DTA reborn!

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Now, there wasn’t really anything wrong with Department of Temporal Adjustment’s old cover. Not really. It just fell a little short.     

So T (yes, the same T of the phone fiasco) wanted to create a totally unique cover for DTA. A cover that better represented the nuances of the book. A cover that would draw the reader’s eye and spark interest.

I think she succeeded. I love it, and it is now available almost everywhere! (Although, if you really, really, really want an old cover, I am sure there are a few of them still out there floating around.)

I am very happy and pleased with this new cover. It is quirky and unique (which is what some people have said about the book). I adore the way the profile serves as hands of the clock. And the way she left numbers off the face of the clock to show that time was being worked on…well, it’s brilliant! T certainly shows a lot of talent, and all I can really say is that she did a fantastic job!

Conversing with fifth graders

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They are not all like this, but here are a few of the conversations I’ve had during various question and answer periods at elementary school author visits. These all occurred with fifth graders:

Student: “Have your books made a million dollars yet?”
Me: “No.”
Student: “How much have you made?”
Me: “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”
Student: “Why?”
Me: “It’s private.”
Student: “No it’s not. You’re an author, you have to tell.”
*****
Student: “Can I have a free book?”
Me: “No.”
Student: “Why not?”
Me: “Because there are no free books.”
Student: “Don’t you get free books?”
Me: “No. I have to pay for them too.”
Student: “That’s stupid! You should get them free!”
*****
Student: “Can I be an author?”
Me: “Do you like to read?”
Student: “No, I hate reading?”
Me: “If you hate reading, why do you want to write?”
Student: “I don’t want to write, I want to be famous and make lots of money the easy way!”

Most of the time fifth graders are great, but sometimes they make me sigh.

A knock on the door

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Friday I was working upstairs in the office, when I heard a knock on the door. I rushed down the stairs and threw open the door, sure that the person at the door was one of my daughters dropping by for a visit.

Imagine my surprise when I can face to face with a medium height, medium build, clean-cut blonde man standing on my doorstep.

“Oh,” he said with a smile on his face. “I was looking for Allison.”
“Allison?” I asked, still confused by finding the wrong person standing at my door.
“Yes, I guess I have the wrong house.”
“Allison? I’m afraid I don’t know any Allisons around here.”
“Well, sorry to bother you.”

And he left. The funny thing was, he didn’t go knock on any of my neighbors’ houses, like I expected. Instead he hurried to his car and drove off.

Fast forward to last night, Monday night, when my husband and I were sitting in the living room.
“You know,” my husband began, “I read on our community blog that there are guys going around the neighborhood knocking on doors.”
“Knocking on doors?” I asked, still only half listening.
“Yeah. And if no one answers they break in and rob the house.”
“Knocking on doors?” I repeat again, but this time with a gulp. My husband’s words have now caught my full attention.
“Yes. So be careful. It is happening a lot in our neighborhood right now.”
“Knocking on doors?” I ask for a third time, probably because my shocked brain was no longer working correctly.
“Right, knocking on doors. So be sure to answer the door if you are home, so they won’t break in while you are there. But maybe you should not open the door until you know who it is, just in case.”

Okay, I’ll admit to being thoroughly freaked out. My one consolation is that my dog, Pepper, barked at the man the entire time he stood at my door. Hopefully her 20 pounds of bouncing fur coupled with those ferocious high pitched yelps will be enough to keep him from coming back.

To spell, or not to spell

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I interviewed with a woman a few months ago, and was thoroughly amazed by what I learned.

It seems that this particular woman, a well educated employee of UW, has a little trouble with her spelling.

So what does she do to check the correct spelling of the word? Does she look it up in the dictionary or possibly ask a friend?

No. She opens a browser and types the word into Google as she thinks it should be spelled. If she gets a hit, she knows she has spelled it correctly.

Does anyone else see a problem with this?

The Smell of Bureaucracy

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It all started with a phone call, or to be more exact, 4 phone calls.

My daughter had lost her phone on the Metro bus, but had been assured by the finder that it had been turned in to Metro’s Lost & Found. Yet each call to the L&F resulted in the same line, “We don’t have a phone like that.” Finally, in desperation, I asked if we visit the L&F and look through the found phones ourselves. “No problem,” was the reply, “we’ll let you dig away to your hearts content.”

My daughter (I’ll call her T) and I walked into the Lost & Found and were instantly greeted by the smell of stale smoke and a very solid glass window open 6 inches at about waist level. Through the window we could see a man sitting across the room at a desk that was so covered in papers that I knew an avalanche must be imminent.

“May I help you?” the man asked, not even looking up from his computer.
“We are looking for a phone my daughter lost on the bus. The person who found the phone texted that they left it here, at the Lost & Found, with a note. She came by while your office was closed for lunch.”
“Type of phone?”
“Samsung.”
“Carrier.”
“Verizon.”
“What bus was it lost on?”
“Well, I doubt the girl wrote that on the note she left with the phone. She probably…”
“What bus was it lost on?”
“71”
“Color?”
“Dark blue.”
“We don’t have it,” came the gruff response after a few more strokes to the keyboard.
“Could you look again. The girl specifically said she brought it by herself.”
“When was it lost?”
“It was lost this weekend, but I think the girl only brought it by Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Hmmm, we do have a blue phone that was left here over a week ago,” the man stated as he got up from his desk, walked out of sight for a moment, and then reappeared with a phone that looked like it had been run over by a bus. For the first time he looked in our direction as he placed the wrecked phone in my daughter’s outstretched hand.
“That’s not my phone,” T stated firmly, and she handed the phone back to the man.
“Well, we don’t have any other phones. I’ve looked through them all.”
“But,” my daughter said anxiously, “the girl said that she left the phone here with a note on it…”
“Why didn’t you say so,” the man interrupted as he dug his hand deep into the pile of papers on his desk. “That was the information you needed to give me, your phone is right here. I didn’t put it into the system since the note said someone would be coming by to pick it up.”
And with that, T was handed her phone.
We thanked the man and left, happy the whole frustrating ordeal was over so we could leave the stuffy little room and get a breath of fresh air.
Funny that even in these days of non-smoking buildings, bureaucracy still smells like stale smoke.

Lost & Found

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Saturday my daughter (I’ll call her T) lost her phone on the bus. The same phone that is absolutely necessary to her life, since it is a lifeline to family and friends, it organizes her schedule, and it even wakes her up in the morning.

Luckily T’s roommate, a quick thinker, immediately texted the missing phone with the message “Please call when you find this phone. The owner needs it back.”

And so a call was received. The young woman on the line said that she had arrived home after work one day to find her little brother in possession of a new phone. He loved it, and had no intention of parting with it. He particulary loved “all the cool art” that was on the phone. (My daughter is an art major, and had taken pictures of her paintings to show us, using her phone.)

Fortunately for my daughter, the older sister had a conscience and was more hard-headed than her little brother. She put the pressure on and convinced the youngster to give up his prize. (Which no longer had service. I immediately disconnected it when I found it was no longer in T’s possession.)

And so, everything turned out okay, right?

Not quite. Today is Thursday, and we still don’t have the phone. Even though we have received several texts from the girl stating that she had turned the phone into Metro’s Lost and Found, the staff of the L&F state that they don’t have it, try again another day.

Nothing like a good run-around to get the blood flowing!

Holly’s Pet Peeve

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I was just watching The Talk. The topic of the day was pet peeves, of which most of us have plenty.

Holly just became an instant friend of mine with the following comment:

She said, “you know those people who are not real blondes, who say that they are having a blond moment?”
Pause for effect.
“What they are really having is a peroxide moment!”

Loved it.

(P.S. I’ve lived every day of my life as a blond, and therefore have heard more blond jokes than anyone should be subjected to. Never, ever, would I say that I was having a blond moment! And in case anyone wonders, I’m not particularly fond of those blond jokes.)

The Lemonade Stand

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Yesterday a person I’ve never met tore out my heart and nailed it to the wall. I had no way to change the situation, so I decided to process the pain by writing a story about it.

Here is The Lemonade Stand. The names, and events, have been changed to protect the innocent.

**************************************************

Once upon a time there was a girl named Sammie who really wanted a dog. Really, really wanted a dog.

Her parents never understood where this love of dogs came from, since Sammie had rarely been around any dogs. Sure, there was the neighbor’s poodle, Fluffy. But Fluffy had a tendency to bite, so Sammie was kept well away from the little beast.

But Sammie loved dogs nonetheless. Her first word was dog, her favorite stuffed animal was a Huskie, and when she played with dolls, she pretended that they crawled around on all fours growling and barking.

So when Sammie turned 12 her parents made a deal with her. Since their main gripe about pet ownership had been the cost, they agreed to let Sammie have a dog if she footed all the bills.

Summer had just started so Sammie agreed enthusiastically and started right away to earn the cash. She spent the first week building a stylish little lemonade stand, and then decorated it with a red and white striped awning she had sewn herself. The wooden part of the stand she painted white, and then livened it up with bright yellow lemons. The stand had only cost her the price of the fabric for the awning, since her dad had allowed her to use whatever materials she could find in the backyard shed.

She then moved to the next stage. With the little bit of money she had left over from her last birthday she bought the ingredients she would need for her lemonade. She experimented with several mini batches until she had the perfect recipe. It was time to go into business.

The next day she sat up her stand in front of her house, and was thrilled with the success of her enterprise. Customers came, paid, drank, and then came again. Weeks went by and it became clear that Sammie’s lemonade stand was a success. Every night Sammie counted up her earnings and dreamed of the day she could go to the shelter and claim Pepper, the cute little Schnoodle she had seen there, as her own pet.

July rolled around and Sammie felt sure she would soon reach her goal. As she looked up and down the street to see if any of her regular customers were around she noticed a teenage girl watching her from the distance. After a few minutes of inaction, the girl walked over to Sammie.

“So, how’s business?”
“It’s good,” Sammie replied. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“I might,” the girl said slowly, “but what I think I really would like is to help you out.”
“Help me?”
“Sure! I have lots and lots of friends. You give me a couple glasses of lemonade today, and I’ll tell all my friends how great it is. You’ll have so much business you won’t know what to do.”
“Well, I don’t know….”
“Come on, you’ve got nothing to lose but a little lemonade.”
“I don’t understand why you want to help me. What’s in it for you?”
“I like to help people,” the girl said with a shrug. “And besides, I’m thirsty and I don’t have any money with me.”

Sammie thought a moment, and then decided that the girl was right. She could afford to give away a little of her lemonade if it meant she would get new customers. She filled up the biggest glass she had and gave it to the girl. The girl drank it down, gave a satisfied smile, and waved goodbye.

The next morning, Sammie skipped out of the house, a pitcher in each hand, ready for another successful day of money-making. The pitchers crashed to the ground and shattered, lemonade soaking her from the knees down, as her eyes were assaulted by the sight before her. Instead of a lemonade stand there were small pieces of red and white fabric stuck in bushes and trees, and piles of yellow and white sticks carefully laid out to spell “YOU STINK”.

Heartbroken, Sammie sat down on the sidewalk and cried. All her hard work–gone. How could she earn enough money for that cute little Schnoodle without a stand? And she needed to hurry, because Pepper was one of the cutest dogs in the pound. If she didn’t adopt her soon, someone else probably would.

Out of the corner of her eye Sammie saw a piece of paper stuck under the sticks that made up the letter “S”. With a shaky hand she reached out and gently pulled it to her. Turning it over she read:

This will teach you to trust strangers. I hate you, I hate all you stupid kids that think you can just put up a lemonade stand whenever you want a little pocket change. I would never help you sell your stinky lemonade. If you want to make money get a real job.
The Avenger

Sammie crumpled up the note and shoved it into her pocket. She looked up and down the street but there was no one in sight.

“I’ll show her!” Sammie muttered as anger replaced sadness. “I don’t know what would make a person be so mean–to destroy just because she can–but I won’t let her stop me. I built that stand once, and I can do it again!”

Sammie jumped up and energetically began to gather up the remnants of her lemonade stand. She had no time to lose. After she piled the mess in the backyard she ran over to the shed and jerked open the door. There were still quite a few pieces of unused wood, and an entire can of white paint. She could rebuild. She would rebuild.

And so, just a few days after a mean spirited bully took it upon herself to try to destroy the dreams of one girl, the lemonade stand was back in business.

And Sammie, well Sammie was more determined than ever. And a little wiser.

eGawkers beware!

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Unless you live in a cave deep in the earth–with no Internet, no television, no newspapers, and no radio–you must have heard about Charlie Sheen’s latest antics. It is very clear that the poor man is no longer slipping into insanity, he has climbed right past the Wall of Reality and is executing a swan dive into the Pit of Delusion that would warrant a 10 in the Olympics.

Now here’s the thing. I don’t understand eGawkers. I was blown away to hear that over 2 million people began to follow Charlie Sheen on Twitter after he began his great descent. Talk about sending the guy the wrong message!

I’ve seen gawkers before, with the worst offenders usually clogging the highway while trying to get a glimpse of every little fender bender.

But 2 million! 2 million in less than 2 days!

Curiosity is one thing, but as these 2 million plus followers inhale the breath of insanity they signed up to receive, I wonder how many of them understand how the brain uses the information it encounters? Do they understand that their reality is built on the building blocks they provide through their daily interactions with the world?

In other words, do they understand that a steady stream of insane rantings…

Over 2 million. My, oh my!

Adding spice

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As I approach the halfway point of the rewrites–

What?

Yes, I said rewrites.

I know, I know. I mentioned earlier that I was finished with Gray Zone, but I lied. Well, not really lied, I had just forgotten about these last, necessary, rewrites.

I agree. All rewrites are necessary, but these are particularly so. Now is when I add the spice, fine tune the flavor.

Let me explain. As I do these rewrites, I go chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word.

In each case I look for places where I should make cuts, where fewer words would be better.

Then I look to see if the scene is well-built. Did I leave out anything that is important? When the reader reads this scene, will he see in his mind the scene I intend?

What about the dialog? Do the words coming out of the characters’ mouths run true to form?

This particular rewriting phase requires me to read aloud. I listen to the words as they roll off my tongue. I spice it up with vivid words, colorful language, and pithy sayings. Because really, who wants to read a bland book!

In many ways, this is the hardest of the rewrites. It requires intense concentration, dedication, and patience.

But it is worth the pain…I mean effort. You see, without this particular rewrite, Gray Zone would be a pleasing Sunday Brunch, while with it, it is more akin to a gourmet meal fit for the most discriminating tastes.

It is all in the technique, and the spice!

Okay, okay. So it is me, calling it a gourmet meal. Why don’t you read it for yourself and find out?

I dare you!