Pepper, the psychic dog?

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My dog often acts in strange ways, like she knows something I don’t.

It never bothered me before. After all, dogs are known to have keener senses than humans.

But that was when I assumed that meant she could smell and hear better.

Now, I’m not so sure that’s all there is to it. Something more seems to be going on.

You see, my dog, Pepper, always comes into my office and takes a nap at my feet as I write.

But if she had done that this time, instead of uncharacteristically watching from the doorway, she would have been scalded by the hot coffee I spilled all over her favorite spot.

Which makes me wonder, is Pepper a psychic dog?

What exactly is going on behind all that fur?

A novel in progress

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An excerpt from the novel I’m currently writing. It’ll be a sequel to DTA (Department of Temporal Adjustment), but can be read as a stand-alone.

So on we trudged, the sound of our footsteps punctuated by gentle baby snores. My daughters shuffled along at my side, too afraid to make a sound and shoulders hunched in fear. They were true products of their culture—little mice, scared to do more than scramble for cover at the first sign of danger.

We passed a group of boys wrestling on the ground like a squirmy pile of puppies. To me it was obvious they were entertaining themselves as they waited for the school bus, but my daughters cringed and scurried away, intimidated by this public display of rambunctiousness.

Several blocks later we came across a second group of boys, also waiting for a bus. But instead of wrestling these boys had chosen to kick a soccer ball around. It got away from one of the boys and rolled over to Maddie, who kicked it back without thinking. The boys gave
her a wave and continued to practice passes.

I nearly laughed aloud when I noticed the expression on Maddie’s face. It was strange combination of fear and wonder, and I knew it was brought on by her realization that she had just interacted with boys, and interacted as an equal. My daughters had been raised in a world where men ruled and women obeyed. Equality was not something they had ever thought about.

But I thought about it. A lot. As soon as those crazy, extra memories swirled into my head I began to mourn what had been lost to the world. So much potential—the intelligence and creativity of more than half the population—discarded like so much trash.

What a waste!

It didn’t need to be this way. It was wrong, all wrong. The world was broken, and no one even knew it.

Bureaucracy does not promote happy thoughts

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Man, oh man, alive! (I don’t really know what that means, but I heard it in an old movie, and it somehow fits the experience I just had.)


Bureaucracy. It kills happy thoughts faster than a needle pops an overinflated balloon.

It all started when I received a late notice for a student loan on Saturday.
Only, there was no way the payment was late. I had paid. Early, in fact.

So this morning was spent on the phone with the ‘bureau’ that has my student loan.

It only took about an hour to finally find out what had happened.

  1. I paid my payment, due February 14, on February 4th (10 days early).
  2. On February 9th the ‘bureau’ changed my status and cut my payment nearly in half. (Nice!) I was not notified of the change.
  3. On February 14th, my account was marked as delinquent since in the 5 days since the status had changed I hadn’t paid this new, more reasonable amount. (Not nice!)
  4. To add to the craziness I was told that the payment I’d already sent for March, which is just short of twice the new payment I owe, wouldn’t even bring the account up-to-date. I would need to send more money.
Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?
So I argued, and argued, and argued that they couldn’t bill me twice in one month, and I shouldn’t be dinged for a mistake they made.
I was told repeatedly that the black mark on my account would stay, and that I needed to send in more money.
So much for logic and commonsense.
After an hour of arguing I asked for a supervisor.
After another 30 minute wait I got to talk to one. She put me on hold for a while and finally agreed that the mistake was their’s, I was not late, and I did not need to send extra money. She even promised to fix it all, if I would give her 2-3 days so she could send it to the proper department.
Lovely.
Now I’ll have to check back at the end of the week to make sure everything is cleared up. Because it’s about as easy to trust bureaucracy as it is to spell it.
Wish me luck! I want those happy thoughts back!

Over a house? Really?

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My husband and I are shopping for a new home.  It’s a horrible process that’s brought me in contact with an unbelievable number of houses that I’ve hated, a few houses I’ve liked, and two that made me feel like I was coming home.

Those two we put offers on.

In each case, as I waited to hear good news from our broker, I’d gaze at the pictures of the my new house online and plan what color I’d paint each room. I’d choose where I’d put my office. I’d imagine innumerable holiday celebrations, barbecues, and birthday parties.

In other words, I let myself believe, and believe rather strongly, that the house would be ours. That it was fate.

Only it wasn’t. In both instances, we were outbid.

I feel a little silly admitting that with the loss of each house I went through a version of the grieving process.

It hurt.

But never, not in a million years, would I ever dream of revenge as solution to my out-of-proportion grief. Especially not against the people who outbid me. People who most likely were just like my family, looking for a good home to build some great memories.

So when I heard about the woman in San Diego I could only shake my head.
Where has all the commonsense gone?

In case you haven’t heard about it, here’s one of the many articles written about the whole mess:
http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-dream-house-20141126-story.html

With adults who should know better acting like this, it’s little wonder many of our teens bully each other.

Blah!

By the way, she ruined this family’s life, targeted them with all kinds of mayhem, and that’s all the punishment she gets?
Sheesh!

 

Gray Zone review of note

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A review was just posted for Gray Zone on Goodreads, and it’s fantastic!

I’ll give you a snippet, so you can get a taste. It’s worth going to Goodreads to read the entire thing.

Outbid

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I feared it would happen.

And it did.

The lovely little house I wanted so much–the house that captured my heart and imagination–will never be mine.
Sigh.
It belongs to another.

I’ll mourn it’s loss, oh, for another day or so. And then I’ll move on.

The house would have been a great place for my family to build memories.
One look at the place and visions of family dinners, celebrations, and backyard barbecues popped into my head.

No matter. Even without the house, we’ll still build great memories.

Just not in that house.

Goodbye little house!
It would have been fun.

Enamored with a house

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I am enamored with a house.

It’s not the most beautiful house in the world. Or the biggest. But it’s for sale in my price range, and I  want it!

As soon as I walked through it I saw it’s potential. It would make a wonderful home. A place we could snuggle in and create a whole new set of wonderful memories.

Who cares if the fireplace doesn’t work, or that it has only one bathroom? Fireplaces can be fixed, and bathrooms added.
Who cares if the window sills show signs they were at one time tiled and desperately need fixing? I know how to sand and paint.
Who cares if the kitchen has almost no cabinet space? A pantry would fit in perfectly, right over there.

Ooh! Maybe we could add a porch in the back, with some lovely stairs leading down to that big, wonderful, currently overcrowded basement that you can only get to by going outside.

It really doesn’t matter, because even if we can’t do those things, I’m still enamored.

It is a house with tons of potential.

What more could I want?

(Hmm. Maybe not to be outbid?)

 

Scripts and rewrites

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I received coverage on my newest script, Haunting Engagement, the other day.

I’ll admit it. When someone critiques my work my first, gut response is to be offended. “Why don’t they get it,” is usually my first thought, followed by, “They didn’t read close enough,” and “How dare they!”

Which is understandable. After all, criticizing my writing is criticizing me. I created that story. It’s my brainchild, the product of my imagination. An intimate look into my very soul.

Fortunately, those thoughts only last a few seconds before my brain kicks into overdrive. Especially when I realize that the script reader’s comments are RIGHT. I could do a better job at character development. I did make a mistake by removing that character from the story too soon. The conflict could be ratcheted up to create more tension.

So even though I have one of those nasty colds that often visits this time of year, I’ve been busy rewriting. What else can I do when walking across the room tires me out like I’d just completed a 26 mile marathon.

Besides, now that I know the flaws exist, I have to fix them. I’m embarrassed at the thought that my script is out there but not really ready.

(There were some really good comments made also, but who can see those amidst the bad ones?)


So I spent eight hours on the script one day and five another. Then I reread the comments and reevaluated. Another few hours brought me to the point where I’d addressed all the comments and I felt the script was as good as I could make it.

For now, at least. The more I write, the more I learn. And the beauty of an un-produced script is that it can always be changed.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!