A scene from Time Without.
jokester who locked the door?”
Why did that voice sound so familiar to me?
my face!”
said to be quiet.”
could figure out—
A scene from Time Without.
I think I’ve chosen the wrong profession.
As writer I spend hours, days, sometimes even years working on projects that might not make a single penny. All the work is done upfront, but payment is never a sure thing.
There are no guarantees. I get paid only when someone buys a book. Period.
Compare that to house inspectors. Yesterday I hired one to inspect a house my husband and I wanted to make an offer on. He showed up and began the inspection, but almost immediately realized that the house was a money pit. Everything was falling apart, and the cost of the repairs would break our budget.
I was given the choice to stop the inspection and told that since he had other billable work he could move on to, he wouldn’t charge me for the time he hadn’t spent of the job.
Sounded good to me. He wouldn’t lose out since he could pick up a job he had thought he didn’t have time for, and I could refrain from paying for work I now didn’t need.
Later that evening I got the bill. $391.40. I asked if it was a mistake, but was assured that the figure was correct. The bill was almost $400, for less than 30 minutes of work.
Which is why I just might consider changing careers.
I could handle crawling around in creepy crawlspaces, couldn’t I?
Believe it or not, the book is NOT about a monster. Not that you could tell by what I wrote today. Here’s a small excerpt.
I gulped as I
remembered the rusted hinges and the hidden lock on the door. Someone had wanted
that door to remain closed, probably to keep out the monster standing in the
doorway.I had unlocked that door. Whatever happened next, it was my
fault.A quick scan of the room showed me that there was not a calm
face in sight. Everyone in the room shared Dr. Wilson’s dread of the unknown
creature.The monster took a step forward, which unnerved me, but not
as much as the whoosh of air that suddenly blew past my arm.Even before I turned and saw the flash of white disappear
around the corner, I knew what had happened.We had been abandoned, ditched, left to fend for ourselves.
Every man in the room, including Dr. Wilson, had turned tail and run.My daughters and I were alone in the room. Alone, that was, except
for the monster.I watched in horror as the creature took another step into
the room and reached out a claw to grab the doorknob.At this point, I panicked. The only way out would take us
directly in front of that door. So I did the only thing I could think of. I
shoved my children down to the floor and tossed myself on top of them. If we
were lucky, the monster wouldn’t notice us. But if it did, at least it would
have to go through me before it got to my kids.
A little rough, I know. But that’s how first drafts should be. I’ll clean it up and make it all pretty in the rewrites.
Don’t let those reality house hunting shows fool you. House hunting isn’t as simple as a broker showing you three houses, you choose your favorite, and BOOM, you’ve got a house.
Especially not in Seattle, where the housing market is a hot mess.
My husband and I should know, since we’ve been in the trenches for six months.
Six months of diligently searching house-for-sale sites. We found it’s necessary to search multiple sites, since no one site lists all the homes. We finally narrowed it to three favorites, Windermere, Redfin, and Zillow.
The problem is that by this time we’ve had six months of scanning beautiful houses pics, only to be disappointed with the in-person viewing.
Pictures might be worth a thousand words, but not all of those words are truthful.
Photoshop, you’ve got a lot of ‘splaining to do!
We don’t want to waste anyone’s time so we only put an offer in if it seems we can be competitive. Yet we’ve been outbid four times. Four times!
I’ve never seen that happen in those reality shows.
The last house we lost, just yesterday, was the worst.
The house went on the market late Tuesday night. I visited it Thursday morning, and liked it. My broker checked with the seller’s broker Thursday night and was told they would be reviewing offers on Sunday. We ordered an inspection for Friday morning. (Cost = $409)
I showed up in the middle of the inspection to find my broker upset. He had just gotten a call from the seller’s broker, telling him that the house was sold! His time was wasted, my time was wasted, and my husband and I are out $409. All because the sellers weren’t considerate enough to let us know they were going to change the game midfield.
Now our pocketbook is lighter.
But at least we have an inspection report for a house we’ll never set foot in again in our entire lives!
Update:
Now I am officially impressed. Our broker didn’t like the way things happened, so we’re getting our money back! He said it is the Windermere way.
Wow!
HERE ARE 10 THINGS YOU CAN DO TO HELP SUPPORT YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR.
By Penny Sansevieri
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?
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.
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.
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!