Digging up bulbs, planting new hostas, and generally playing in the yard sucks me away from the computer as surely as a vortex down the drain. After thirteen straight weekends of rain, the past one was glorious. I even tackled the moss on the brick patio. Now that's looking for an excuse to stay outside in the extreme, LOL. No movie, no party, no sale can lure me away from a work in progress, but lovely sunshine and a yard can do it every time.
I need to get LEGAL KILL in shape before the Thrillerwriters conference in NYC in July. That means the fanny has to stay in the chair. Three weeks of family stuff played havoc with my schedule, but it's time to get back into the routine. We writers have to come up for air now and then. I've had my fun, now it's back to work.
How do you get yourself psyched to work when the weather is wonderful after a long cold winter and a wet, miserable spring?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Diplomas, Dolls, and a Diatribe
She's a college graduate. Diploma in hand, tassel switched to the other side, drama honor society drape in place, she's posed and smiled and said her good-byes to faculty and friends. She has a BA in History, minor in Film and Photography, Drama. Anyone want to hire a smart, educated young woman?
Rain held off long enough for the two hour ceremony, outdoors under ancient oaks, to run its course. Unfortunately, the bozos sitting behind us didn't run out of chatter. Talk, talk, talk, through every address, until my husband had to turn around and say something to shut them up. That wasn't the worst, however. One of these charming idjits brought a blowup sex doll to wave in the air at the graduate they'd come to celebrate. Mind you, this is a women's university, and this doll was garish, tacky, and embarrassing. Why bring it to graduation? Just so you can insult every woman there who'd worked hard to earn her degree? My youngest child took matters in her own hands. A pair of manicure scissors did the job. The idjit spent a lot of time trying to blow it up again, which meant he wasn't talking. Both pluses. My children are geniuses. I'm so glad we've raised smart girls.
Remember my rant about manners? Want to take bets these yahoos weren't from the South?
Now I get to watch the All Star Race at Lowe's on Tivo and relax for a bit. Life is good. Even better, it's time to get back to the writing. I'm a happy woman.
Rain held off long enough for the two hour ceremony, outdoors under ancient oaks, to run its course. Unfortunately, the bozos sitting behind us didn't run out of chatter. Talk, talk, talk, through every address, until my husband had to turn around and say something to shut them up. That wasn't the worst, however. One of these charming idjits brought a blowup sex doll to wave in the air at the graduate they'd come to celebrate. Mind you, this is a women's university, and this doll was garish, tacky, and embarrassing. Why bring it to graduation? Just so you can insult every woman there who'd worked hard to earn her degree? My youngest child took matters in her own hands. A pair of manicure scissors did the job. The idjit spent a lot of time trying to blow it up again, which meant he wasn't talking. Both pluses. My children are geniuses. I'm so glad we've raised smart girls.
Remember my rant about manners? Want to take bets these yahoos weren't from the South?
Now I get to watch the All Star Race at Lowe's on Tivo and relax for a bit. Life is good. Even better, it's time to get back to the writing. I'm a happy woman.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Graduation!
Our oldest, Skyler, is graduating from college this coming Sunday. Can't be possible. I was changing her diapers just yesterday, sigh. It's amazing how the little nippers grow up, isn't it? I remember someone telling me to cherish those long, hectic, crazy days when they were babies, and thinking to myself, yeah, right! Now I'm there, giving the same advice to new moms, LOL. Oh my, how unoriginal.
The amazing part is, they've grown up to be intelligent, nice, creative young women. They'll go far in life, I have no doubt. My hubby and I always reminded ourselves that our purpose was to raise independent adults who could balance their checkbooks and fly away from our nest with complete confidence. Think we got it right.
Whenever I finish a manuscript, I feel the same way. Will it fly by itself? Will it land in a good home? I've done my best, I can't do anything more to ensure its success. Sending it out is a bit scary, as it is for any mom letting go of her child for the first time, but there's no point in clinging to it. The world awaits.
The amazing part is, they've grown up to be intelligent, nice, creative young women. They'll go far in life, I have no doubt. My hubby and I always reminded ourselves that our purpose was to raise independent adults who could balance their checkbooks and fly away from our nest with complete confidence. Think we got it right.
Whenever I finish a manuscript, I feel the same way. Will it fly by itself? Will it land in a good home? I've done my best, I can't do anything more to ensure its success. Sending it out is a bit scary, as it is for any mom letting go of her child for the first time, but there's no point in clinging to it. The world awaits.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Running out of Talent
Kyle Busch loves to run a loose car. Makes amazing saves. Exciting to watch. Only problem is, he got loose under Junior and threw the Heir Apparent into the wall in Richmond. I was there. Beer cans hit the track. Fans began leaving in droves. Then out of nowhere, Clint Bowyer slipped past Busch, who was fighting off Mark Martin, to win. Talk about excitement. Good racin'. Glad I was there. Now, it's back to Real Life. Sigh.
On the up side, I'm getting ready to welcome home les enfants from school for a bit. One's off to summer school for first quarter, the other into a job. It'll be the first summer we'll be minus both children at once. Seems like only a few months ago that I was hauling girls to the pool for swimming lessons, to summer camps, tennis lessons, and the library. Wow. Empty nesting to the max has now arrived.
Speaking of driving loose, when the writing is loose, it's as wild as a ride on the track. All over the place with nowhere to land but trouble - not a good thing with a book. Hmmm. LEGAL KILL is a bit loose at the moment. Gotta get the wheels under it.
On the up side, I'm getting ready to welcome home les enfants from school for a bit. One's off to summer school for first quarter, the other into a job. It'll be the first summer we'll be minus both children at once. Seems like only a few months ago that I was hauling girls to the pool for swimming lessons, to summer camps, tennis lessons, and the library. Wow. Empty nesting to the max has now arrived.
Speaking of driving loose, when the writing is loose, it's as wild as a ride on the track. All over the place with nowhere to land but trouble - not a good thing with a book. Hmmm. LEGAL KILL is a bit loose at the moment. Gotta get the wheels under it.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Mini Rant about Manners
I've been thinking about this for a while. After reading a Garrison Keillor column about the lack of manners in today's society (Yeah, let's hear it for manner lessons preached with humor!), I decided to list my own personal peeves. Sounding peckish here (a lot of "p" words, hmmm...), probably because I'm not sleeping. Always happens when a story grabs me by the brain cells and won't let go. Enough of me. Back to the manners thing.
One of my favorites is the cute young thing who insists on calling me by my first name. She could be a receptionist in the dentist's office, the insurance agent's front desk person, or the cashier at the bank. Young enough to be trainable, I hope. "We can see you at 11 a.m., Tracy. Dr. Goodteeth just had a cancellation." Now, if my tooth hadn't just cracked in half, I'd set her straight. Rusty (Dr. Goodteeth) and I have been together for twenty odd years now, and I don't care if he calls me Tracy. But this twenty-year-old chit of a girl needs to address me as a young whippersnapper should address her elders. In the South, "Miz Tracy," is just fine. "Mrs. Dunham" is more correct, but I'll let that slip. Even, "Ma'am, the doctor can see you..." works in the South.
I have been known, much to the chagrin of my spawn, to correct said young whippersnappers. In a kindly manner, much as a grandmother would use. "Sweetie, I'm old enough to have changed your diapers. In these parts, unless I did change your britches, you may address me as 'Mrs. Dunham.' If I did change your panties, and I'd remember if I had, you are permitted to call me 'Miss Tracy.' " My children, of course, are crawling into a hole in the ground. Believe me, they know better. They address their elders with proper respect, or they'll hear from mama.
My husband, I must preface this rant, is a very good man. A man of inherent good manners and much grace, including infinite kindness. He'll stop to pick up strangers on the street who are gesturing desperately for a ride. He offers jobs to those people standing in the median strip with signs saying "Homeless. Hungry." And he buys them lunch if they are willing to work for a him. (Only one man ever took him up on his offer.) But, as a native of Chicago, he didn't learn to say "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am." I knew this when I married him. Along with his hatred of fresh tomatoes (sigh), it's his only failing. I was, however prepared. Our family repeated the following iconic story often.
My mother, during her childhood pre-WW II, lived for a year in a Chicago suburb. Her parents, being proper Southerners, taught her to say "yes, ma'am," etc., when addressing her elders. One day, her teacher sent home a note from school saying "Judith must cease speaking like a servant when she talks to me. "Ma'am" is a sign of servitude and inferiority."
My grandmother's wrath and outrage would have been a sight to behold. Wish I could have seen it. As the story was repeated quite often to describe the loutishness of Yankees, I grew accustomed to its moral. Yankees don't know diddly about good manners and the proper graces. Other Yankee peculiarities came to the fore in other stories. Being invited to dinner, then told to bring a "covered dish" of a certain type. Who invites guests to dinner then insists they feed themselves? Only Yankees. I could go on, but you get my drift. There's a social divide that has nothing to do with geography. It's all about manners.
When someone provides a service and one thanks that person, the common response today is "no problem." I want to stomp my foot and ask what happened to "you're welcome." Or even, as was once common in the South, "my pleasure." Yet today the South is slipping into the maw of a mannerless morass. I fear it's the fault of all those Yankees who've moved down here and bought their newMcMansions and expect to fit into society because they drive Beemers. I wish someone would tell them it's not going to happen. "Society" in the South is still ruled with the iron fist in the white glove by ladies who may not have two nickels to their names, but their grandmother's pearls are heirlooms still worn today, their sterling came down through the family for generations, and they were educated at Miss Jennie's, as were their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And Miss Jennie's doesn't accept girls without the proper pedigree and impeccable manners.
Manners will get you places, my mama and grandmothers always preached. I still think they're right.
One of my favorites is the cute young thing who insists on calling me by my first name. She could be a receptionist in the dentist's office, the insurance agent's front desk person, or the cashier at the bank. Young enough to be trainable, I hope. "We can see you at 11 a.m., Tracy. Dr. Goodteeth just had a cancellation." Now, if my tooth hadn't just cracked in half, I'd set her straight. Rusty (Dr. Goodteeth) and I have been together for twenty odd years now, and I don't care if he calls me Tracy. But this twenty-year-old chit of a girl needs to address me as a young whippersnapper should address her elders. In the South, "Miz Tracy," is just fine. "Mrs. Dunham" is more correct, but I'll let that slip. Even, "Ma'am, the doctor can see you..." works in the South.
I have been known, much to the chagrin of my spawn, to correct said young whippersnappers. In a kindly manner, much as a grandmother would use. "Sweetie, I'm old enough to have changed your diapers. In these parts, unless I did change your britches, you may address me as 'Mrs. Dunham.' If I did change your panties, and I'd remember if I had, you are permitted to call me 'Miss Tracy.' " My children, of course, are crawling into a hole in the ground. Believe me, they know better. They address their elders with proper respect, or they'll hear from mama.
My husband, I must preface this rant, is a very good man. A man of inherent good manners and much grace, including infinite kindness. He'll stop to pick up strangers on the street who are gesturing desperately for a ride. He offers jobs to those people standing in the median strip with signs saying "Homeless. Hungry." And he buys them lunch if they are willing to work for a him. (Only one man ever took him up on his offer.) But, as a native of Chicago, he didn't learn to say "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am." I knew this when I married him. Along with his hatred of fresh tomatoes (sigh), it's his only failing. I was, however prepared. Our family repeated the following iconic story often.
My mother, during her childhood pre-WW II, lived for a year in a Chicago suburb. Her parents, being proper Southerners, taught her to say "yes, ma'am," etc., when addressing her elders. One day, her teacher sent home a note from school saying "Judith must cease speaking like a servant when she talks to me. "Ma'am" is a sign of servitude and inferiority."
My grandmother's wrath and outrage would have been a sight to behold. Wish I could have seen it. As the story was repeated quite often to describe the loutishness of Yankees, I grew accustomed to its moral. Yankees don't know diddly about good manners and the proper graces. Other Yankee peculiarities came to the fore in other stories. Being invited to dinner, then told to bring a "covered dish" of a certain type. Who invites guests to dinner then insists they feed themselves? Only Yankees. I could go on, but you get my drift. There's a social divide that has nothing to do with geography. It's all about manners.
When someone provides a service and one thanks that person, the common response today is "no problem." I want to stomp my foot and ask what happened to "you're welcome." Or even, as was once common in the South, "my pleasure." Yet today the South is slipping into the maw of a mannerless morass. I fear it's the fault of all those Yankees who've moved down here and bought their newMcMansions and expect to fit into society because they drive Beemers. I wish someone would tell them it's not going to happen. "Society" in the South is still ruled with the iron fist in the white glove by ladies who may not have two nickels to their names, but their grandmother's pearls are heirlooms still worn today, their sterling came down through the family for generations, and they were educated at Miss Jennie's, as were their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And Miss Jennie's doesn't accept girls without the proper pedigree and impeccable manners.
Manners will get you places, my mama and grandmothers always preached. I still think they're right.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Short Track Season and Gettin' It done
The writing flows, the futuristic has me guessing (I love it when a story surprises me), and I've finished judging the contest entries I agreed to judge way back when I thought I'd have time. It's too wet and rainy out to do yard work, so I'm pretty much keeping the hands on the keyboard. Last weekend's Nationwide race in Mexico City didn't hold my attention, so I saved four hours there! Yep, keeping the fanny in the desk chair is paying off.
Since it's a week and a half until the Richmond races, this is good. Once next Monday hits, I'm going into tailgating overdrive. Gotta get the race gear loaded, menus planned, and the flags ready to fly from the flagpole on the truck. After seven straight weekends of rain, I'm praying we're done with this batch of wet, and we'll finally have a lovely Friday and Saturday for racin'. The racing gods owe me a good one after the rain and cold in Martinsville.
It's all good from here on out. . . the cold weather is history, the trees have leaves, and I'm ready for summer and summer's races at my local short track.
Since it's a week and a half until the Richmond races, this is good. Once next Monday hits, I'm going into tailgating overdrive. Gotta get the race gear loaded, menus planned, and the flags ready to fly from the flagpole on the truck. After seven straight weekends of rain, I'm praying we're done with this batch of wet, and we'll finally have a lovely Friday and Saturday for racin'. The racing gods owe me a good one after the rain and cold in Martinsville.
It's all good from here on out. . . the cold weather is history, the trees have leaves, and I'm ready for summer and summer's races at my local short track.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Life Intervenes
Sigh. The writing has taken a step back because I've been inundated with . . . life. Too many volunteer activities turning into full-time jobs. I need to step back and let the distractions fall into the shadows while I turn the light up on the writing. Revisions, new stuff, queries, the business part of writing, take a lot of energy and time. I must learn to say NO to the other stuff, although I believe strongly in giving back to nonprofit organizations that need help.
Then there's the four hours I wasted this morning. The state bar association won't like me saying this, but I just killed brain cells in a continuing legal education seminar on ethics. Yeah, ethics. If I don't have ethics by now, I think it's a lost cause. Five hundred men in bow ties and dark suits give off vibes that aren't pleasant, particularly when they're stressing over such life-altering topics as metadata in attachments and accepting credit card payments for trust accounts. Yes, moving, stirring, soul-searching topics.
Tomorrow, I'm ignoring email, forgetting today, working on my book, and getting into a better place, LOL.
Then there's the four hours I wasted this morning. The state bar association won't like me saying this, but I just killed brain cells in a continuing legal education seminar on ethics. Yeah, ethics. If I don't have ethics by now, I think it's a lost cause. Five hundred men in bow ties and dark suits give off vibes that aren't pleasant, particularly when they're stressing over such life-altering topics as metadata in attachments and accepting credit card payments for trust accounts. Yes, moving, stirring, soul-searching topics.
Tomorrow, I'm ignoring email, forgetting today, working on my book, and getting into a better place, LOL.
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