tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24466155735021597402024-03-14T01:38:54.540-05:00angelaparsonmyersangelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-57315992199119553292014-12-10T22:57:00.000-06:002015-03-22T16:36:06.885-05:00My Mother's Mirrors<br />
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My mother's death certificate says she died of sepsis. Cardiac arrest would have been as accurate, since both were results of other conditions. You'll never see it on a death certificate, but she died of osteoporosis and Lewy body dementia.</div>
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When my mother started talking about “that family in the next room,” I knew we had a problem. The “next room” she was referring to was the mirrored closet door in her bedroom.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother had Lewy body dementia. Lewy bodies are the abnormal round structures that are deposited in the brain when people have Parkinson’s disease. Although people with Lewy body dementia sometimes develop physical symptoms similar to Parkinson’s, the first symptom is usually an inability to separate reality from—what? Dreams? Misinterpretation of sensory stimuli? It’s the second most common type of progressive dementia after Alzheimer’s, yet most people have never heard of it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother had been diagnosed only a few months earlier because she called me while I was on my way home from church.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where are you?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could tell by the tone of her voice that something was wrong. “What’s going on?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I might need your help later. I just wanted to be sure you were around in case they didn’t leave.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In case who didn’t leave?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, there’s a man and a woman. I guess she’s his wife. An older man—her father, I think. And some kids.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are they doing?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just looking around. They pick up stuff and look at it and put it back down. I asked them what they want, but they won’t talk to me.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn’t more than fifteen minutes away, and I wasted no time getting to her condo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I arrived, she seemed a little frightened. Her eyes darted nervously around the room—which looked exactly as it had the last time I visited her—nobody there but her, and nothing out of place.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did they leave?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know where the others went, but the older man went into the bathroom. He must be sick, because it really stinks now.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bathroom door was nearly closed. Half afraid of what I might find when I pushed it open, I was nevertheless emboldened by my inability to smell anything more than my mother’s favorite air freshener. Cautiously, I peeked in.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bathroom was empty.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I spent the next two hours trying to convince my mother to go with me to the emergency room. Worst case, I feared she’d had a stroke; best case, I knew she’d suffered hallucinations several years ago when she had low blood sugar.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I did convince her. But four hours in the emergency room produced no explanation for her Sunday “visitors.” In fact, she was surprisingly healthy for her 84 years—her blood pressure and cholesterol were better than mine!</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I must have dozed off and had a dream,” she said, by way of explanation.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t buy it. She’d been awake when I arrived, yet she was convinced one of them was still around. And I discovered later that another of them, a boy about eight years old, stayed behind and kept her company, sometimes watching over her while she slept. She named him Peanut. She enjoyed his company, but she wasn’t as sure about the rest of the family, especially the father. She didn’t trust him.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When my brother-in-law and his family came to visit at Christmas, they covered the mirrors with pretty stick-on paper, thinking that maybe if she couldn’t see the reflections, she’d realize they were simply closet doors instead of a portal into another world where people that only she could see lived. And for a while, it seemed to work. But the hallucinations started being triggered by the bathroom mirrors, and they became more frightening. Because she seemed to fare fairly well during the day, I started spending the night with her, but soon realized she needed someone with her who was awake and alert 24 hours a day. The complex she lived in included a section for assisted living, so she moved from her condo into an apartment.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There, too, she was convinced she was seeing people in another room through her mirrors, but they didn’t come into her quarters as often as they had. For a time, she would buzz for help or walk down to the dining room and help the staff fold napkins if she became frightened at night. Then one afternoon she called me to come get her because she wanted “to go home.” I found her outside the building, waiting for me at the curb. Usually that wasn’t a problem. Residents came and went as they pleased, and she had often met me outside when we were going out to eat, which we did at least a couple of times a week. But this time she was outside because my father, who had died three years ago, was working in the attic, and he and his crew were making so much noise it was giving her a headache. She wanted to go home, meaning my childhood home, which they had left about the time I started college. If she had started out to try to find it before I’d arrived, she could easily have wound up on a busy highway. We had to move her into the memory unit.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The memory unit had fewer mirrors. Although she had fewer visits from the family—even Peanut was absent—she started having visits from relatives: my niece of 15 years earlier, a cousin of 30 years earlier. They always needed her help—help she was unable to give. Then one night she was convinced she was a visitor in someone’s home, and while the attendant stepped out to let her change into her pajamas, she decided to shower in order to free up the bathroom—her private bathroom—for those who needed to shower in the morning. Unattended, she flooded the bathroom floor, then slipped and fell when she stepped out. Her spine, like chalk from osteoporosis, crumbled, leaving her nearly paralyzed below the waist.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her room in the nursing home had no mirrors, and she had no invisible visitors during the week she was there. The day she died, she was more alert and lucid than she had been for months. Then she just drifted away, staring into space. At almost exactly midnight, a week after her 86th birthday, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and just—stopped.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Going through her things, which had accumulated in my garage as she moved to progressively smaller quarters, I found a small looking glass set in a carved wooden frame. It now lies on the vanity in my bathroom.</div>
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angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-26034260020291385852014-09-20T15:11:00.000-05:002014-09-20T15:13:43.425-05:00The Will to Love Now In Paperback!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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My little novelette, The Will to Love, is now available from Amazon in paperback as well as for Kindle! It's a story about unrequited love, true love, and destined love, with a rattlesnake thrown in. Here's the prologue and the first few paragraphs of Chapter One so you can take a quick look at it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B7dokT_zVeA/VB3eSO7ncZI/AAAAAAAABK4/RG11cGTfL3s/s1600/Will%2Bto%2BLove%2Bcover%2Bfinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B7dokT_zVeA/VB3eSO7ncZI/AAAAAAAABK4/RG11cGTfL3s/s1600/Will%2Bto%2BLove%2Bcover%2Bfinal.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Prologue<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Daniel knew he was
dead. He seemed to be hanging in darkness somewhere far above the hospital. But
he could see every detail through the ceiling as the EMTs worked with his body
on the gurney in the emergency room—one forcing air into his lungs and one
pounding his chest while Dr. Agnew charged the paddles to try to jumpstart his
heart.</div>
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The doctor
positioned the paddles. “Clear!” The body convulsed, but after an initial blip,
the trace running across the EKG screen returned to an erratic line.</div>
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Dr. Agnew turned
to the nurse who was adjusting the defibrillator. “Again.”</div>
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Daniel watched his
body convulse yet again, and the line again jumped, continued with a few
spasmodic blips, then settled into a flat, steady progress across the screen. The
doctor stood frozen, paddles held ready to use. “He isn’t responding.” </div>
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The nurse turned
to reach for a nearby tray of syringes. </div>
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“No. Don’t.” The
doctor lowered his hands and shook his head slowly. “We’ve already resuscitated
him once in spite of his advanced directive. It’s time to let him go.”</div>
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The nurse blinked
to hold back the moisture gathering in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you were
friends.”</div>
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“Damn!” The doctor
thrust the paddles at her and stalked out, sorrow twisting his features.</div>
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“Too bad,” said
one of the EMTs. “Heard he was a pretty nice guy. Donated a chunk of money to
upgrade the cardiac care wing when his wife died.”</div>
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“He was. And we
failed him.” Still holding the paddles, the nurse wiped at her cheek with one
forearm.</div>
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The scene began to
fade as Daniel felt himself float away into a swirling gray mist. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where the hell is the tunnel?</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And the light I’m supposed to follow?</i></div>
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He heard a
chuckle. No—sensed it. Puzzled, he turned to find out who was laughing at him,
and saw a dim glow in the distance. Was that the light? As he moved toward it,
the glow grew brighter until he realized he was in a church. Shadowed pews on
each side of a broad aisle seemed to be filled with people. Was this his
funeral? If so, the people looked awfully damn happy, and he didn’t see a
casket. Instead, a minister stood in front of a flower-laden altar, and in
front of him…</div>
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It was his son,
Dan! Older, maybe by ten years, and dressed in a tux. He stood facing a girl
with tousled red hair topped by an ornate veil that spilled down the back of
her simple, form-fitting—and a very nice form it fit—wedding gown.</div>
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His son must be
getting married. He was sure he’d never seen the girl before, but she looked
familiar somehow. Like someone he’d known once, a long time ago. He wanted to
get a better look at her, and found himself drifting around to look into her
face.</div>
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A shimmer in the
air above and behind the young woman began to coalesce as he realized who the
young woman resembled—Virginia, the girl he’d fallen in love with fifty years
ago, the girl who’d left him wanting to die because he couldn’t imagine living
without her. The slanted eyes were the same aqua green, and that slim-waisted,
full-hipped figure was identical.</div>
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He looked back at
the shimmer and gasped as it took the form in his memory. Not the graying,
stooped Virginia he’d seen in recent photos, but the young, vital woman he’d
known. She smiled at him, filling him with the same deep ache as when she was
seventeen and he twenty, and he heard her voice: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’ll be OK, Daniel. It wasn’t our time. It will be theirs.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Then darkness fell
and he was sucked into a whirlpool, spun and battered and spewed forth into
hard, brilliant cold. He gasped as pain shot through his body and his eyes flew
open to see a wide-eyed nurse jump away and collide with the table near the
gurney, sending a metal tray crashing across the floor.</div>
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“Oh, my God! He’s
alive!” An alarm started to shrill, bringing feet thudding toward him.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am alive</i>, he thought, with some
surprise. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have a lot to do before I die</i>.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br clear="ALL" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter One<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Mandy lowered her
suitcase to the floor and stared around the entry—or foyer, she supposed it
would be called—of the mansion where the taxi had dropped her. The foyer was
bigger than the combined living room and both bedrooms of her cottage back in
Illinois. The floor under her Walmart luggage looked like marble.</div>
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Double doors
opened opposite a wide staircase that curved up past a multi-tiered crystal
chandelier, and a gray-haired woman wearing an elegantly tailored suit strode
out, head down, examining something on a clipboard. Mandy cleared her throat,
and the woman looked up with a slight frown. Her eyes traveled from Mandy’s
tousled copper-colored hair, down her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star
Wars</i> T-shirt, to her worn jeans, and ended on her Reeboks before returning
to the freckles sprinkled sparsely across Mandy’s pug nose.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-32511914681975887052014-06-05T14:44:00.001-05:002014-06-05T14:46:09.542-05:00The Will to Love Now Available for Kindle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TeRTbQgUAhw/U5DIM7JyrkI/AAAAAAAABKE/lG0KIXQslz4/s1600/Will+to+Love+cover+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TeRTbQgUAhw/U5DIM7JyrkI/AAAAAAAABKE/lG0KIXQslz4/s1600/Will+to+Love+cover+final.jpg" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
My novelette, The Will to Love, is now available for Kindle. It's a sweet romance with just a touch of paranormal, and appropriate for age 15 or 16 and older. You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00KRQ3EG4angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-14724897702015892812013-05-01T00:00:00.000-05:002013-05-01T00:01:26.870-05:00How to Get Out of Bed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I know what you’re thinking.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But if you ever come down (heaven forbid) with a full-blown
case of sciatica like I’ve had for the last several weeks, you’ll realize how
difficult getting out of bed can be.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lying in bed is fine. In fact, it’s the only place you can
be comfortable, since sciatica makes both standing and sitting painful. The
problem comes when you just really have to get up—usually to use the bathroom,
though eating breakfast before lunchtime is also a consideration. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So there you are with a full bladder and empty stomach,
lying flat on your back on a memory foam mattress that has formed to the shape
of your body, holding you like a warm hug—and creating a valley you must
somehow climb out of. Here goes:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Slowly,
without using your right hip or leg, roll out of the body-shaped indentation in
your bed and over onto your stomach. The might require several attempts. Tighten every muscle in your body, because
when you finally make it, you’ll be lying on your full bladder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No! Not your glutes! </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Massage
the spasms out of your hip.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Carefully
slide your left leg off the edge of the bed, groping with your foot for your
clogs.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Slip
your left foot into the left clog.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Slide
the right half of your body toward the edge of the bed. Do NOT use the muscles
on the right side of your body.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Grit
your teeth and pull your right leg off the bed, because now you have to use
those spasmed glutes to lower your right foot to the floor and slip it into
your right clog. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Use
your nightstand to push yourself to a standing position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take your cane, stored nearby over
night, and hobble to the bathroom, praying you make it in time. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Say
a prayer of thanks that Hubby is an early riser, because you know how ridiculous
you must look, and anyone who laughed would have to die. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
With any kind of
luck, you can get to breakfast before ten. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
Now, How to Climb the Stairs…. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-13481055799532478442012-12-25T23:54:00.000-06:002012-12-25T23:54:28.375-06:00Make a Decision--Stay out of Jail
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most young people who are jailed wound up in trouble with
the law because they failed to make a decision. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They just went along with the decisions others made—others
who made decisions to rob filling stations or beat up on that person they
thought dised them. Not sure if that statistic still applies, since it was
quoted in the ‘70s, but I wouldn’t be surprised. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the things I did in my checkered educational career
was tape textbooks for blind students at the local community college, and it
came from a social work text that belonged to a young man who was planning to
counsel prisoners. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That text and this week’s prompt, added to a comment Hubby
made on the way home from Panera (my favorite place for breakfast) on Monday, made me think about
decision-making. It’s one of the most fundamental acts we have to learn to
do—and do well—before we enter the adult world, yet nowhere are we taught how
to do it. Possibly for that reason, many of the people I know whose lives are less
than satisfactory have made a series of perhaps not bad, but not really good,
decisions. I remember reading a magazine article once when I was a teen that
suggested making a list of the good things and another of the bad things about
any particular action we were considering. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. For
one thing, it didn’t take into consideration others who would be affected by
the decision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The particular book I taped used a decision-making paradigm
that consisted of concentric circles. In the “bull’s-eye” was the decision
maker, the person who would be most affected by the result. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the next circle, the decision makers put the names of
those who would experience secondary effects from their decision: wives,
children, parents….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the third
circle went the names of those who would suffer tertiary effects: close
friends, co-workers… .THEN they made their columns, a pro column and a con
column for each person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No longer can you come to a decision because it makes you
feel good. Now you have to think about all those who might suffer—or
benefit—from your actions, and in what ways they might suffer or benefit. You
might even be inspired to talk to them about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think this paradigm is a much better approach to
decision-making than any other I’m acquainted with, even though that’s all I
can remember about it. It’s relatively simple, but forces the decision-makers
to realize their actions have a ripple effect on their world and what those
effects might be—unlike the old two-column method.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do schools now teach decision-making? What kind of paradigm
do they use?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-70462728128899922792012-11-28T00:02:00.001-06:002012-12-24T16:35:08.297-06:00One <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Full moon,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Snared in bare limbs</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of cold trees,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breaks free</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On drift</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of mist.<br />
<br />
*Th challenge on GBE2 this week was to write something using only words of one syllable.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-49092577923232782342012-11-24T23:53:00.000-06:002012-11-24T23:53:15.950-06:00Why Do I Even Have a Kitchen?
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<br />
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I once saw a sign in a catalog that said, “I have a kitchen
only because the house came with one.” Except for the occasional holiday, that
pretty well describes me. If I didn’t like eating so much, I’d give up cooking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve actually considered that. My house is maybe two blocks
from a mall and a major highway. Six restaurants are within easy walking
distance and another eight are a reasonable hike. A short drive takes me to so
many more I can’t even count them. I can buy sandwiches, Chinese food, Mexican
food, seafood, southern cooking, pizza, Japanese food… It just goes on and on. And
the prices are reasonable. I could actually eat restaurant food more cheaply
than I can cook at home if I made good use of doggy bags.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, I can’t get a wide variety of low calorie, low salt
meals in a restaurant. So I have to use my kitchen—albeit minimally.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my kitchen is much like the rest of my house—straight
out of the ‘70s., closed in and dark with harvest gold counter tops. Only two
changes have been made to the original design—the former owners painted the oak
cabinets white, and I had sheet vinyl installed that looks so much like
distressed pine that a visiting carpenter had to bend down and feel to make
sure it wasn’t wood. It really made the white cabinets pop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dream is to bring the kitchen into the 21st century. I
have plans that include ripping out a cupboard so I can have room for a larger
fridge (the old one is very small and was in the house when we moved in 15
years ago) and ripping out the wall between the kitchen and dining room to let
in light from the glass deck doors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know how many more years Hubby and I will be able to
climb the stairs to the top floor of the bi-level, but for now the stairs
provide exercise we both need, even if I breathe a little hard when I get to
the top. In the meantime, I hope to make a home that meets our needs with
beauty and character. And I hope to leave it someday a little better than it
was when we moved in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-28740111969807256112012-11-19T14:25:00.000-06:002012-11-19T14:36:57.384-06:00How Does a Werewolf Spend the Holidays?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A little holiday gift for my blogger friends who might not have read my novel, "When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing," yet:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Natalie hadn't realized how close the holidays were until
Bobbie invited her to go home with her for Thanksgiving. She declined, but
started to think about Christmas. She was saddened to realize that her
Christmas list had only three entries: Bobbie, Mildred and Henry, and Dr.
Persky and his wife. By the time she decided what to get each of them, the ink
had started to run in the tears that kept falling on the paper. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must be the worst time of</i><u> </u><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">year when you've lost someone</i>. She thought of a dozen things she'd
like to get Grammy, but Grammy wasn't going to be here this Christmas or any
Christmas for the rest of Natalie's life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Natalie dropped off Dr. and Mrs. Persky's gift about a
week before Christmas, they invited her to spend Christmas with them. “My
sister has children just your age,” said Mrs. Persky, “and I know she'd love to
have you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Natalie had turned down an invitation from Bobbie, and she
turned this one down also. Her mood, she feared, would just ruin the holidays
for anyone around her. She mailed a package to Mildred and Henry, then went
home and sat alone in her apartment listening to the silence. Most of the other
tenants had gone to visit family and friends. Even traffic sounds had
diminished, since most of the people living in this area were students. She
tried to study, but couldn't concentrate. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why
am I so restless</i>? “Because you're lonely, you idiot,” she said aloud. “See,
you're even talking to yourself.” Finally she threw her books aside, “Oh, the
hell with it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
went into the bedroom and got the metal box out from under the bed. Taking it
into the living room, she dumped it in the middle of the floor. Then she put
all the birth certificates, marriage licenses, and other legal papers together
in one stack and the letters in another. She arranged the letters from earliest
to latest postmarks and started to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most
of the letters were chit-chat: births, deaths, marriages. Some of them sounded
as if they were written in a kind of code, as if the writer feared someone
besides Grammy was reading them, and occasionally it sounded as if one was
missing. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not unlikely</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">coming out of Russia back then</i>. Finally
Natalie came to a letter not more than ten years old that seemed more than a
little strange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
is good that you raise your granddaughter so carefully, but I beg you, tell her
soon of the Family. If she should come into the Inheritance without
understanding what is happening, it could be very dangerous for her, you know
this. She must be taught soon how to control its comings and goings so she can
protect herself. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
for the questions you now ask, even I do not know much of these matters. I must
recommend that you write to another cousin who is a Keeper of the Family. I
regret that she does not know English, but she does know German, and I recall
that you know that language also.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
followed an explanation of how to get in touch with the cousin who was Keeper
of the Family. The whole thing about the Family and the Inheritance struck
Natalie as melodramatic, but the letter that now interested Natalie was the
thick envelope that came from the named cousin. It was, indeed, written in
German, and while Grammy's German had been quite good, Natalie's was barely
adequate. She went to her bookcase and found the German-English dictionary left
from her undergraduate courses and started the struggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ilona has written to me of your problem and
your interest in the history of the Family. I first must say that I agree with
her that you must soon tell your granddaughter of the Family lest she by
accident discover the Inheritance. You have had good luck that it has not
happened already. It is very important that she understand what she is. Beware
especially the full moon. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">How
the Family came into the Inheritance is hidden in time. I heard different tales
from different Keepers when I was young. Some say it just happened. Others say
we have been here since the beginning of time. One story is that long ago our
ancestor lived in Persia, where he angered an ancient king. The king ordered a
witch to curse him and all his descendants. He fled into the savage lands to
the north, but at the next full moon the curse afflicted him. Still, he
married, some say to the daughter of the king who was the cause of the curse,
and had many children, and for years it seemed that was the end of it. But when
cousins married, several of their children inherited the curse. Many bands of
marauders roamed that area then, but seldom did one attack their villages
because of the stories of what happened to those who molested the villagers.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They
say that for a long time the Family was feared but respected. Then, as
Christianity spread across Europe, some called us Children of Satan, and many
of us died at the hands of priests. There is another story about two young men
of the Family in those times...</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Natalie
stood up and stretched. She was surprised to discover that she had been working
for two hours. The hard work of translating was more than offset by the strange
story that was unfolding. A curse that worked like a recessive gene, an
Inheritance that helped the Family protect their neighbors, then was turned
against them<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Children of Satan</i>.
Well, people who had epilepsy used to be thought of as possessed by demons.
Natalie picked the letter back up and continued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nikolai
and Alexei were members of the Family who had the Inheritance. They were raised
on neighboring farms and were very close. When they were youths and had just
come into the Inheritance, they ran together in the forests near their homes. As
young men, Nikolai married a young woman of the Family who did not have</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the
Inheritance, Alexei fell in love with one of the village girls, and she loved
him in return though she knew what he was.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then
one night Alexei was running alone and was seen by a farmer who was a follower
of the priests. The farmer made the mistake of attacking Alexei with his
scythe. In defending himself, Alexei killed the farmer. Alexei was heartsick.
This was proof, he thought, that he was, indeed, a Child of Satan as the priests
said. If his soul had not been lost when he was born or the first time he
changed, it most certainly was lost now. He could not take his own life, so he
decided that the only way to atone for his sin was to spend the rest of his
life in a nearby monastery. The monks there were as much of the old religion as
the new, and they would protect him. He said good-bye to his beloved Katerina.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
when he went to say good-bye to Nikolai, his boyhood companion told him he was
a fool, that he had only been protecting himself. “Katerina's father will give
her to some rich, old farmer and she will spend her life bearing children for a
man she does not love.” He told Alexei that his newborn son had been born early
and with hair on his body and that he would raise him to be proud of the
Inheritance. And he said, “We are as much creations of God as mankind is. But
if the priests will not let us serve God, I and my family will surely serve
Satan.” </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
legend says that Alexei spent the rest of his life in the monastery and lived
to be very old. Katerina was given to a rich farmer and bore many children. She
was a dutiful wife and a good mother, but very sad, especially when there was a
full moon. Nikolai and his wife had many children also, but because of his
pride, he let himself be seen one night by a priest, who gathered the villagers
and hunted him and his son and killed them and burned their bodies. Then they
gathered the rest of the family and burned them. As the flames caught around
her skirts, the oldest daughter cursed them in the names of God and Satan.
Within a year, the plague swept across Europe and everyone in the village died.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 27.0pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Natalie
put down the letter. Gooseflesh played up and down her arms. She had been born
early and covered with hair. She remembered Grammy saying that. Natalie had
thought nothing of it because premature babies are sometimes born fuzzy. The
hair falls off in a few weeks. But this Inheritance was serious enough to have
gotten an entire family murdered by fear-crazed villagers. What could it be?
Whatever it was made Alexei powerful enough to kill a man who was armed with a
scythe and the villagers frightened enough to burn women and children at the
stake. Alexei thought his soul might have been lost the first time he changed.
They talked about the villagers as mankind, as if they were something
different. And at the beginning of the letter, the Keeper had said, “Beware
especially the full moon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Natalie
suppressed a giggle. No, it couldn't be what she was thinking. That was a silly
story to frighten children, not something a modern young woman would even
consider. This “Family” had played a cruel joke on Grammy. In anger, she swept
the papers and letters up and threw them into the box. But as she did, a paper
folded in a small square dropped out of them onto the floor. Natalie stared at
it. On the outside was written “by Ursula Kisel.” Natalie's hands trembled as
she picked it up. It was old and fragile, and she unfolded it carefully to
discover a short poem written in a small, neat hand: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The midnight moon, icy
white, </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rides the clouds across the
night.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Its leering face is full
tonight </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Above a world misty bright.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The whimpering wind is damp
and cold,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laden with stench of leafy
mold.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Brown leaves race across
the stone,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chased by demons of their
own.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In those of us who bear the
curse, </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Again awakes the ancient
thirst. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The changing swells within
our breasts </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As, howling, were-men turn
to beasts.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
a kind of collage, the events of the last </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman";">couple of</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">
months flashed through her mind, and she remembered. She </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman";">remembered </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">climbing out the window at Grammy’s house
and running under the full moon, and she remembered leaving the lab that first
night under the full moon. She remembered the two men stalking her across the
parking lot, reaching for her as she shook with terror, and her satisfied rage
as she turned and attacked. And she knew what the figure beside her name meant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Natalie
rose weakly and stumbled to her desk. Somewhere, she remembered, she had a
calendar that showed the phases of the moon. She dumped the desk drawer onto
the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
calendar wasn't there. She started emptying the bookshelves, casting the books
onto the sofa, the coffee table, the floor. Finally she found it and flipped
through the pages until she found December and the next full moon. It would be
tomorrow night.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Available for Kindle at </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold;">http://tinyurl.com/886lsrv </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and for Nook at</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold;"> </span><b><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">http://tinyurl.com/7zn72bz</span></span></b><br />
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-33740605683146895842012-11-17T23:19:00.000-06:002012-11-17T23:19:30.999-06:00My Love Affair with Numbers--Not
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Sherry, an employee in the closely held corporation I
worked for before I went to work for the giant, international corporation, saw the
license plate on your car once, she knew it forever. She was also one of the
fastest typists I’ve known—easily exceeding 100 words a minute. I don’t think
there was a connection.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, by comparison, can’t even remember my own license
plate—or telephone number—or even address—unless I come up with a memory hook
of some kind. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting numbers together. I can’t
remember my address as 2-1-3-6, but I can remember it as 21-36. I remember my
cell phone number the same way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the landline that Hubby and I had installed BCF (Before
Cell Fones) practically had to be tattooed onto the back of my hand. Finally
Hubby said, “Look. There’s an 8. That looks like an interstate cloverleaf. Then
the interstate that runs through town. Then the state route where I grew up,
followed by another cloverleaf.” Haven’t forgotten it since. But I have to go
through the entire litany every time I fill out paperwork.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you can imagine my utter joy when Illinois started
offering “vanity” license plates. For me it isn’t a vanity to select my
plate—it’s a necessity if I plan to ever remember it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ordered my first one about the time I finished the first
draft of When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing. I'll never forget it. It didn't have one number in it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was WERWOLF. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-19749415713959880162012-11-15T00:29:00.000-06:002012-11-15T00:29:05.653-06:00Beginnings: "Call Me Ishmael"--Or Maybe Not
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you get to be my age, you’ve had so many beginnings and
endings that you lose count. So far, at least, a beginning has followed every
ending—and I have faith that will always be the case. But the sheer number of
beginnings is a bit overwhelming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s my excuse for being late with this blog. I
couldn’t decide which beginning to write about. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I just decided to write about beginnings of novels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first started studying fiction writing, I was told,
“If you don’t capture your reader in the first three chapters, you’ll never
capture them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you stopped laughing? Yeah. The last thing I read said
a writer has one sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ONE
SENTENCE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Call me Ismael,” isn’t
going to cut it any more. On the other hand, I think one of my favorite authors got it
right. Thank Jim Butcher for, “The building was on fire and this time it wasn’t
my fault.” (Quoted from memory, so don't blame me if it isn't exact.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How do my own first sentences stand up to that? Not so well.
Which might explain why I’m not a best selling author. The first sentence of my
published novel, When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing, is, “<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Natalie recorded the final reading
for the blood she had drawn from her guinea pigs that afternoon and looked up
from her meticulous notes, she realized how quiet the lab was.” Not very
exciting. But you do learn a lot from that one sentence: the name of the
protagonist, her job, the approximate time of day, and something about her
personality. And trust me, by the end of the opening scene, you get all the
excitement you need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Looking through
my works in progress, I see that’s my pattern—I begin quietly, giving the
reader several paragraphs to get to know the protagonist, then finish the first
scene with a bang. But in the sequel to Gibbous Moon, I break one of the
cardinal rules of fiction writing—I don’t even begin with the protagonists.
Then I kill off one of the characters I do start with. In the second chapter, I
kill off the other one. (Can we, like, call that a prologue maybe? No? OK, then
just live with it--no pun intended. That’s how it has to be.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Book three—or
it might be book four—in the series actually does begin with a prologue, which we are told
is simply not allowed. But when I presented the first chapter to my critique
group, they demanded it. Once it was written, I agreed with them, although it
means the book follows the pattern I’ve established. I do like the first
sentence of the official Chapter One, though: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“In the genetic
crapshoot that preceded David’s conception, something had gone very wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Does that
beginning get your attention?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-76748269015592547272012-10-27T23:42:00.000-05:002012-10-27T23:56:50.404-05:00I'm a Fairy Tale Princess<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bathroom is avocado green. There. I’ve said it. And,
shameful as it is, it’s all true. But hear me out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we moved into this 1970s house, the fixtures in the guest bathroom, which I claimed as my own, were avocado green, and the walls were covered with cream, pink, and green wallpaper in very
narrow stripes and topped with a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>border that looked like a Monet painting. One day I was walking through
Wal-mart, a place where I spend as little time as possible, and saw a shower
curtain with exactly the same look. I almost didn’t pick it up because the shower already had
beautiful glass doors. But I did, and I hung it up over the glass
door. It was perfect. A few months later, I talked Hubby into removing the shower
door. That’s where it started—a Monet’s garden look for my bathroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NZWhazGylzA/UIy5Sm_cFkI/AAAAAAAAA74/MFvlxVbLKBw/s1600/photo-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NZWhazGylzA/UIy5Sm_cFkI/AAAAAAAAA74/MFvlxVbLKBw/s320/photo-11.jpg" width="320" /></a>A few years later, I covered the tile floor with new vinyl
that looks like green Italian slate. I put a swag of silk flowers over the
mirror. I found a cute bunny statue to peek out from behind the basket of silk
vines I put on the floor. At an art fair, I found two watercolors by a local
artist that also fit into the Monet theme. Yeah, I know. It sounds just too,
too precious. But I like it. And because Hubby and I don’t share a bathroom (much
as I love him, he’s kind of a slob), it’s one of the few rooms in the house I can
have pretty much the way I want it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_Y6ZeAaec5M/UIy5kKHDApI/AAAAAAAAA8A/anbNmsNZpcI/s1600/photo-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_Y6ZeAaec5M/UIy5kKHDApI/AAAAAAAAA8A/anbNmsNZpcI/s320/photo-10.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
When my mother died, I inherited the silver tea service my
sister and I bought our parents for their 25th anniversary. Now I understand
the look of dismay on her face when she opened the gift. It’s impossible to keep
shiny, and nobody in her—or my—mostly bluecollar world has tea parties anyway.
When I want a cup of tea, I stick a mug in the microwave. But I kind of like
the patina on old silver. So I put a bunch of silk flowers in the teapot and sat
it on the back of the toilet. (Who says a toilet can’t be pretty?) The sugar
bowl and creamer hold plenty of cotton balls. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a corporate employee, I had to be calm and decisive. As
an author, I write about cops and werewolves. In my bathroom I can be all
girly. I can have perfumes lined up on the vanity and a drawer full of makeup.
I can be the fairy tale princess. OK, the fairy tale dowager queen, then. No
jokes about thrones…</div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-60055234478430782382012-10-14T23:26:00.000-05:002012-10-14T23:26:32.522-05:00Cobwebs in my Brain--and a Poem
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Cobwebs are nearly a feature of the decor in my house. I hate cleaning, and my theory is that as long as the spiders stay up there and catch flies, we can coexist. But this morning I woke up with cobwebs in my brain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Not the kind made by spiders, of course, but the kind made by staying up too late and getting up too early--plus taking a couple of medications that say, "Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Which brings up a question: Just what qualifies as heavy machinery? Heavy is pretty subjective, don't you think? I assume I'm allowed to use my blender and not allowed to drive an end loader. But in between lies a vast category of machinery that's "a little bit heavy" or "almost heavy" or "heavy, but not quite heavy enough to prevent the taking of medications." What about my car? Is it heavy machinery?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
This morning I opted to let Hubby drive to church--that's how cobwebby my brain was. I also opted not to volunteer to run one of the television cameras--a job I sometimes do because everyone else is too busy or too lazy or too intimidated to tackle it. (It isn't that difficult if you have more than four hours of sleep. A college class in studio production helps, too.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
A long afternoon nap cleared the cobwebs out of my head. Wish I could clear the cobwebs out of my house that pleasantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
On a more serious note, I'm sure I've used this here before, but with the prompt for this week being "cobwebs," I couldn't resist. Besides, it's one of my favorites of the poems I've written.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Love<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Is like the silken touch of
cobweb</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Against the cheek,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And often just as absently</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brushed away.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-66514693728322883802012-09-23T20:07:00.001-05:002012-09-24T19:22:20.945-05:00RITE OF PASSAGE--In RetrospectThat fateful day, I became a senior citizen.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I didn’t turn 62—or even 55. That came later. The change, while
unofficial, was much more fundamentally significant than mere age.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bought a luxury car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it’s true. No longer would you see that gumball red
sports car zipping around town, careening around corners, leaping away from
stop signs at the head of the pack as I plotted the next chapter of my novel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the height of my mid-life crisis, after I’d cast aside
the practical economy cars of my youth, I was often heard telling people I’d
drive a sports car until I couldn’t find room in it for my wheel chair. But I
failed to consider that irresistible and inevitable force brought to bear on
those of us of a certain age and familial persuasion. I became a grandmother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first it wasn’t so bad. An infant seat could be wedged
into the anatomically shaped, albeit nearly nonexistent, back seat of the
turbo-charged, five-on-the-floor bomb, and an infant needs almost no legroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
True, when I wanted to take my husband and daughter along on
my outings with the grandbaby, one of them had to more-or-less curl up into a
ball to fit into the other back seat. But it was only for short distances. They
could handle it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But babies grow. And this one grew and grew, until, at age
six, she could barely walk under my outstretched arm. My back seat still had
enough room for her lanky legs as long as I didn’t have to move the driver’s
seat to get in and out. But I could see my fate staring me in the face from a
year or two in the future. I couldn’t let my granddaughter be uncomfortable, no
matter how short the trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then fell the final blow. She became a big sister.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Talk about fate staring me in the face. The little guy was
built like a fullback from day one. And now we had to use two cars for a family
outing. The logistics were beginning to get unwieldy. I had to give up and
admit I needed the dreaded “nana-mobile.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set out on a search to find something of adequate size
that wasn’t too much of an affront to my self image, firmly believing no such
thing existed. I must have looked at every van, mini-van, SUV, and sedan in
town before I heaved a heavy sign, patted the hood of my sports car, and bid it
a fond farewell. I had selected a sleek, black two-door with room in the back
seat for three adults abreast. My grandchildren would be comfortable even after
they outgrew me (by the time they were 10 years old).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What sold me on that particular car? Well, it wasn’t really
the prestigious maker and model. It wasn’t really the roominess or living room
comfort. It wasn’t even really the somewhat ominous look of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it might have been a comment the salesman, unaware
that I’m a writer of horror/mystery novels, made while showing me how spacious
the car was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow,” he said. “I wonder how many bodies you could stuff
into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> trunk.”<br />
<br />
<i>note: The granddaughter in the essay now drives her own car. The grandson is looking forward to driver's training later this year. Theoretically, Hubby and I could be back into a sports car in less than three years, provided the crack about the wheelchair remains only a joke. That'll be another rite of passage--into second childhood. : - ) We'll see...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-42857039394367857682012-08-29T23:50:00.001-05:002012-08-30T00:01:50.518-05:00The Finality of Peace <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loYc9dpn_qw/UD7mOioXHfI/AAAAAAAAAz0/YxjDEWqWsbk/s1600/IMG_2461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loYc9dpn_qw/UD7mOioXHfI/AAAAAAAAAz0/YxjDEWqWsbk/s320/IMG_2461.JPG" width="320" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"> </span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-loYc9dpn_qw/UD7mOioXHfI/AAAAAAAAAz0/YxjDEWqWsbk/s1600/IMG_2461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a></div>The more I thought about the prompt for this week, the more I realized that peace is really pretty fleeting.<br />
<br />
And it should be. Too much is left to do, to see, to learn, for any of us to find peace while we're still able to draw breath. Only in death should we find peace.<br />
<br />
And that made me think about cemeteries.<br />
<br />
I took these photos in Scotland a couple of years ago. The gravestones there are a metaphor for the triumph of life over death, because they're covered with lichens and mosses growing right on the dead stone.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4cEe0Ux6t-o/UD7nI6llfQI/AAAAAAAAA0c/jAvNcYlRzSc/s1600/IMG_2581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4cEe0Ux6t-o/UD7nI6llfQI/AAAAAAAAA0c/jAvNcYlRzSc/s320/IMG_2581.JPG" width="320" /></a> Maeshowe on Orkney might or might not have been a grave. All that's known for sure is that it's very old and that on the equinoxes, the sun shines right in through that door you see and strikes the center of the back wall. (We were there for the autumnal equinox.) A legend says that a group of Norsemen once took shelter here during a storm and that two of them went insane before they were able to leave.<br />
I entered by bending at the waist to walk through a tunnel, then, when I reached the open part under the dome, turned around and walked right back out. Did not like the way it felt. (This was before I heard the legend.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iZlwqnnOHD4/UD7nKx-NWJI/AAAAAAAAA0k/jNRN33oIYCY/s1600/IMG_2648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iZlwqnnOHD4/UD7nKx-NWJI/AAAAAAAAA0k/jNRN33oIYCY/s320/IMG_2648.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The graves at Beauly Abby, like many in Europe, were in the floor of the church. I was taught as a child not to walk on graves and it's still difficult for me. Yet the people who attended services here obviously had no problem with it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mrbpjvPq-sQ/UD7l2pdsfqI/AAAAAAAAAy0/IB_r3O4hLoI/s1600/IMG_2333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mrbpjvPq-sQ/UD7l2pdsfqI/AAAAAAAAAy0/IB_r3O4hLoI/s320/IMG_2333.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Balnuaran of Clava was pretty definitely a grave, and very, very old. The feeling of peace here was amazing. Perhaps the stone-age souls buried here have really found their rest.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-14726835175544816752012-08-22T22:34:00.000-05:002012-08-22T22:34:36.256-05:00Snapshots in My Memory <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">It used to be a photographer’s worst nightmare, back before everyone carried a cell phone and every cell phone included a camera. That perfect, once-in-a-lifetime picture looms before you—and you’ve left your camera at home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first time this happened to me, I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old. My parents had given me their old Brownie box camera (Anyone else remember these?), and I’d taken some pictures I’m proud of to this day. But this particular day my camera was sitting at home on a shelf.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The spring had been, not unlike most Illinois springs, rather erratic, with cold temperatures giving way to warm temperatures in early March, then reverting to cold temperatures and snow flurries later in the month. As I was walking home from school, I passed an ancient tree with gnarled roots radiating in all directions. The wind suddenly picked up and whirled a mix of snow and brown leaves out from between two of them to reveal, hidden among the remaining leaves and snow, a small clump of violets in bloom. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I could do nothing but try to remember it—like a snapshot in my memory. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Several years later, I was in a car with my parents, riding through the countryside between Flora and Olney in Southern Illinois, and there was the perfect sliver of a moon high in the sky long before sunset, like a fleck of gold floating in a turquoise eye—a snapshot in my memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nearly grown, I was on horseback in the Fox River bottoms near Olney. It’s a wild area. Parts of it look like humankind has never walked there. But most of it is laced with trails like the one I rode this warm autumn day, and small pockets of crops are planted in open places to take advantage of the rich, loamy soil. I was riding past one of these when a red-winged blackbird glided down onto a full, golden head of wheat and balanced there, wings outstretched, for long seconds—a snapshot in my memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was a young mother living in the Kiamichi Mountains of Southeastern Oklahoma, I woke one night to find my bedroom glowing with silvery light. I rolled over and peeked out the window to find a full moon high in a sky covered with puffy clouds that looked like lily pads. They were reflecting the moon’s light so completely that the dirt road leading to our house looked like a stream of molten silver—a snapshot in my memory. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was visiting my sister on the plains of Nebraska one summer when her husband called from the airbase to tell us to go to shelter because a severe storm was on the way. As we left her mobile home, I looked across the prairie to see a perfect anvil-shaped cloud preceding the storm front, grumbling thunder and dropping bolts of lightning as it approached—a snapshot in my memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My kids grew up in a little town south of Champaign, Illinois. I used to take evening walks past a small, picturesque grove. One evening, mist curled around the trunks of the trees and the air was filled with fireflies. Crouched in the mist, surrounded by fireflies, was a wild rabbit—still as death and poised to flee—a snapshot in my memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen double and triple rainbows—even an upside-down rainbow once. I didn’t have my camera. I’ve seen sundogs and “the new moon hanging from a star,” and I didn’t have my camera. I’ve seen comets that swept the sky—one with a double tail—and I didn’t have my camera. I’ve seen brilliant sunsets, fiery dawns, bursts of lightning in pink and green that came down from the clouds and up from the earth and met in the middle—and I didn’t have my camera. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All just snapshots in my memory--until now. Now you have those snapshots, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-61587519419047058852012-08-18T00:27:00.001-05:002012-08-18T14:05:37.645-05:00Meg Meets the Shapeshifter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Meg checked the nearly hidden table in the corner by the fireplace as she walked into her favorite coffee shop. He was there—again. A little shiver shot up her spine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">She had no idea why he evoked such uneasiness in her. He didn’t look as bad as most of the homeless men she saw roaming the streets. But they weren’t here, in the upscale coffee shop where she went on her coffee break. He was. Every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">She knew nothing about him except that he must have a lot of time on his hands. He was big—both tall and heavy—with a round face and vacant eyes that made her wonder what drug he was on. He always wore a huge, dingy white T-shirt over jeans that were frayed from dragging the floor. He looked unwashed. His short hair somehow managed to look uncombed, and he always needed a shave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">And he watched her. Maybe that was why he seemed so creepy. Men didn’t usually watch Meg like that. Not that she was unattractive. She was just so horribly average that most men slid their gazes right over her while searching for the next flashy, half-dressed babe. But she’d felt his eyes on her often and turned to catch him as he averted his gaze. Yeah. He was just creepy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Meg stepped up to the counter and ordered her cinnamon bagel and espresso. She had just dropped her change into her purse and picked up the bag and cup when someone plowed into her from behind. The cup flew out of her hand, coffee splashing back, burning down the front of her wool jacket as she heard her attacker shout, “Get down on the floor, bitch! You! Behind the counter! Hands where I can see them!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">As she crashed against the counter wildly grasping for the edge to keep from falling, something big shot from near the fireplace—so fast it was nearly a blur. Meg heard two shots, then nothing but the ringing in her ears, and looked down to see a tall, well-muscled man, one knee in the back of the gunman, slapping handcuffs onto his wrists. The gun lay on the floor nearby. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Her rescuer looked up at her, concern in his dark eyes. “Are you OK? Hey, Pete, get her some cold water. That coffee probably burns.” His oval face sported a sexy hint of beard, and his short hair was slightly unruly with curls. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans… Oh my God! It was Creepy Guy. What the hell? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-align: center; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Point sat quietly at the nearly hidden table beside the fireplace, trying to be invisible. An upscale coffee shop hardly seemed like the kind of business that would need his brand of security service, but this one had somehow wound up in the crosshairs of a gang takeover. He didn’t let the fact that he’d been sitting here waiting for weeks for them to follow up on their threats make him any less vigilant. He’d done too many of these jobs to fall into that trap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">And this job had a rare benefit. Every morning at 10 a.m., Monday through Friday, Classy Lady came in to pick up a bagel and a cup of coffee. He was trying again to guess in which of the many nearby skyscrapers she might work when she came for this morning’s cuppa.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">She appeared to be searching for someone, then looked uneasy when she saw him in his usual place. Whoever she looked for every morning never seemed to show up. He was used to seeing that uneasiness in women, though. He had no idea why. He was one of the good guys.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;">He watched her surreptitiously while she waited for her order to be bagged. She was wearing a sky blue suit of lightweight wool, the skirt reaching just below the knee. As she entered, he’d seen the white blouse under the jacket, only the top two buttons open and with a blue print scarf hiding any cleavage that might accidently peek out—damn it. It looked like an expensive outfit, but then she could make WalMart jeans look expensive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">He was admiring the round swell of hip accented by the fitted jacket when a man stepped through the door, pulling a ski mask down over his face and a weapon out of a jacket pocket. While Point berated himself for being lax, the man covered the space from the door to the counter and shoved Classy Lady hard into the counter. Her coffee splashed down the front of her suit as the cup flew out of her hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">“Down on the floor, bitch! You! Behind the counter! Keep your hands where I can see them!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Bitch? Point launched himself out of the chair. The gunman got off two shots before Point disarmed him, breaking several of the man's fingers in the process and—maybe—his arm as he threw him to the floor. Ignoring the perp's shrieks and curses of pain, he planted his knee in the middle of the guy's back while he cuffed him. Only then did he look up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">Classy Lady was staring at him in compete shock. She didn’t look a bit frightened, and she didn’t seem to notice that hot coffee was dripping off her breasts--her round, soft-looking breasts--onto her blue leather shoes. Maybe it hadn’t soaked through the wool jacket yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;">“Are you OK? Hey, Pete, get her some cold water. That coffee probably burns.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Optima; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 120%; mso-bidi-font-family: Optima; mso-fareast-font-family: Optima;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">from When the Moon Is Risen, book four in the series that starts with When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%; margin-top: 8.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 28.0pt;"><br />
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</div>angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-42954475912527749892012-08-10T22:34:00.000-05:002012-08-10T22:34:57.645-05:00Hidden Places and Secret Spaces<div class="MsoNormal">My father loved hidden things: boxes with hidden locks, secret drawers in furniture, hidden cubbies in unlikely places… </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d known about his fascination with boxes for quite some time. He loved the way the fit together, especially those with dovetailed joints. I found out about his interest in hidden locks when I accidentally bought him a box for Christmas that had one. I’d bought it for the beauty of the wood; he enjoyed learning how to open it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, when Hubby and I had had our adventure in the world and limped back home to raise our two children, our financial situation forced us to settle in a very small house. Our older daughter wound up with the smallest of the three bedrooms. In my search to maximize the space, I found a picture in a magazine of a twin bed built over a double row of drawers and with bookcases rising up from the side against the wall. It was perfect. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I showed the picture to my father, explaining why I felt Katriena needed it. He and Hubby drew up a plan, bought wood, and went to work. It was perfect: six dresser-like drawers in front and a door in the back that wasn’t included in the model bed where long objects could be stored. I don’t remember what Katriena had that made him think she needed that. Then he pulled one of the top drawers completely out to reveal a secret drawer where Katriena could store things she didn’t want just everyone to be able to find. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But my father’s real masterpiece was the house on the lake. My mother had always wanted to live on a lake, and my father’s goal in life was to give her everything she wanted. (She really didn’t ask for much, to tell the truth.) They’d bought the lot several years earlier and used the garage/cabin on weekends. Then when he retired, they started the house. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They’d built a house together before—the house I grew up in—all by themselves. They made a few mistakes, but nothing most people ever noticed. This time, at the age of 60, my father wisely decided to hire a little help. He had a man to dig the foundation and help laying it and a team to install the sheetrock, and my teenaged nephew spent the summer with him, learning how to build.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My father had read that most houses destroyed by tornadoes are wrecked because the tornado lifts the roof, usually attached to the frame only with a few nails. (They call it toe-nailing, I believe). So he bolted the frame to the foundation, then bolted steel straps to the top of the frame and over the roof trusses. Going to take a Class 5 to blow that baby down. But just in case, in the hall he put a trapdoor that led down to the crawl space, which was plastic lined to keep it clean and dry. All hidden.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then he decided the house needed secret hiding places—I was never sure for what, since they had very little worth stealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nevertheless, he built them—not in the living room or bedroom, where most thieves would look, but in the bathroom. One, I believe, was behind a built-in magazine rack. The location of the other was so funny that I remember it well—behind the recess in the wall that held the toilet tissue. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wonder still if the people who live in that house now have found all the secret places and hidden safety features. As for the bed, it still has a place in my home. My granddaughter sleeps in it when she comes to visit, but the hidden drawer is empty. I, too, have very little anyone would want to steal—even my small amount of jewelry has mostly sentimental value. But I can almost hear my dad shouting across the vale, “Put it in that drawer! Don’t you know that’s what it’s for?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-75358461498128448032012-08-04T23:07:00.001-05:002012-08-04T23:16:44.848-05:00Unexpected<div class="MsoNormal">I really didn’t know what to expect when my novel was published in mid-May.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know what I could have expected way back when I had the nightmare that inspired the novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could have convinced an agent to represent an older but unpublished author of a book that’s a little hard to label and that agent had been able to convince a publisher to buy it, I would have received a small advance, and the book would have been released with a certain amount of ceremony. The publisher would have sent copies to reviewers and might have arranged interviews and a book tour.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Through the years, I wrote off and on, juggling my hobby with grandchildren and stressful jobs, while the world changed. Finally I retired and picked up the stack of pages I had stuffed into a file cabinet in the spare bedroom. And I realized I was no longer dependent on the agent or even the publisher. While I’d been involved in a different kind of writing career, both had been rendered optional by technology and culture. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I decided I’d try to get an agent while I worked on rewrites. If I didn’t find one by the time I finished, I’d submit to one of the small companies sometimes called independent publishers because they aren’t one of the large corporations, which had by then shrunk to “the big six.” Although self-publishing was another viable option, I decided I wanted the validation of having my book professionally published.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t find an agent, so I sent a query letter to my small publisher of choice. They responded that they wouldn’t even look at any urban fantasy novel more than 70,000 words long.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">THAT was unexpected. When I finished the first draft, books were supposed to be at least 120,000 words—and that’s almost exactly what I had written. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I started editing. And I cut 40,000 words. Without damaging the plot or character development. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was the best education I could have gotten in editing. But I still had 80,000 words, and I felt that while I could cut maybe another 5,000, I simply couldn’t reach the required 70,000 without ruining the book.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sent a query to another publisher, one who had a sterling reputation and had recently won a prestigious prize.. They loved it. Send it, they said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They lost it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Twice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I had an alternate plan. My daughter, author Katriena Knights, had told me about Etopia Press, a new company that was growing rapidly and liked books in all genres including those that were hard to peg. I queried them, and two weeks later was assigned an editor. She gave me the second-best education I could have gotten in editing, including asking me to add back in 5,000 words, much of which I still had in the original copy I had saved on my computer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No advance. No review copies sent out. No interviews. No author tour. Par for the course for small independent publishers. (Some give small advances to selected authors. I wasn’t selected.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had business cards printed with the cover of my novel on them and started passing them out to everyone I could get to take them. I mentioned my novel on Facebook and Twitter. I got a review in the local newspaper. I pulled out attendee lists from every tour I’d ever gone on and every workshop and convention I’d ever attended and started sending e-mails. Haven't figured out how to do a book tour for an e-book yet, but I have post cards with the cover to autograph just in case anyone asks. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As well as I can tell, Amazon must have more than a million Kindle books listed. Of course, I’m sure they don’t have that many ranks, because many books would tie. But “When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing” was ranked at 50,000 several days and has bounced between the 100,000s and 200,000s ever since. I have no idea how that translates into sales, but I think it might be OK.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t say that’s completely unexpected. : - )</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-55525210293240503312012-07-22T00:09:00.000-05:002012-07-22T00:09:07.383-05:00Getting an Education in Modern Technology<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">My MacBook is a little more than four years old, now, and I discovered on the Apple Store today that it might not even come in under the wire for updating to Mountain Lion later this month. Not that it matters—I never got it updated to Snow Leopard, so I’ll probably need help just getting less far behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since I live about an hour’s drive from an Apple Store, I really should get a back-up computer just in case mine dies at a very bad time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I opted to get an iPad instead.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I know. It’s kind of like going to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and coming home with a pint of ice cream. But it does give me an alternative to my BlackBerry, especially since the BB is also on its last legs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The BB does a good job on two of my four (yes, four) e-mail accounts and on one of my two Facebook accounts, and can do it anywhere I can get a phone signal. But it doesn’t go to the internet well, and there’s always that other Facebook and two e-mail accounts. Oh, and it also does well on phone calls and texts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>: - )</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The iPad does a great job on all the e-mail accounts, all the Facebook accounts, and internet, but it needs an internet connection. It works great at Panera, McDonald’s, Starbucks, and about any hotel. I could get phone calls if I signed on to Skype. But I haven’t found a way to get text messages yet—so it might not be possible.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that brings us to this week’s blog prompt—education.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really get a kick out of learning new technology, but it seems to take me longer than it used to. I refuse to believe that’s because I’m older. I think it’s because no body prints user manuals any more. They try to tell you it’s “intuitive,” and some of it is, even if you’ve never owned an iPod. But how is it intuitive to draw four or five fingers together on a screen to close it? And after years of moving your cursor down a screen to go down, it’s hard to remember to move your finger UP the screen to go down. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So now you know why I’m so late with this blog. (Ok, I’m nearly always late.) I’ve spent the entire week getting an education in the care and feeding of an iPad. (Yeah, feeding—that’s another matter. But I’ve spent less than $10 so far on aps. And one of them shows me the phases of the moon every day of the month. How cool is that?) I still have a lot to learn, but I’m well on the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, maybe my next blog will be written on my iPad!</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-73518299909605205712012-07-04T18:16:00.000-05:002012-07-04T18:16:28.178-05:00Captain Marvel and the Seven Deadly Sins<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Does anyone else remember reading Captain Marvel comic books, or am I the oldest codger in the group?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I LOVED comic books when I was a kid. Spent HOURS reading them and more hours with those I was tired of reading in the basket of my bicycle, riding around the neighborhood, trading with my friends for comics I hadn’t read yet. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the adults all said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. What are these kids nowadays coming to? Those comic books are eating their brains and morals.” Well, except my parents. Not sure what they thought of comics, but they realized that I read ALL THE TIME, and was reading real books at least as much as I read comic books. They just wanted to get me outside in the sun so people would quit asking them if I was anemic. (Now I pay the price for their good parenting by having occasional skin cancers. It’s OK—they aren’t the scary kind. Just leave my face with white polka dots when they're removed.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the Captain Marvel comic books were my introduction to the seven deadly sins, though according to Wikipedia, I don’t have it quite right. First, they say Captain Marvel had lost most of his popularity by the time I was old enough to read. Then, though I remember greed, gluttony, envy, sloth, hubris, wrath and lust, they list a slightly cleaned up version they call the Seven Deadly Enemies of Man: greed, envy, laziness, pride, hatred, selfishness and injustice. (Wouldn’t want to expose the kiddies to the word lust, right?) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I also remember Billy being a crippled newsboy. Wikipedia says he was homeless, but doesn’t show him with one crutch as I remember. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The one thing Wikipedia and my memory agree on is the origin of the word SHAZAM. It’s an acronym for six legendary heroes who grant attributes to Billy to turn him into Captain Marvel: Solomon for wisdom, Hercules for strength, Atlas for stamina, Zeus for power, Achilles for courage, and Mercury for speed. When Billy says the word, a bolt of lightning transforms him into Captain Marvel. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way for me or Gomer Pyle. (Actually, Gomer Pyle pronounced it SHAZAYUM, but I pronounced it correctly, and it still didn’t work.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So most of my childhood memories have been rent asunder by research into the seven deadly sins. Man, I just KNEW I learned the word hubris from Captain Marvel. It’s such a cool word.<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-39885973336738589952012-06-28T23:18:00.000-05:002012-06-28T23:18:05.586-05:00Strength—Fighting off Osteoporosis and Humiliating the Grandsons<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">A major factor in my mother’s death was osteoporosis. It caused her spine to crumble when she slipped and fell in water on the bathroom floor. I have osteopenia, that state when the bones are beginning to show porosity. I think that’s why my doctor doesn’t fuss at me about my weight. “I’d rather you be strong than thin,” she says, conceding that being both would be ideal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m holding off osteoporosis with calcium, vitamin D, and exercise, waiting as long as possible to take the strong drugs drug companies want us to buy. I belong to a gym, which I visit too seldom. But I do yoga about three times a week, and I’ve figured out that though I can no longer do pushups, I can do about 35 “pushaways,” standing back from the cabinets, hands on the edge of the countertop, while my oats cook in the microwave. The exercise strengthens my arms, legs, back and abdomen, and my last test showed actual improvement in bone density. Also—I have visible biceps. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My two grandsons both top six feet now, towering above my barely-over-five-feet. Both are sweet and intelligent geeks with no interest in sports. I’m fine with that. Even happy that they haven’t fallen for the propaganda that insists all boys must be athletes. But I have learned the importance of strength, and I’ve tried to get both of them to take weight training to build theirs. Neither paid much attention to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then one day we were sitting in a Denver restaurant, and I said, “I’ll bet I can beat you at arm wrestling.” I didn’t really think I could; I just wanted to get their attention. They didn’t believe I could either. They laughed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I beat them both. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If they let me win, they put on a good act, and I must have put up a better fight than they expected. They’ve both promised me they’ll look into that weight training.</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-2334042995492567932012-06-23T17:23:00.000-05:002012-06-23T17:23:57.614-05:00Two Days Ago--I Canoed the Amazon (Not)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">If I had known the subject for this week’s blog was going to be “two days ago,” I would have tried to do something interesting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But then the question is whether I’m supposed to report on something I did two days before the subject was announced, or two days before I wrote this blog. If it’s two days before I wrote the blog, then I had time to prepare. So I set out Thursday morning to hack my way through a hundred of miles of Amazon rainforest and make contact with a hitherto unknown tribe of aborigines. It was exciting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OK, I didn’t do that. You guessed it, didn’t you? So I’ll tell the truth.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two days before the subject was announced, I awoke with a sore throat after a restless night and spent most of the afternoon napping. Went to bed early in spite of having slept all day, and woke up Saturday feeling much better.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh. That’s too dull? You want me to tell you what I did two days ago from today?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I printed most of my accumulated receipts off the Mac and filed them neatly away in case I make so much money from my novel I need them for tax deductions, knowing full well that odds are I’ve just wasted my time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But in between those “two days ago” periods, I did a few things that kept me from curling up and dying of boredom. A week ago last Thursday, I met a complete stranger at Panera and left with a new friend. I interviewed Diana Manning, an artist from a nearby village, about her memory montages for a story to appear in “Thrive,” a local entertainment magazine. Sunday after church, I wrote the story and sent it off to the editor. Friday I made a hotel reservation for me, my daughter, and my granddaughter. We’re going up to Chicago Monday for my granddaughter’s orientation at Columbia College. Other than that--cooking dinner, promoting my book on Twitter and Goodreads, and sewing lace on "The Dress." (Another story.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And there you have it. Most people lead very quiet lives taking care of those things that must be taken care of to make their days and the days of their families run smoothly. I’m no exception. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Except that I can’t stay in this peaceful and predictable place. I lead another life in an alternate universe. “When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing” is finished and published, but Michael and Natalie are just beginning their lives together as husband and werewolf. They are insisting that I write down all their adventures exactly as they happen, from discovering the body of a U of I football player drained of blood and lying on the sidewalk near the lab to searching for a professor at the University of Glasgow who disappears after discovering a drug that could cure leukemia. I have a feeling it’s going to be another exciting year in my head, if not in my life. How about yours?</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-17514140270656860722012-06-16T00:17:00.000-05:002012-06-16T00:17:04.910-05:00GBE2: If I Had My Life to Live Over…<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Thinking about what he would do if he could do it again is one of Hubby’s favorite musings, and sometimes he drags me along. So I wasn’t completely unprepared for this week’s GBE2 challenge. And I’ve decided I wouldn’t do very many things differently because then I’d be a different person than I am. And I’m pretty happy with who I am now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But there’s the catch—who I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>. So I’d hope I could do some things at least a little sooner so I could arrive at where I am now maybe 20 or 30—or more—years earlier. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d try to be kinder to people, and more patient. When I think back to some of the things I’ve said to people over the years, I’m nearly brought to tears for them. I wish I’d learned sooner that kindness costs you nothing and heaps untold riches on those you interact with, no matter how fleeting that interaction might be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d travel as much as I could possibly afford as soon as could afford it. The world is a beautiful place filled with fascinating people, and we are poorer in spirit if we fail to experience as much of it as possible. Eventually I took time to visit Yellowstone, learn about St. Augustine, and travel to Scotland, but by the time I did, I could no longer walk the miles I wanted to cover, take the photos I wanted to take. I will probably never get to Machu Picchu because I waited too long.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d worry less about what people thought and just do what gave me joy. Although I loved my job and found it very satisfying, I spent way too many hours working instead of writing. But I’m thankful beyond measure that I lived to see the world of publishing open up as it has. It was in a very unhealthy place, under the control of too few people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Authors like yours truly would never have had the opportunity to share our work with others if that situation had continued. I just wish I had more completed to share. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So all in all, not too many regrets. But I will leave all you young whippersnappers out there with one bit of advice: Don’t wait. Right now you think you have forever, but forever ends much sooner than you think it will. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-7658683584613373262012-06-08T16:17:00.001-05:002012-06-08T16:38:33.843-05:00High School--Eggheads and Dreams<div class="MsoNormal">They called us eggheads back then.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Egghead, dork, nerd, geek—pretty much the same except for the generation—someone who doesn’t fit in, whose interests are different from the norm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was a pretty good student in spite of being half asleep from taking antihistamines from July until some time in October, when we finally had a good, hard frost in Southern Illinois. In addition to always having a stuffy nose, I had a bad complexion, dishwater blond hair that hung in scraggly curls instead of a smooth pageboy, and I wore glasses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Needless to say, I wasn’t part of the “in” group. I wasn’t part of any group; I just kind of hung suspended in social mid-air, a loner except for one or two friends who thought I was kind of weird, but were willing to hang around with me anyway. (Many years later, one of them generously introduced me to her sister as “the most avant garde of my high school friends.”) Escaping into books and the security of family protected me from the psychological damage some young misfits can suffer. (Although some might argue that bit about psychological damage.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Having recently given up my plans to become a world-famous artist, I started high school wanting to be a physicist. I was interested in the electro-magnetic spectrum. Not even sure where I got that—maybe from a Robert Heinlein novel. But I had a little trouble with algebra that year—it just wasn’t easy for me. Then I had more trouble with plane geometry in my sophomore year, and then back to a little trouble with advanced algebra in my junior year. I also took chemistry that year, and though I loved it, I had a little trouble with it, also. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">About mid-year, I was walking down the hall between classes, lost in my own little world as usual, and it came to me that having a little trouble with a lot of classes added up to a lot of trouble, and I began to second guess my career choice. A career, I decided, should be based on what you’re best at and what you love to do. So what was I best at? Well, I could always count on A’s in English and social studies. And what did I most enjoy doing? Reading. I read everything from the encyclopedia to classic novels to pulp science fiction. And it didn’t just come to me—it came to me like a voice from the heavens: “Idiot! You want to be a writer.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure I stopped and gasped. I don’t know why I took so long to understand that very vital fact about myself. But once I did, I quit seeing myself as a mediocre science major and started seeing myself as an excellent English major who was taking science classes for research. And I went ahead and signed up to take physics my senior year with a changed attitude. You know—research.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I majored in journalism in college and worked as a journalist for many years, I never let go of my high school dream of writing novels like the science fiction and fantasy I loved so much. Recently, my urban fantasy novel, “When the Moon Is Gibbous and Waxing,” was published by Etopia Press. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes high school dreams come true.</div>angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-69459534407856112412012-05-02T23:09:00.000-05:002012-05-02T23:09:06.394-05:00The Stranger With My Face<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The first time it happened was when I started college. People kept waving at me and saying, “Hi, Inga,” as we passed on the street.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was kind of a shock to me. I’d been raised in a small town, and nobody who lived there looked like me except me. Even my sister could easily be IDed as not me by her mahogany brown (not blond) hair and dark brown (not green) eyes. But now, on the brink of adulthood, I had to come to terms with the possibility that I was not unique—that I shared at least my appearance with a stranger I knew only as Inga.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I was still the only me, right? Inga might look more like me than I do, but anyone who really knows me well would see in a second that she wasn’t me. After all, I am more than the sum of my features. I am a certain awkward way of moving, that abstracted expression that says I’m living in my own little world again, those favorite expressions only I am silly enough to repeat, the unmusical tone of my voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I was secure in that fallacy a few more years. Then, on a trip back to my hometown, I went to visit a childhood friend at her parents’ home. She knew me about as well as anyone who wasn’t a member of my immediate family. She’d just finished nurse’s training at a hospital in St. Louis.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You wouldn’t believe my roommate,” she said. “I was shocked enough when I first met her, and she looked just like you. But later, I realized she moved like you, she talked like you, and her voice even sounded like yours.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just chuckled. “Oh, surely not.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She reached down into her purse and, pulling out her billfold, flipped it open to hand to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And there, instead of the stranger I expected to see staring back at me, was a photo of me I didn’t remember ever having had taken. It looked that much like me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, beware dear friends. I have finally had to accept that somewhere out there is at least one—and maybe two—doppelgangers of me. And one of them is bound to be my evil twin. Because, you know, I’m definitely the angelic one.</div><!--EndFragment-->angelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.com9