Transition. Change. Movement.
I tend not to like these words. My flesh crawls at the thought of rearranging my set way of operating. It is a situation I must be forced into. Nevertheless, in those times of unavoidable transition, I will shift and wiggle and find a new path to trod. This new way will become comfortable again rather quickly, and soon become my cherished normal. For all of my wailing and warring against the flood waters of change, I know through experience that all is well on the other side of it. Most of the time, change is for the better. So, why do I still not like it?
I am jealous, in a way, of those of us who can take the scalpel of deviation over their lives constantly. They pull away every clinging vine that tethers them to old ways that don't work efficiently and rend the dusty veils of comfortable inactivity until they are not held back by anything. They are lean machines that chug onto a destiny greater and happier for the loss of baggage.
But the truth of me is that I love the old things too much to go free falling into the undiscovered beyond. Give me my antique desk and four walls to clouds and kites any day. (Unless the kite was owned by my great grandmother, then we will talk.) I crave solidity. Change rails against solidity. I rail against change. Its quid pro quo, really.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Without A Net
There is a certain kind of gluttonous insanity to writing. We fill up blank pages with little bits of ourselves, laying them out on the torture tables of opinion and professional dissection. We write because the words strain at the interior of our skulls, fighting for release into the world. The stories will not be denied. They riot like the Cockney/French insanity of Les Mis. Yes, Gavroche, I hear you singing! Now, shut up and let me finish my blog. Geesh! We write and hold on to the whipping post, preparing our backs for the flaying we know must come for the writing to improve.
We soothe ourselves with the gentle salve of our friends praise. Their intentions override their taste and they rave about our wonderful talent. Our belief that we are that good rises like a balloon too daunting for a toddlers grip. Not to worry, it is swiftly pummeled down by our editors, proofreaders, and the multitude of rejection letters in our inboxes.
The worst of these letters are the form returns. You are not even good enough for me to waste my time responding to you. Continue flipping burgers and bother me no more. Of course, this isn't the actual meaning most of the time. Keep repeating that to yourself. The fact is, I would rather see red ink. I would rather someone tell me what they did not like than to shoo me away. I cannot improve on the unknown need.
So we climb to the heights of the big top. We step out on the platform, compelled. The bar swings toward us and we fly through the air, pitching, querying, hoping... Without a net. Here's hoping that we all find an agent or publishing house willing to catch us before we flip.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Do All The Things!
Do you ever step back, look at your calender and all of the things on your "to-do" list and think... where is my straight jacket? A fabric and buckle forced self-hug sounds appropriate right now. Seriously.
My list looks something like this right now:
- Find an agent and/or publisher for Elhannan, Book 1 of the M'Shar Series
- Continue writing book 2 of the series (named, but said name unreleased to the public)
- Crochet 2 infinity scarves for dear friends with scarf-less necks. (Because scarves are hugs you take with you all day.)
- Assemble and sew signature quilt from another friend's birthday party.
- Assemble and sew quilt for youngest daughter's Christmas gift.
- Home school my oldest child. (Gosh, I am sounding more like a pioneer woman as this list grows...)
- Run the social media aspect of my Hubby's election campaign. (Maybe this redeems my cool factor?)
- Be an active part in said campaign by going to events and making myself available to the public at a moments notice.
- Prepare for my girls' dance studio's production of The Nutcracker, in which I am the stage director and Clara's mom. (Did I mention that all of my little family is in this? Yeah. Exciting and very, very busy.)
- Manage to keep my family fed, clothed, and my house in some sort of order... Oh, and feed the dog! Can't forget that! (Have you seen my sanity? I know it was here a minute ago.)
It goes on and on and I add to it constantly. But the honest truth is, I love it. I try to fill my life up with things that power me through their beauty and/or importance. Moments are not given to us to just to drift along and scatter into dust. Time is given to be seized and shaped and fashioned into something lasting. Make memories, create something from a craft that is dying away in this generation video zombies, dive into another person's life and help them to catalyze change for the better. Do something that will leave your imprint on this world when you are gone from it. None of us are promised another moment. Be crazy, embrace the busy, and do everything.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Seolta's Tales: The Great Divide
"Come, one and all!" Seolta moved slowly through the crowded streets, arms outstretched to draw in any who would hear. "The K'darin clan of the K'taran gypsies born out of the great M'Shar people have come to your town to share stories and songs that will woo, excite, and amaze! Follow me!"
Like ants to an apple core, the people shift at his voice. They trail behind him as his hawking turns into song. He leads them all to a large courtyard typically reserved for public executions and punishments. The blood stained stage at the center is decked in multi-colored ribbon and branches full of autumn-hued leaves to ward off any gruesome association. Seolta's song melds into the larger tune that rises from the men and women playing their instruments upon the stage. The cheerful, beckoning melody calls the crowd onward, making their feet dance with every step. Once all are gathered close, Seolta takes his place before the players. The music rises to a sweeping crescendo, then falls to silence.
The crowd stands in awestruck anticipation. The gypsy shows are known far and wide as a thing not to be missed.The Great Seolta allows the silence to settle. He offers a gentle smile and lifts his hands to softly pat at the air.
"Sit, my friends. Take your places upon the grass and I will tell you a tale of sorrow and death... of tragedy and triumph. Open your ears, and your hearts, to a story... a true tale from the history of the M'Shar... The Account of the Great Divide!" Each person settles in quietly as Seolta's dark haired daughter brings out his chair. He perches upon the edge of the seat, and adjusts his waistcoat. His eyes grow sharp as he looks to the far horizon.
"Once, very long ago, our world, Froa, was a place of peace. Then, the Destruction came and brought in war, famine, sickness, and darkness to the hearts of men. Much was lost. The M'Shar people withdrew to the Wastelands of the west to gather beneath the protection of the holy Sagart priesthood there. This was their only hope of protection for, as you all know, the M'Shar follow the Way and cannot fight under any circumstances. The idea was good, in theory, yet the Sagart were fighting their own battles. Many of the elders, along with their dragons, had disappeared and a new threat, the Dragonlords, had arisen to tax their resources even further." The crowd collectively gasps at the mention of the Dragonlords. Several superstitiously cross their chests with the first three fingers of their left hand to ward off evil. Seolta nods and lowers his eyes in empathy before continuing.
"Aye. It was a hard, cold time. And it was in those days that Niress, a young M'Shar herdsman, lived. His family lived in the lush, green land at the eastern feet of the Oburun Mountains along the border here in Coremanda. They resisted the call to the Wastelands because Niress' father worried there would not be enough grazing land for his shadar herd. He held out as long as could be born, but the time had come, and the family began their journey.
Niress' father, mother, little sister, and their white flocked herd traveled the length of the land, skirting the river as they made their way to the wide bridge that leads into Hamarea. They didn't realize that in so doing, they had gained the attention of a raiding party of a Baerlonian tribe. In the dark of night, two of the raiders crossed the river by boat, crept along the shore and into Niress' camp. The shadar were carried off first.
Three at a time, they ferried the gentle beasts across the water until none were left. This would have been enough to feed their tribe for many years, and likely an act that would have gone unpunished. However, one of the raiders had a much darker purpose to his coming. He wanted a bride. Niress' sister, Neela, had lived only nine years by that time, yet his desire was upon her. The evil-hearted raider stole into the family tent and took the girl.
The next morning, the family awoke to their greatest sorrow. The mother and father clung to each other and wailed their pain to Uan's throne, begging for strength and restoration. Niress did not wail. His heart boiled an unquenchable anger that spurred him to action. He tracked the raiders down to the shore. Across the wide water, he saw their boat, but no sign of them. He had never swam before, but, in his rage, he flung himself into the river and flailed with all his might until he made it to the other side. His body sore and weary from the effort, he pulled himself up to rest in the shadow of the boat. It was then that he heard the whimpering.
His sister's little body lay broken and bloody within the hull. She had been left for dead. He crawled in beside her and held her to him. She curled into him like a frightened lamb and told him, with her last breaths, of what they had done to her. He vowed to avenge her abuse and death. He honored her with a funeral pyre and then, weaponless, set out to fulfill his quest.
The raiders made camp within a copse of trees in the valley a short distance from the river. They never had a thought that the peaceful M'Shar would seek revenge, so, as night fell, they drank and reveled in the victory of the raid and the bit of fun they had at the girl's expense. They laughed at her brave refusal of their advances and her pleading cries for them to stop. She would not have made for a good bride, but at least she had been some entertainment. Niress, crouched behind a tree at the edge of their camp and waited.
One by one, the drunken raiders fell asleep and Niress crept out of the shadows. Using one of their own long knives, he kills each one in turn, slitting their throats as if they were shadar to be slaughtered. Then, to warn off any retribution, he hung them from the trees by their feet and made the mark of the M'Shar upon the skin of their stomachs.
Niress returned to his family with the boat Neela died in. He told his father of all that happened and gave the boat to him. Fear, anger, and shame mingled in the older man and he could make no clear decision. He carried the boat on his back and led the way to the Wastelands without a word. Niress' mother begged and pleaded with her husband, but he would not speak. She clung to her son and kissed his face and thanked him, but she feared the repercussions of his going against the Way.
Eventually, the broken family arrived at the gate into the Wastelands. Niress' father called the elders of the clans to meeting and held his son out before him as he told the tale. Niress was given a choice. Admit that his actions were wrong and do penance, or the exile of living death would be upon him as one who departed from the Way.
Niress recalled his sister's face and stood tall amid the people. His voice was unwavering as he spoke the words. 'Consider me as the dead, if you must. I avenged my sister out of love for her and I would do the same again. We live in dangerous times and some one must be willing to protect the M'Shar when the Sagart cannot. I will be that someone... for Neela... for you all, even if I must stand alone!'
With that, the M'Shar stood and turned their backs toward the young man. His mother wailed in sorrow, but was led away. He entered, alone into exile. Yet, he did not leave the Wastelands. In memory of his sister's sacrifice, he took up the boat his father had carried, made a long bow from its wood, and sat vigil at the gate for any that would come to cause harm to the M'Shar within. In the years that followed, many joined his cause, accepting the exile and turning from the Way to protect or avenge their people. In time, the M'Shar of the Way named themselves the Tuatha M'Shar, or true M'Shar, to more completely separate themselves from the warrior sect that grew daily. The separation still exists to this day."
Like ants to an apple core, the people shift at his voice. They trail behind him as his hawking turns into song. He leads them all to a large courtyard typically reserved for public executions and punishments. The blood stained stage at the center is decked in multi-colored ribbon and branches full of autumn-hued leaves to ward off any gruesome association. Seolta's song melds into the larger tune that rises from the men and women playing their instruments upon the stage. The cheerful, beckoning melody calls the crowd onward, making their feet dance with every step. Once all are gathered close, Seolta takes his place before the players. The music rises to a sweeping crescendo, then falls to silence.
The crowd stands in awestruck anticipation. The gypsy shows are known far and wide as a thing not to be missed.The Great Seolta allows the silence to settle. He offers a gentle smile and lifts his hands to softly pat at the air.
"Sit, my friends. Take your places upon the grass and I will tell you a tale of sorrow and death... of tragedy and triumph. Open your ears, and your hearts, to a story... a true tale from the history of the M'Shar... The Account of the Great Divide!" Each person settles in quietly as Seolta's dark haired daughter brings out his chair. He perches upon the edge of the seat, and adjusts his waistcoat. His eyes grow sharp as he looks to the far horizon.
"Once, very long ago, our world, Froa, was a place of peace. Then, the Destruction came and brought in war, famine, sickness, and darkness to the hearts of men. Much was lost. The M'Shar people withdrew to the Wastelands of the west to gather beneath the protection of the holy Sagart priesthood there. This was their only hope of protection for, as you all know, the M'Shar follow the Way and cannot fight under any circumstances. The idea was good, in theory, yet the Sagart were fighting their own battles. Many of the elders, along with their dragons, had disappeared and a new threat, the Dragonlords, had arisen to tax their resources even further." The crowd collectively gasps at the mention of the Dragonlords. Several superstitiously cross their chests with the first three fingers of their left hand to ward off evil. Seolta nods and lowers his eyes in empathy before continuing.
"Aye. It was a hard, cold time. And it was in those days that Niress, a young M'Shar herdsman, lived. His family lived in the lush, green land at the eastern feet of the Oburun Mountains along the border here in Coremanda. They resisted the call to the Wastelands because Niress' father worried there would not be enough grazing land for his shadar herd. He held out as long as could be born, but the time had come, and the family began their journey.
Niress' father, mother, little sister, and their white flocked herd traveled the length of the land, skirting the river as they made their way to the wide bridge that leads into Hamarea. They didn't realize that in so doing, they had gained the attention of a raiding party of a Baerlonian tribe. In the dark of night, two of the raiders crossed the river by boat, crept along the shore and into Niress' camp. The shadar were carried off first.
Three at a time, they ferried the gentle beasts across the water until none were left. This would have been enough to feed their tribe for many years, and likely an act that would have gone unpunished. However, one of the raiders had a much darker purpose to his coming. He wanted a bride. Niress' sister, Neela, had lived only nine years by that time, yet his desire was upon her. The evil-hearted raider stole into the family tent and took the girl.
The next morning, the family awoke to their greatest sorrow. The mother and father clung to each other and wailed their pain to Uan's throne, begging for strength and restoration. Niress did not wail. His heart boiled an unquenchable anger that spurred him to action. He tracked the raiders down to the shore. Across the wide water, he saw their boat, but no sign of them. He had never swam before, but, in his rage, he flung himself into the river and flailed with all his might until he made it to the other side. His body sore and weary from the effort, he pulled himself up to rest in the shadow of the boat. It was then that he heard the whimpering.
His sister's little body lay broken and bloody within the hull. She had been left for dead. He crawled in beside her and held her to him. She curled into him like a frightened lamb and told him, with her last breaths, of what they had done to her. He vowed to avenge her abuse and death. He honored her with a funeral pyre and then, weaponless, set out to fulfill his quest.
The raiders made camp within a copse of trees in the valley a short distance from the river. They never had a thought that the peaceful M'Shar would seek revenge, so, as night fell, they drank and reveled in the victory of the raid and the bit of fun they had at the girl's expense. They laughed at her brave refusal of their advances and her pleading cries for them to stop. She would not have made for a good bride, but at least she had been some entertainment. Niress, crouched behind a tree at the edge of their camp and waited.
One by one, the drunken raiders fell asleep and Niress crept out of the shadows. Using one of their own long knives, he kills each one in turn, slitting their throats as if they were shadar to be slaughtered. Then, to warn off any retribution, he hung them from the trees by their feet and made the mark of the M'Shar upon the skin of their stomachs.
Niress returned to his family with the boat Neela died in. He told his father of all that happened and gave the boat to him. Fear, anger, and shame mingled in the older man and he could make no clear decision. He carried the boat on his back and led the way to the Wastelands without a word. Niress' mother begged and pleaded with her husband, but he would not speak. She clung to her son and kissed his face and thanked him, but she feared the repercussions of his going against the Way.
Eventually, the broken family arrived at the gate into the Wastelands. Niress' father called the elders of the clans to meeting and held his son out before him as he told the tale. Niress was given a choice. Admit that his actions were wrong and do penance, or the exile of living death would be upon him as one who departed from the Way.
Niress recalled his sister's face and stood tall amid the people. His voice was unwavering as he spoke the words. 'Consider me as the dead, if you must. I avenged my sister out of love for her and I would do the same again. We live in dangerous times and some one must be willing to protect the M'Shar when the Sagart cannot. I will be that someone... for Neela... for you all, even if I must stand alone!'
With that, the M'Shar stood and turned their backs toward the young man. His mother wailed in sorrow, but was led away. He entered, alone into exile. Yet, he did not leave the Wastelands. In memory of his sister's sacrifice, he took up the boat his father had carried, made a long bow from its wood, and sat vigil at the gate for any that would come to cause harm to the M'Shar within. In the years that followed, many joined his cause, accepting the exile and turning from the Way to protect or avenge their people. In time, the M'Shar of the Way named themselves the Tuatha M'Shar, or true M'Shar, to more completely separate themselves from the warrior sect that grew daily. The separation still exists to this day."
Friday, September 27, 2013
Work & Cookies: The Aftermath of a Lesson
Did you know that the recommended word count for a query is around 300 words? 300. That is it. And the vast majority of those words should be about your book. Not you as a writer, not bonding with the agent (although this part is reeeeeeeeally important), not your marketing platform, and not (seriously, don't do this) your possible pitches for other books you may have hanging on the line if they don't fall in love with what you are pitching now.
That was just one of the amazingly helpful tidbits I received on a live video conference with publishing and start up guru Kathy Ver Eecke last night. If you are a writer and not getting her free emails and video blogs, do it. She is funny and smart. I like those qualities in a teacher.
Armed with my newly gained knowledge, I am heading back into the fray, giving my query letter a few of the little tweaks it needs... and completely rewriting my synopsis. I had read that the synopsis should be a dry run straight through the book without fluff or garnish. Kathy says no. Keep it short and sweet, be cautious not to put unneeded info in, but tell it like the story it is. She also gave a bit of what I would call controversial advice. When asked whether or not to give the ending away in the synopsis, she answered... no!
Ok, I know all you writerly folks may have just fallen out of your swivel chairs, but chill and listen. She related that the whole point of the synopsis is for the agent or publisher to see that you know your story. That you know how to pace it to hold attention, and that you know how to end it well. You can give away the ending completely. It won't hurt you to do it that way. It's tradition, after all! However, bringing the reader right up to the plunging drop of finality and then just hinting at what is waiting below builds a lingering desire to know more.
So, heads down, pens up, let's get writing!
To accompany us as we work, let's have some cookies! Here's one of my many favorites:
5 Layer Cookie
1 stick butter
Enough graham cracker crumbs to cover the butter
2 cans sweetened condensed milk
1 bag peanut butter chips
1 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
Melt your butter in a 9X13" pan. Top with the next four ingredients, layered as listed. Do not stir. Pop it in the oven at 350 deg. for about 30 minutes or until everything is melty and bubbly and fabulous. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the richest thing since Bill Gates' bank account.
That was just one of the amazingly helpful tidbits I received on a live video conference with publishing and start up guru Kathy Ver Eecke last night. If you are a writer and not getting her free emails and video blogs, do it. She is funny and smart. I like those qualities in a teacher.
Armed with my newly gained knowledge, I am heading back into the fray, giving my query letter a few of the little tweaks it needs... and completely rewriting my synopsis. I had read that the synopsis should be a dry run straight through the book without fluff or garnish. Kathy says no. Keep it short and sweet, be cautious not to put unneeded info in, but tell it like the story it is. She also gave a bit of what I would call controversial advice. When asked whether or not to give the ending away in the synopsis, she answered... no!
Ok, I know all you writerly folks may have just fallen out of your swivel chairs, but chill and listen. She related that the whole point of the synopsis is for the agent or publisher to see that you know your story. That you know how to pace it to hold attention, and that you know how to end it well. You can give away the ending completely. It won't hurt you to do it that way. It's tradition, after all! However, bringing the reader right up to the plunging drop of finality and then just hinting at what is waiting below builds a lingering desire to know more.
So, heads down, pens up, let's get writing!
To accompany us as we work, let's have some cookies! Here's one of my many favorites:
5 Layer Cookie
1 stick butter
Enough graham cracker crumbs to cover the butter
2 cans sweetened condensed milk
1 bag peanut butter chips
1 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
Melt your butter in a 9X13" pan. Top with the next four ingredients, layered as listed. Do not stir. Pop it in the oven at 350 deg. for about 30 minutes or until everything is melty and bubbly and fabulous. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the richest thing since Bill Gates' bank account.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Seolta's Stories: The Sgaith
The Great Seolta plunges his bare feet into the cold water and lays back upon the grass. The summer heat is a little more bearable here by the river, and the gypsy children are taking full advantage. He laughs as he witnesses two of the little girls teetering nervously at the edge. Splash! He knew they wouldn't stay dry long. Closing his eyes, he lets the sound of the water and the children wash over him. The women nearby are doing the laundry and singing. Here, in this moment, he can almost forget anything that is not happiness and peace.
Lost in his reverie, he does not hear the pattering of a small pair of very wet feet until it is too late. Elhannan, his grandson, flops onto his lap and wraps his soaking wet arms around his neck.
Lost in his reverie, he does not hear the pattering of a small pair of very wet feet until it is too late. Elhannan, his grandson, flops onto his lap and wraps his soaking wet arms around his neck.
"Papan? Are you sleepy?" The boy asks.
"Oh, no, El. I was just thinking of how nice it would be to get wet and cool off. It seems you have granted my wish!" The old man winks as the boy leans back to study his face.
"I didn't know you were wishing... I just wanted to hear a story!"
"Well, let me see. Do you recall the story of the Gaidheal and the first Sgaith?"
The little boy shakes his head and pulls himself off of his grandfather's lap to settle comfortably on the ground beside him. Seolta lifts himself onto his elbow and points a gnarled finger toward the northwestern sky just over the boy's shoulder.
"Long, long ago... but not very long after the first dragon's eggs hatched, a beautiful, magical creature came to the holy city of Rhuidean. It arrived on the clearest night of the fullest moon on the middle-most day of Uanfast... which everyone knows is the coldest day of the year, and the only day that it can snow in the Wastelands.
On this night, there was no snow, and no clans camping near to herald the creature's arrival. It soared in on large wings of constantly shifting color, and landed near the fountain in the courtyard. The creature, not much larger than a Hamarean horse, settled down upon the grass like an overgrown kitten. And a cat of sorts it was... for it had the body of a cat, but one grown lithe, strong, and fierce. It's white tail swished about like that of a well-pleased cat, too. However, this was not a tail you would wish to grab, for at it's tip sat a hard, golden bulb with a long and wicked looking stinger. It's golden paws kneaded at the ground as it began to fall asleep, and its claws left long trenches in their wake. A thick, flowing mane settled around the creature's huge, cat-like head, giving it a most regal appearance as it dozed. The sound of it's breathing was like distant thunder.
Just as the sun was thrusting itself over the edge of the world, Maera, one of the Gaidheal, awoke from a dream and could not seem to return to sleeping. After several tosses and turns, she finally decided to go for a walk in the courtyard. Can you imagine her surprise at seeing this amazing animal sleeping by the fountain there? What should she do? Should she run and wake the others? No, it may leave and then they might say she were dream walking. Should she try to frighten it away? No... there was something kind and gentle about its face that made her feel that it was no threat. So she spoke to it.
Gathering up her courage, she leaned in a little closer and, in her most calm and soothing voice, she greeted the animal. It raised its head and blinked its many-hued eyes.
'Yes. You will do nicely.' It said. This was a very odd thing to say after just having met someone, and Maera was not sure that she felt at all comfortable with whatever it meant. She froze.
'Yes. You will do nicely.' It said. This was a very odd thing to say after just having met someone, and Maera was not sure that she felt at all comfortable with whatever it meant. She froze.
'Do not be afraid now. You have been brave enough to greet me, and I have traveled a very long distance to find aid. Will you be brave enough to help me?" The creature's voice rumbled lower than the thunder of its breath, but it sounded intelligent and kind. Maera nodded and, trembling, stepped closer.
'Tell me, dear creature, what can I do to help you? I will do what I can.'
The beast smiled, if you can call it that, and lowered his head. 'I have something terribly sharp and irritating under my mane upon the back of my neck. I have no way of reaching it, and I have found no one willing to help me do so. Are you willing to climb upon my back and remove this thing?'
Meara nodded. The thought that he could be tricking her into coming closer just to eat her or carry her off threatened to surface as she laid her hand on his neck, but she pushed it away. She had to help. Using his bent front leg as a step stool, she climbed onto his back. His mane was even more dense than she had thought. At once, the task of finding some small burr within that mass seemed quite daunting. But, Meara did not give up. She plunged her hands under the hair and immediately found the thing that had been hurting the creature, a thickly wound blackberry bramble branch.
'Here it is! Oh, and you are bleeding... Let me take care of that. I will be right back.' She dismounted and ran to the house of apothecary, returning with salve and bandages. Gone now was any thought of fear or timidity. She was helping a friend.
She finished her work and stepped back to the ground. The creature thanked her graciously and swore that he and any of his kind that came after would always stand with her kind in friendship. He had no name and knew of none other like himself, so she gave his kind the name Sgaith, a word that means "wing" in the ancient language. His own name became Spion, or Thorn, as we would say today, to remind them of the day they met and the bond that was forged."
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Catching Up
Life has been insanely busy lately. The Hubby is running for judge and the kids are back in school, leaving me in a near constant state of motion. This blog, and my writing, has suffered neglect because neither can scream at me to come and spend time with them. Everything else screams. Writing whispers. It beckons me to hide away somewhere behind a locked door with nothing but my cup of coffee and my imagination. It irritates. If you ever see me grumbly and agitated, ask if I've had the chance to sit down and write lately. Ask the question when I am free of anything sharp or large and blunt... and preferably from across the room. It will be safer for you.
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