On edge

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I’m rather on edge at the moment.

I launched an Indiegogo campaign to raise funds for Gray Zone, so I can promote it after it’s published. It hasn’t been easy for me to do since I absolutely hate asking for money.

The problem is that my publisher has a very small budget for marketing and if I want the book to be successful it’s up to me to push it into the public eye. I’ve tried to promote my books in the past, but frankly I’m not very good at it. I need professional help, and that requires money.

Maybe the discomfort I feel asking for money shows through. I’ve only had one person donate, my wonderful, supportive sister. She jumped in to donate pretty much as soon as I posted the link to the campaign.

If I don’t raise the funds I guess I’ll have to hobble along doing things my in my own inept way.
Only, isn’t that the definition of crazy? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

I began this by stating that I’m on edge. You might ask “Why?”

Well, you see, when I put myself out there to ask for help with the Indiegogo campaign it’s like I’m walking into a room full of friends, family, and strangers. The reaction I receive will go a long way toward letting me know how people feel about me and my work.

My husband says I shouldn’t take it personally if no one contributes. But how can I not?

A donation will let me know that someone has confidence in my ability to tell a story.
A tweet will tell me that someone believes I can write a compelling tale that can really make a difference.
A mention on social media will inform me that someone believes in me and my writing.

So here I am, walking into that room. I’ll have to wait to see if anyone, other than my sister, will turn to me and say “Hello, we’re glad you’re here!”

Or if they will just turn their backs and walk away.

It’s the thought of rejection that is unnerving.

Wouldn’t you be on edge?

 

I sit down to write

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Writing is an interesting occupation. It requires a level of concentration that isn’t always easy to reach.

I sit down to write but realize my coffee cup is empty. Off I go to my espresso machine.
I sit down to write and the phone rings. I jump up to answer, but it’s someone trying to sell me a duct cleaning service–we don’t have ducts.
I sit down to write and the dog barks. I jump up to calm her. I don’t want her to bother the neighbors.
I sit down to write but a dirty sock catches my eye. I put aside my computer, dig through the hamper, and throw a load of clothes into the washing machine.
I sit down to write and my stomach growls. I go to grab a bite to eat and realize I’m out of groceries. I grab the car keys and head out the door. Writing will have to wait. I have things I need to do.

Then magic happens.
I sit down to write and as I type the story grabs me, shakes me around, and tosses me in the air. My surroundings fade away. I am no longer in my makeshift office in a dark corner of my bedroom, but in a world where anything can happen. A world of my creation.
The phone rings, but I don’t hear.
The dog barks, but she is just a far off note from another time and place.
My coffee grows cold, my stomach growls, and chores remain undone.

None of that matters.
I’m meeting new people.
Traveling in a distant world.
Imagining a different time and place.
Unraveling the mysteries of science and invention.
Building a universe unlike any other, one where I make the rules and control fate.

I’m in the zone and all is right in the world.
All because I sit down to write.

Secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bully

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Ever since I was a child I’ve been a champion for the weak. My sense of empathy seems to be a bit overdeveloped. Seeing any creature in pain tears me apart.

I know I’m a strong person, so I’ve never thought of myself as a victim.

Even now, when I live near a secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bully.

Yep. This man has gotten it into his twisted little brain that I’m a ready target for his bullying. He thinks I’m the victim type.

Well that certainly shows a lack of intelligence on his part!

For more than six years every wave, every smile, every offer of friendship I’ve sent his way has been rebuffed. Usually with a sneer.

He makes friends with the other neighbors, waves merrily and says a chatty ‘hello’.

But me, I get a sneer.

Secretive! No one else in the neighborhood even suspects his true nature.

Maybe he doesn’t like blondes. We are rather scary, after all.

He’s demonstrated his bully tendencies on multiple occasions, when he’s ambushed me in the driveway to yell about imagined grievances. I’ve noticed that he choses his time wisely. He never attacks when my husband is at home.

As a matter of fact, he’s never said a single word to my husband, or subjected him to a sneer.

The chicken hearted bully!

For the past six years he’s run an “irritation campaign” against my family. He has a whole series of inconsiderate things he does on a regular basis, all while we’re not looking.

Most–like letting his dog “go” in our yard, parking one foot too far so there is no place for us to park, and letting his bushes grow over so that our shared driveway becomes unuseable–could be mistaken for accidents.

But I know these things aren’t accidents because during one of his rants he told me that he did them intentionally. He actually bragged about it, with a smirk.

Creepy!

Frankly, I wish this bully would drop the secretive, creepy part and just stick to the yelling. I could handle out-and-out confrontation much better, since the ammunition he tries to use against me is as fragile and insubstantial as those cheap bubbles they sell at the dollar store.

Pop. Pop. Pop. He’s yet to get the upper hand in any of our direct confrontations.

His problem is that he doesn’t think things through. Anger bubbles up from a volcano hidden in his spleen and bipasses his brain completely.

So pop, pop, pop and all his ammo is gone.

I’ll admit that having a bully so close makes my life more stressful. Home should be a peaceful place, a sanctuary where joys are embraced and trouble forgotten.

But it is what it is. I’ll do my best to ignore the miasma of poison he sends my way and enjoy the home my husband and I have worked so hard to create.

And if he ambushes me again, I’m ready. I’m always ready. I’m not a victim, I am a fighter. Usually I fight for the underdog, but hey, I’m sure I’ve got a little scrappiness left over to fight for myself.

Because if the last six years are any indication he’ll throw his abuse my way again.

It’s what all secretive, creepy, chicken hearted bullies do.

 

A daughter’s words

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Motherhood told through a daughter’s words.

Ma ma. Mamamamamamamamamamamama. Ma ma ma.

No! Just mommy!
Mommy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?
Mommy, you don’t need to hold my hand. I’m a big girl.
Mama, will you help me with my homework?
Mama, will you fix my hair?
Mama, will you help me with my project?
Mama, will you take me shopping?
Mama, will you drive me to my friend’s house?
Please don’t talk to my friend’s parents! I’ll be so embarrassed.
Mom, can I borrow some of your clothes? I have a project at school and I need to look old.
I need to borrow the car. I’m going to a friend’s house. See you later, Mom.
Mother, I need a dressy jacket. Oh, is this all you’ve got? I could never wear any of these, they’re so out of style.
Mother, are you really going to wear that? Out of the house?
Sorry I can’t come to dinner, Mom. I’ve got plans.
Wait, Mom! You’re holding the baby wrong.
Mom, can you watch the kids? You’d never believe how much work it is to raise children! Oh no, Mom, the books say that is the wrong way to raise kids!
Oh, Mom! How did you ever put up with us when we were teenagers?
Mom, I love you!

A DIY in a HSTDI world

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As I turned the corner I noticed a man in my neighbor’s driveway busy taking the car seats out of the neighbor’s car. As I continued walking, he continued removing bits of the car. Before I drew level with my neighbor’s house a good portion of the interior of the car was strewn about the front yard.

I couldn’t help but be curious. Then I noticed the truck loaded with cleaning supplies parked in front of my neighbor’s house and I realized what was happening.

The neighbor was having the car detailed. Right there in the driveway. The car was stripped bare, naked for all the world to see.

I looked away, somewhat embarrassed. I had never seen a car detailed in such a public manner before. It felt almost like I had pulled back a curtain and discovered someone taking a shower. Like my very presence was an intrusion, an invasion of privacy.

I hurried back to my own house. As I closed the door I thought about the many different workers I passed every day as I walked my dog and I was struck by an epiphany.

I was a Do-It-Yourselfer living in a Hire-Someone-To-Do-It neighborhood.

No wonder I sometimes felt so out of place!

The people of my neighborhood have groceries delivered, hire contractors to remodel, maids to clean their house, dog walkers to exercise their dogs, landscapers to mow their grass, and even nannies to raise their children.

And those are just the things I know about. For all I know many of my neighbors may have personal chefs who prepare a daily menu of nutritious and tasty food while a personal assistant pays their bills for them.

The odd thing is that I don’t live in a ritzy neighborhood. I have no idea how all my neighbors have so much disposable cash.

Part of me wonders why they don’t just do the work themselves. The other part of me is jealous.

I probably should do a little digging in my yard. The only explanation I can come up with is that my neighborhood is built on an oil reserve. Maybe I can find my own source of disposable cash.

GUSHER!

Learning to fly in Tweetland

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In March I wrote about my efforts to jump into social networking on Facebook. I compared it to walking a tightrope across the ocean.

Now I’m tackling Twitter (twitter.com/veronicatabares), and have found it’s pretty much like jumping off a cliff. I’d better learn to fly pretty fast, or I just might regret it.

I’ve had a Twitter account for a couple of years but it was extremely lame. I had twelve followers, and I followed about nineteen people.

So a couple of days ago I decided it was time to get my act together. I prettified my Twitter page and contacted an acquaintance who said she could help me find a few followers to get me started.

After a day she contacted me to say I now had several thousand followers. I thanked her and went to take a look.

Sure enough, I had thousands of followers, and as I watched the number kept inching higher.

Nettiquette (or should I say twitteriquette) requires me to return the favor and follow my followers. So I began the tedious process of clicking on each follower, reading about him/her, and following the ones who seemed appropriate for me.

After about an hour I looked and found I had only followed about 150 people. At that rate I’d be spending weeks just following.

So I took a short cut and randomly followed the next 50 people. Then I turned off my computer. I was done for the day.

This morning I opened my Twitter account and found some very suspicious feeds. It took very little checking to discover that one of those last 50 people I had randomly followed was a very bad choice. I blush just remembering the posts I read.

So it is back to the slow and steady approach. I will check each and every person I follow from now on.

I plan to reciprocate with as many of my followers as I can, but it might take me a while. As of this morning I didn’t have several thousand, I had many several thousand of followers.


Gulp!


I wonder how many of them are real people?


I guess I’d better start flapping my arms. It’s time to learn how to fly around Tweetland.

 

Identity theft?

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Now I’ve seen everything!

Yesterday I was searching the Internet, trying to find any new review that might have been posted for one of my books.

I came across this photo.

I recognized it immediately. It’s a picture of me at about 4 years old. I have an exact duplicate of this picture in my photo album. A real, physical photo album.
My cousin had posted it on her Facebook page and tagged it as me a couple of years ago.
Now here’s where things get strange. The photo was not from my cousin’s page, but had been reposted to three separate pages and had been tagged as being three separate people. None of them me.
Is this a new form of identity theft? Is my childhood being stolen?
Or have I just entered…the Twilight Zone?
Da – da – dum!

 

Why so fascinating?

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I’m not really sure why the sight of a half demolished house is so fascinating.

 

Maybe it reminds us of unfinished business.

Or the promise of what will be. What wonderful structure will take its place.

Or it could simply be that a half destroyed house sparks our imagination. Allows us to see that big yellow machine licking its jagged lips in preparation for the next crunchy bite.

I’m not sure why the sight of a half demolished house is so fascinating. It just is.

Department of Temporal Adjustment video review

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I remember well those days of waiting for a baby to be born. No matter what else was going on in the world, that due date seemed to creep closer at an ultra slow speed.
Or at least that was how it was for me.
Thank you, Tina, for taking the time and effort to make this video. I sincerely appreciate it!
Good luck with your new addition!

A day begins

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People in this black and white world are milling around, laughing and talking as they choose food from the buffet, but I can hear no sound.
I move to the center of the room where I spot a small child, a girl with the slightly flattened features typical of children born with Down Syndrome, sitting alone and dejected at a table.
As I watch a woman places one hand on the child’s chair and uses her other to set a plate heaped with food onto the table in front of the girl.
Instantly, the child’s frown transforms into a smile and her happiness seems to light up the room.
Crash. A sound breaks through the barrier of my dream and I can feel myself being pulled through a long dark tunnel toward consciousness.
Click, click, shuffle, ping.  As the noises become clearer I realize that any chance I have of
returning to my dream state is quickly fading.
Sizzle, scrape, slap. The smell of French toast wafts into the room and I breathe deeply to capture as much of the delicious aroma as I can.

Click, rrrrr, click.  Now the heady fragrance of freshly made espresso invades the room and tickles my nose.
With a sigh I concede defeat, push aside my warm blankets, and swing my feet over the edge of the bed. As my bare feet hit the hard, cold floor it becomes official—I am awake and the day has begin.