Back to School Means Back to Work

Today is the first day of school where we live. Seems like we start later than most other places. I really enjoy this time of year because, after a summer of the kids being home, I finally have the house to myself again. And all the writing that I didn’t get done due to other activities and/or constant interruptions can now be tackled.

Of course, today is also the day our painters decided to start painting the house. Well, they’re power washing it now. Which doesn’t make for quality quiet time. But I think I can work through it. After all, I’m still deaf in my left ear, so the noise is only half as obnoxious as it might normally be.

Winning the [Ear] Lottery

A week ago, I lost hearing in my left ear. Honestly, it just felt muffled, like when you change elevations. But nothing I did could clear it. So I went to the doctor.

She looked in my ear and told me it appeared my eardrum had ruptured.

She wanted me to see an ENT, but of course they couldn’t get me in until yesterday. So for a week I’ve been deaf in one ear, and I’ve also had to take antibiotics because my ear started weeping. Ugh. That, in turn, led to ear pain and jaw pain and a swollen lymph node. I couldn’t chew, so I had to eat only soup and other soft foods like pasta.

It’s been a blast.

The ENT first gave me a hearing test, which I felt was kind of dumb since it was more than clear I can’t hear out of one ear. The test confirmed this. But it also made clear that (a) my right ear works beautifully, and (b) the problem with my left ear is not permanent. The bone and nerves are fine. It’s the middle ear that has an issue.

Finally, they actually looked in my ear. And it turns out I’d won the lottery. I have an ear infection AND a perforated eardrum. So they sucked gunk out of my ear, then put more gunk into my ear to clear the infection. I have to walk around with this gunk in my ear for a week. Then I get to go back to the ENT and have them suck it out. Hopefully that’s all that will be required. They can’t get a good look at the eardrum until this bit is taken care of. Once it is, they’ll be able to tell whether the eardrum is healing on its own (which is most likely) or will need to be patched.

What does this have to do with writing? Well, I’ve lost a week to having earaches that felt like someone was stabbing me in the ear with a screwdriver. (And now the inside of my ear is crazy itchy, but there’s nothing I can do about it.) The sum total is that I’ll probably have to push back Faebourne‘s release again. Sigh. It’s a mess, I’m a mess, the world is a mess. Best laid plans and all that. But I don’t want to release a half-baked book, so I’m going to take my time and do it right. I thank you for your patience and promise it will be worth it in the end.

Do You Believe in “Meant to Be”?

I’m not talking love, though I guess one could also apply this in that direction. What I’m focused on here is whether I’m “meant” to ever have a literary agent.

I’ve had agents, is the thing, and it’s never worked out. So I’m starting to think maybe I’m just not meant to have one.

The first one was a well-known screenwriting agent who agreed to handle some options for me, but he scared away the directors who wanted my script, so nothing ever came of it.

The second was an agent who admittedly mostly dealt with actors and “personalities.” I was her first writer—she’d been wanting to add a writer to her stable, she told me—and she didn’t really know what to do with me or my work. She was a great cheerleader but no more useful than that.

And the third sent my manuscript to only one place before giving up and telling me she just didn’t have the time.

Maybe I’m just not good enough to attract better agents. But I also have to wonder if maybe I’m just meant to go this alone and continue to self-publish. Am I wasting time and energy looking for a champion and hoping for a bigger, better deal? Maybe it’s time to shrink those dreams down to pocket size and learn to be happy with what I have.

International Cat Day

Crowley

I’ve owned a lot of cats in my life. Socks, Whiskers (aka “Grizz”), Precious, Clotilde, Smudge, Armand (aka “Chook”), Tapette à Mousche (aka “Choo Choo”), Loki, Byron . . . That’s not even all of them. And I’ve loved every last one of them, but you know how these things go—some pets and people leave a deeper impression on you than others. You form a closer bond.

Currently we have two black cats, Crowley and Minerva. Crowley is two and Minnie is three, though we got Crowley first. He was rescued from under a bush, not properly weaned, and he still nurses on my arm, by which I mean he kneads and sucks on my bare forearms. Hurts like the dickens, but I’m unwilling to deprive him. That probably makes me a bad mama.

Crowley is named for the character in Good Omens, though when people hear his name they more often think of the television show Supernatural. Or so I’m told. I don’t watch it. (*gasp*)

Minerva

Minerva, meanwhile, is named for Professor Minerva McGonagall. We got her on Hallowe’en eve, so it seemed appropriate. She, too, was rescued from shrubbery, but she was already 6+ months old at that point. The people who’d found her couldn’t keep her because the wife was allergic, and they were worried the cat would get run over by a car. So we took her in.

Because Crowley was so young when we adopted him, he’s really never known any other life. Minnie, however, had been on her own for quite some time, and it was a difficult adjustment. She lived under my daughter’s bed for several months, only coming out at night to eat and use the litter box. Eventually, she’d stay out longer. Emerge earlier. And now she’s quite comfortable being around us, though she will only allow my daughter to pick her up, and she still sleeps at night in my daughter’s room. I have to schedule Minnie’s vet appointments around my daughter’s schedule because she’s the only one who can get Min into a carrier.

Crowley is my cat. I call him, “my baby,” and have as deep an affection for him as any pet I’ve ever owned. And I’ve had a lot of pets in my life. I love Minerva, too, of course, but we haven’t bonded in quite so strong a way. Crowley brings me toys when he wants to play. He follows me upstairs when it’s bed time. Sleeps beside me. Minnie . . . tolerates me. She lets me pet her. She’ll accept treats and will sometimes play if I dangle a toy in her direction. But she’s closest to my daughter and husband. I’m a distant third.

Anyway, it being International Cat Day, I thought I’d share my two sweeties. Do you have cats or other pets? What are their stories?

No to Everything

. . . We’ve decided the above will be the title of my autobiography.

There is a bit of contention about which was my first word: “no” or “hot.” They worked in tandem, so I can understand the uncertainty. You see, in order to keep me from touching things as a child, my parents would say, “No. It’s hot.”

This makes sense when talking about, say, a stove. Less sense when talking about the television set. And being somewhat clever, I figured this out. My dad would be watching the telly, and I would make a move toward it. For whatever reason, turning the dial was very satisfying for me. Probably a tactile/sensory thing. I can actually still remember this—the feel of it and the sound of it burring as it clicked. We didn’t have remote controls in those days. Ours was a wood-paneled thing from Montgomery Ward as I recall. I don’t know the make or model but it looked something like:

The point being that I liked to go turn the dial on the television, and my parents didn’t want me to. So Dad would say, “No. Hot.”

And I would smile and say, “Hot?” But I would draw the word out like, “Hooooooot?”

“Yes, Manda, it’s hot.”

So then I’d reach out and turn the dial, then laugh and run away, yelling, “No! Hot!”

I haven’t stopped saying “no” since, though I don’t say “hot” as often. And televisions don’t have dials anymore.

So I think, if I were ever to write an autobiography or memoir, I’d call it No to Everything. Because I’ve been told I do say no to everything. (I’m not convinced that’s entirely true, but apparently I’m somewhat forbidding.) Also, it’s a less off-putting title than I Hate Everyone.

An Unreasonable Heart

You guys, I really want a Corgi. Like, really. I’ve reached out to local Corgi rescue and adoption groups, but so far there has been nothing. It’s breaking my heart a little.

I grew up with dogs. In fact, I can’t remember a time as a kid when we didn’t have at least one dog and usually a few cats, too. (I have two cats now. You can see pics and video of them on my Facebook page.) But I haven’t had a dog in my life since leaving for college. And while there are many up sides to not having to care for a dog . . . It’s a head versus heart kind of thing for me. My head says I have plenty enough without one more thing, one more dependent. But my heart says, “CORGI!”

Ugh.

The decision will likely be made for me. I don’t want to pay a breeder, and actual Corgis don’t seem to be in need of rescue or adoption. I see many dogs listed as “Corgi mix” on sites, but . . . Even though I know I shouldn’t fixate, and that these other dogs also need loving homes, as Prince Lir says in The Last Unicorn, “I love whom I love.” Or as Blaise Pascal put it: “The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.”

For now I have a Pinterest board filled with Corgi pictures. That’s probably only making things worse though. I should distract myself with, you know, writing and other work. Does the heart ever give up? Maybe mine will exhaust itself like a nagging child and eventually fall asleep.

Off-Topic

(c) CLAMP/Dark Horse – a picture I took from my English translation of “Cardcaptor Sakura”

As long-time readers of my site know, I am fond of Cardcaptor Sakura, and in particular of Touya and Yukito, who are probably my favorite fictional couple. After almost twenty years, CCS is back in a new series called “Clear Card.” The above shot of Yue (Yukito’s alter ego) and Touya aired this past weekend. It was a lovely scene, but I did have one problem with it. Touya tells Yue that Yuki told him Yue’s name. But in the manga (and, I thought, also in the original animated series—though I could be misremembering), Yue tells Touya his name when they first meet. So someone failed to check the continuity.

That aside, it’s a lovely, tense scene. Though I’m not sure why Touya is being so cagey about his new powers. Is he worried Yue will want them, too?

17 Years

<— I haven’t seen my natural hair color in years!

Seventeen years ago today, in the garden of a little Victorian “mansion” (let’s face it, it was a house), we were married. It was Mother’s Day then, too. We hadn’t known when we picked the date that it would be Mother’s Day, but oh well. At least my best friend Tara was also our florist and got us the flowers at cost.

It was a small ceremony, not even 100 guests. We wanted to be able to talk to everyone at the reception. So many of our friends and family contributed in various ways—my dad’s best friend is a professional photographer, and he came and took all our photos as a gift to us; Scott’s cousin works in the film industry and was our videographer (using the camera we’d been given as a wedding gift). He did this amazing thing where he went around and spoke to people to ask them how they knew me and/or Scott and to give little memories about us.

We were married by a Reform rabbi who incorporated both religious backgrounds into the ceremony. (When people ask, “Oh, are you Jewish?” I answer, “Only by marriage.”) It was sweet and personal and unique and very us.

So here’s to 17 years of holding it together. And also a happy Mother’s Day, which we will spend at a haunted house. Should be fun?

Actions Speak

As a rule, I try not to be political on this site. The point of this site is to focus on writing, publishing, books, and other media. But I was talking to someone the other day who seemed genuinely surprised and aggrieved to have had friends ghost her after political discussions. This person had voted for Trump and couldn’t understand why she and these friends couldn’t simply have “a difference of opinion.”

Usually, a mere difference of opinion wouldn’t be enough to make a friend—depending on how close the relationship is, I suppose—bail. I mean, I’m the only one of my friends who likes Matchbox Twenty and Jimmy Buffett (and I don’t like metal), but no one has dumped me for my dubious musical tastes yet. That I know of . . .

But voting is not just an opinion, it’s an action. And when you vote for someone whose policies are designed to oppress entire groups, then I think it’s probably a valid response for some people to not want to associate with you. You’ve basically acted against whole sects of society, which is the same as saying, “I don’t care about you. I don’t think you have rights. I don’t think you should exist.” Your actions have words behind them, whether you speak them or not.

Think about it in more mundane circumstances. A person who runs a red light is “saying” any or all of the following:

  • My time is more important than yours.
  • The rules don’t apply to me.
  • I am entitled to do what I like.
  • I am distracted and therefore should not be driving.
  • It’s fine if there’s no authority figure around because who is going to stop me?

We all hate that person because their actions speak to a disregard for everyone else.

All this said, I’m not condoning dropping your friends based on who they voted for. I’m just saying I can see why someone would do that. Certainly, we need to remain open-minded and have a willingness to discuss issues. But we should also think about how what we do impacts others. We’re a society, a community. We don’t have to agree on everything—we don’t even have to like everyone—but we do need to show basic human kindness and respect. To everyone. When you take an action that doesn’t do that, that in fact does the opposite, you can’t be surprised when people react badly.