is a mere product of my imagination. However, if I just “change it,” it will be obvious that I did just that. If I force my characters to do something, the whole thing comes across as stiff and unnatural, like a Yuppie at a biker bar.

So I’ve set George aside for the moment. I have him sitting in a dark corner in my head, a “time out,” if you will, where he can think about his actions and maybe decide that he should handle the situation differently.

I hope he can do that, because right now I’m so angry with him that I could hurt him. And in truth, I do have the power to do that...

Just sayin’, George. Just sayin’.

It's all about the pie.

We all know that our lives are full of choices. There are so many metaphors in our culture that refer to choices: a fork in the road, a flip of a coin... but really, most choices involve much more than a simple yes or no.

Since Thanksgiving is just past, and many of us are still fondly remembering pie, consider this: three people are sitting at a counter in a diner, and a waitress is about to ask them if they want a piece of cherry pie for desert. Okay, you say, so it will end up that either all will have pie, or none will, or two will and one won't, or one will and two won't. Simple math. But is it?

The waitress asks the first customer, "Would you like a piece of cherry pie?"

"Yes, but I'd like it warm."

"Okay, would you like ice cream on it?"

"Yes, vanilla."

"Do you want whipped cream?"

"Yes, but only a little bit."

"Okay." The waitress turns to the next person.

"Would you like cherry pie?"

"Yes, but just a small piece, and not warmed up, and no ice cream, and a whole lot of whipped cream."

You see? Choices. Not simple yes or no, because there are degrees of yes and no. You might decide on cherry pie, but how you eat your cherry pie, and how much of it you choose to have, might not be the same as what your neighbor might choose.

Now the waitress turns to the third person.

"Would you like a piece of cherry pie?"

"No, but I would like that piece of apple pie I see in that case over there."

So there you have it. Sometimes your choices aren't limited to the ones offered to you. Sometimes there are better choices out there, if you are observant and see the apple pie tucked in the back of the case, maybe hidden away for the waitress's break. (But we'll discuss how our choices affect other people in another blog.)

Of course, all three people might be affected differently by their decision to have pie. One might get sick from it, or gain weight. Maybe another has been having a bad day but the pie cheers him so much he buys his teenager a new car on the way home. Maybe one of them is late to work, and eating the pie will get him fired.

Maybe the waitress, angered that she can't have her apple pie on her break, will be in a bad mood and won't make enough tips that afternoon to buy groceries. (Okay, I said we wouldn't talk about that, but I changed my mind. What can I say? I can be fickle that way, just ask Rainie!)

As for me, I have trouble choosing between apple and cherry, at least at Thanksgiving. So I often take a half slice of cherry and a half slice of apple, preferring to have less of each so I can have both. Sometimes I just have a cup of coffee and skip the pie.

I hope no one was hoping for any profound advice on making life choices, because I really don’t have any, except to say...

Relax. And eat your pie.

Like Pooh in Piglet's window....

Okay, so I have writer’s block. No big deal...

Except, of course, it is! I am currently working on three separate projects: book five of the Rainie series, Book four of The Red Wolves, and book two of Shadow. For any of you who have read all three, you know that these are three very different series, written from different perspectives, in different voices, in different moods. Surely I should be able to work on at least one of them.

Nope. Not happening.

So I dusted off a really old project, the first fantasy novel I ever attempted, tentatively called “Shattered World.” It is as different from the other three projects as they are different from each other. I was certain it would kick start whatever synapses aren’t firing in my usually prolific brain.

Still not working.

It’s time to pull out the big guns.

I’m going to cook.

Over the weekend I made potato soup and chili. This week I think homemade chicken and noodles, maybe some stir fry... maybe a bit of baking and fudge making is in order, as well.

Yes, we are getting to the crux of the matter. Writer’s block is fattening.

They don’t warn you about that in creative writing class, do they?

And yes, I have tried walking and Pilates, and a long drive, and a hot bath, and reading other people’s books to give my own characters time to rest. I have read the newspaper, texted friends, read a couple of dozen random words and definitions in my favorite dictionary. I took pen in hand and put it to paper, hoping that familiar old connection would help. All that got me was some bad poetry, and that isn’t what I need to be working on.

I’m stuck like a twig in a logjam. Like Pooh in Piglet’s window. Like the little boy in Timmy’s well. Like a standard bolt on a metric screw.

I’m blocked like a car at a police roadblock. Like a drain full of grease and hair. Like grandpa after eating a half pound of cheese.

Okay, you probably get the picture.

So, once again I must apologize to those of you waiting for the next book of... well, anything that I’m writing. I promise it will all be written eventually.

In the meantime, I will cook and cook and cook... and at least my family should be satisfied... if a bit heavier by the time I start to write again...

Why poets have to work for a living....

Just for fun, I thought I would share some of Rainie Lovingston's poetry with you. I offer no judgment on it's quality, except to say that perhaps Rainie shouldn't quit her day jobs...

Scintillating rain falls

Silver lines on the window

Dazzling widened eyes

Lightning flashes out

Slicing the darkening sky

Here and quickly gone

Thunder following

Deep rumbling roar warning

There is more to come

Hearts tremble with fear

More primal than love’s beat

Can this be the one

Wild winds blowing east

Take the breath from young and old

And leave us quiet

Contemplating life

And our light, tenuous hold

On all things thought dear

Until the storms pass

And we revel in sunshine

And laugh at our fear

Here are a couple of gems from her "published" works, mentioned in Rainie Daze:

I love you because

 You don’t see my blemishes

 You don’t see the ugliness in me

You see the person you believe me to be

  And through your eyes

  I am a better person

And another one:

I love you

  Because I do

And sometimes

  That is all that matters

How to Write a Book

People often tell me they would love to write a book, but they don’t know where to start. The best advice I can give is to sit down and start writing... and let the book start itself.

The thing is, some books don’t start at the beginning. They start at the end, or the middle, or just some random page in between. Sometimes they start with just a tiny seedling of an idea, like a scrap of thought almost too ephemeral to catch hold; other times they spring forth nearly fully grown, and it’s a race to see if you can get all the words written before they die of old age.

A good book is happening all around you, every day, every moment. It’s called life. Not just your own, although some people’s lives would qualify as a good story all on their own. A good book includes many characters and life events, and if you want to write a good story you have to pay attention to those.

A random encounter with a clerk at the grocery store, or maybe just with someone who holds a door for you on a blustery day; those are the characters that should populate your book. A passing comment overheard in the grocery store can often blossom into a juicy tale, or maybe you can just expound on something you wish would happen to you.

Ultimately, I think if you truly want to write a book, you will. In fact, you probably won’t be able to stop yourself from doing so, no matter what (job, housework, kids, noisy neighbors, floods and icebergs) gets in your way. If I had been on the Titanic and they told me to get on the lifeboat, I probably would have made them wait while I ran back for my notebook and pen.

It’s just what writers do: we write.

Just look at the eight linear feet of filled spiral bound notebooks on my office shelf, or the hard drive filled with my many Word documents, and you will see the proof.

So, if you want to write a book, go buy yourself a new notebook and a good pen. Then... go shopping, or bowling, or take a cruise to Alaska. It doesn’t matter much; just go out and live, and then... write it down.

Like a rock skipping across my stream of consciousness...

A sampling of this morning's thoughts...

The question is often asked, “If you could go back in time and change one thing about your life...” But all I can think of are the consequences that might come of that one change. My life is what it is because of ALL the events that have shaped it... and in the end, I wouldn’t risk losing the best parts of my life to eliminate the worst.

Why is it that the noise of my grandchildren screaming and running through the house is never as loud as when their parents did it?

My client told me the other day that all his aches and pains are worth it. They are the product of more than nine decades running, jumping & climbing while he worked and played, and he’s glad he did it all, and that he was able to do it all... I’m pretty sure there’s a life lesson to be learned there...

People ask me if the characters in my books are based on “real” people. I choose to not answer that, except to say “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

But that being said... many of the events in Rainie’s life are based on true stories.

How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if he had a wood stove?

And why would Sally sell seashells at the seashore when everyone could just pick them up for free? Or is it like the pet rock fad... it’s only cool if you pay too much for it?

A walk in the woods

Our paths in life are not laid out by engineers and civil architects with training in efficiency and logic. Rather, they are cut through the undergrowth as we go, twisting and twining across and adjacent to the paths of others, sometimes becoming one path.

If you have ever followed a wildlife trail, you will see that it often seems random, but really, it isn’t. Deer follow a path that offers the least resistance and offers the most sustenance, with detours to avoid dangers and pitfalls. So do we, although if we are fortunate, we also diverge enough to view a spectacular sight, and pause to take in the details.

Now and then, fear will cause us to rush headlong through the brush, stumbling and breaking our toes and accumulating scratches from the thorns we can’t avoid, and if we run too far we can easily get lost. But most of us eventually find a safe clearing, and after a brief rest we go on, maybe far from our original trail, but once again on the move through this long hike called life.

Along the way we meet fellow travelers, and we might have the opportunity to help them find their clear path, or they might be able to help us find ours.  Others might block your path, even deliberately putting obstacles in your way; climb over them, or go around. Don’t just sit in the dirt and lament that the way has gotten too hard.

Many travelers will keep you company, and make the road seem shorter. Or maybe you will just walk along for a time in companionable silence.

No matter, whatever geography our life path follows, ultimately we are all going to the same destination.  Make the journey count.

Of marching (and sleeping) to a different beat

Circadian rhythms: all biological organisms are subject to them, (at least terrestrial ones) and they follow the twenty-four hour cycle of our planet (perhaps, on other worlds, circadian rhythms follow an eight hour, or twenty four minute cycle, but that is a matter for the great sci-fi authors to address.)

I want to begin by saying that this is in no way to be construed as a scientific article, backed by hours of expensive research. This is based purely on my casual knowledge and some years of personal observation.

I’m sure everyone has heard (or perhaps said) “I’m a morning person.” Or the opposite; some people just don’t seem to function well before noon. The late sleeper is probably not a lazy person, but merely responding to their natural body rhythms.

I’m fairly certain that human beings, in general, are considered diurnal, meaning they are awake in the day and sleep at night, as opposed to nocturnal creatures, such as bats, which terrorize us by flying into our hair after dark (a myth, by the way) and raccoons, which terrorize our trash cans after the sun goes down.

I have known people who worked the overnight shift for years, and seemed to thrive on it, as if they were as nocturnal as a bat. Myself, I worked the third shift for a time, and never could seem to get in sync with it; I would stumble around my days, catnapping here and there, always feeling out of sorts and as if I was a step behind the clock. On the other hand, I can wake up at four a.m., grab a cup of coffee and be ready to take on anything the world has to throw at me.

Our lives can be greatly improved if we listen to our own body clocks and live accordingly. I controlled my migraines for years by simply figuring out when my optimum time for sleep was and sticking to it. If I deviated... well, it wasn’t pretty.

What does all this have to do with either writing or caregiving, you ask... since that is what this blog is supposed to be about.

Well, elders, of course, also have their own circadian rhythms, and if a caregiver wants to enhance their quality of life, it is best to recognize that individual’s timing and organize their days around it.

Again, I can best explain this using a facility vs. home environment. In a nursing facility, everyone is on the same schedule. They pretty much have to be, considering the number of residents each employee has to take care of in a day. So, between six and eight every morning the new shift comes on, gets all the residents out of bed and into wheelchairs on up on walkers and shuffle them off to the dining room for breakfast.

At least a portion of those residents will slump at the table, uninterested in food or conversation, quite possibly snoring away in their chairs. Then, after that lovely meal, they might be escorted to an activity, or physical therapy, where they will continue to slump and snore in spite of the staff’s best efforts to engage them.

I had one particular lady (I will call her “Helen”) who did this in a rehab facility, and they finally sent her home with twenty-four hour care in a wheelchair, saying she would likely never walk again.

At first, when we got her home, the overnight staff, thinking they were being conscientious, always got her up at seven o’clock in the morning, dressed and at the table before I came in at eight o’clock. There she would be, slumped in her wheelchair, ignoring breakfast, cranky and out of sorts until well after noon.

So I told the overnight shift to leave her alone in the mornings, and to let her sleep until she was ready to get up. The next morning she slept until ten o’clock, but when she awoke she was cheerful and cooperative and very hungry! She ate her breakfast and we went out for a walk in the sunshine (pushing her wheelchair) and all in all we had a pretty good day.

The night staff put her to bed at nine... and she had a miserable, restless night.

So, next step was telling the night shift to let her stay up until she announced she was ready for bed. Within a week, she had established a pattern: bed around midnight, up between nine and ten. Within a week after that, she was regularly doing her physical therapy. Within a month, she was back up using her walker.

This has been true of all of the clients I have cared for at home. Some prefer to rise before the sun and go to their beds at eight o’clock. Some just prefer to sleep a few hours at a time around the clock. Whatever; they function best when allowed to follow their own natural rhythms.

Sometimes we can discover a client’s rhythms by talking to them or their families, and asking them what their sleep cycle has been for the last eight or nine decades (although many of us go against those natural rhythms due to necessities of work schedules.) Other times, we just need to sit back and observe.

If you wonder about your own circadian rhythm, the best way to figure it out is to take a few days off your normal routine (at home; travelling tends to put us out of whack) and stop living by the clock. Go to bed when you are sleepy, get up when you wake. After a few days, your body will gratefully fall into its own groove... and I can pretty much guarantee you will feel more refreshed and rested than you have in years.

Try it. And if you have a loved one in your life that seems to be constantly tired, out of sorts and cranky... well, try giving them a few days off, too.

Achievements and the art of raising (or lowering) your expectations

Many of us rate our lives according to our achievements.

Some point with pride to their college degrees, whether it is a Masters in Psychology, or an Associates in Electronics. Is one more of an achievement than another?

That, my friend, depends not so much on the destination, as the journey.

If you are the child of a wealthy family, never required to work while you attend college, with the choice of nearly any school to attend, then perhaps that Associates degree you received is not much of an achievement. On the other hand, if you worked your way through two years worth of classes two credits at a time while slinging burgers at McDonald’s and supporting your child... yes, that is an achievement to point out with great pride!

If you travel across the U.S from New York to California by train, that could be somewhat of an achievement, if you have always wanted to go to California. But if you make that same journey on a bicycle... well, it is all a matter of degrees, isn’t it?

If a young man wins an Ironman competition, there is no doubt he has achieved something. But what about the ninety-four year old man recovering from a stroke who manages to stand and take three steps on his new walker?

Yes, you knew this would get around to care giving at some point, didn’t you?

My point is... well, I don’t really have a single point here. Except, perhaps, that we all need to set goals, preferably difficult to achieve goals, and strive to attain them. Otherwise, we will simply sink into a predictably structured life, drowning in practicality in a long, colorless procession of days until boredom finally sucks us into our graves. (Yes, this is a quote from Nolen, from “The Rise of the Red Wolves.)

People sometimes wonder why I push my clients so hard. What difference does it make when you are ninety-four?

Well, it’s simple, really. Just refer to the quote above; life shouldn’t be like that, whether you have two months or two decades of if left to live.