Tag: the past is a different country

Anything can happen day

Wednesday. Sunny. Temp 74F Humidity 74%. Windows are closed.

I? have ordered in breakfast on the theory that I will eat an omelet if all I have to do is open the damned box and get a fork out of the drawer. I’m flailing around for strategies to get myself interested in eating food — and I don’t at this point care if it’s healthy, particularly — and came to remember that I never had any strategies for that particular quirk in a stupid quirky nature. When I was living with Steve, he cooked 90% of the time, and I’d sit at the table to be sociable, even if I didn’t feel like eating, and would have a bit of this or that while we were talking. Yes, Steve was a genius. However, that solution is no longer operative, and I’m a bit at a loss. And before anyone panics — I’m not sick, my stomach doesn’t hurt. I just — don’t want to eat. The urgency is that I cannot allow this to fall into a habit.

Argh.

Moving on to more amusing topics: The perambulating package is now in! South Portland. USPS promises delivery, but we’ve heard that song before.

We had a bunch of thunder and some lightning, but if there were violent thunderstorms in Maine last night, they were someplace else. While I don’t regret the violence — or the possible tornadoes — I do regret the thunderstorm drama.

Today’s Plan is to read the 100+ pages of the WIP, which will not only hopefully hang together as a tale, but provide sufficient hooks to hang the rest of the story on.

Writer math.

break to eat breakfast Which. Was. Good. Remember this, Self? Food tastes good. Sheesh.

A friend posted a meme yesterday about “When I was growing up, we were thrown out onto the street, helmetless, with our bike after breakfast and told to come home before dark.” Which encouraged some conversation including, “What is this “helmet” you speak of?” And that got me to thinking about How Things Change.

For instance. In my life — which, we do have to factor in the determination that we were writers above all else, which did have an enormous bearing on finances — I think that people who have two homes, or a camp, are well-off. The course of my life being such that we could barely afford one house, and were always skating the edge between solvent and me presenting Steve with a fanned hand of bills and saying, “Pick a bill. Pick any bill. The bill that you pick is the bill we won’t be paying this month.”

So, that. And then I think back to — my parents. Who had land in the mountains of Pennsylvania that they intended to build a camp on. They never did because they’d gotten taken in the matter of boundary lines and water, but that aside — they owned property other than their primary residence. My father was a spotwelder at the General Motors factory in Sparrow’s Point, Maryland. My mother was a stay-at-home mom.

Going back a generation, and the reason I’m so “surprisingly” at ease on the water, my father’s parents had a camp on Middle River in Maryland to which they retired every summer. They also had a mini-farm at what was then the edge of the town of Parkville, Maryland. My grandfather was a tailor for a large tailoring house (I often remember the name, but not this morning) in the city. My grandmother was a stay-at-home mom.

Tailor and spotwelder — these are not positions associated with great amounts of wealth. And yet, they were able to buy “extra” properties.

Well. The past is a different country.

Time to go to work.

What was your childhood summer like?

In which the writer has had more fun…

What went before: OK, so this is no fun. Apparently, I’m having a reaction to the COVID booster — the very first such reaction.

I am therefore taking the rest of the day off to curl up in a ball of misery under 45 blankets and three coon cats until my head stops hurting.

The good news is that the New Order allowed me to write 1,120ish new words, and the things I’m not getting done are business stuff that will just have to wait.

Hope everybody’s having a good Saturday.

Sunday.  The adventure continues.

As it turns out, I am … weller. The headache, which was the worst, is no longer with me. Fever’s gone. I am chilly, but that just might be because it’s chilly today and I haven’t turned on the oil heat, so we’re running with what the heat pumps and the sun through the window can provide.

OTOH, now I have muscle aches, and was briefly sick enough to my stomach that breakfast was a big cup of ginger and lemon tea with honey. I just went rooting around in the pantry, and it’s looking like that will be Progresso Chicken ‘n Rice Soup for lunch.

I have written +/- 1,000 words, and cleaned the cat boxes. A walk is not on today’s schedule. I do intend to write some more this afternoon, but there are two outstanding pieces of business mail that I have to get outta here, so that will be happening while I’m in the front of the house heating up my can of soup, and taking a break.

How I got 13 hours of sleep: I took a four hour nap, ably assisted by Nurse Rookie Cookie, who gamely declared he was up for four more, if needed. It being 6 pm by the time I arose, half-blind with the stupid headache, I served up Happy Hour a bit early, had a bowl of rice and two Tylenol — and went back to bed, whereupon I slept for nine hours. I did wake up once or twice, and noted the presence of Tali and Firefly.

So, apparently the tropes are not a gag, and author trading cards are serious business — this given the absence of an answer to my latest (no harm, no foul; at this point I’D be giving up on myself. Honestly, who is this out-of-touch old writer, anyway?).

The whole trope idea still makes me queasy and murderous, perhaps not quite in that order, but I believe I have engineered a Work Around. (And this is where we once again and reallyREALLY miss Steve, King of the, “Here, let me not do that for you, ‘k? This works for me; you go ahead and do what you do.” Insert charming smile.)

Into the trope column on the present form will go: honor, wit, true love, space opera. Those’re my tropes and I’m sticking with them.

And, honestly, that’s about as far as I can bend without breaking something, probably my last stick of patience, and it’s more or less what it says on the label: “The Liaden Universe: Where honor, wit, and true love are potent weapons against deceit and trickery.”

I will note that this morning’s writing session in Steve’s office was adorned by Firefly and Rook, with a brief visit from Tali, who doesn’t quiet Get It, yet. I am now in my office, attended by Rook and Tali, Firefly at last look was still snugged down in Sprite’s former aerie overlooking Steve’s desk.

And that’s the mixed bag o’news from the Cat Farm.

How’s Sunday treating everybody?

Earrings and old photos

What went before: Entered a bunch of correx into the WIP today, which gets me to a place where I need to write a scene, tomorrow.

I need to go out tomorrow because I? ran out of cat treats, because, yes, I am a Bad Cat Mom. And also? Because it’s going to snow on Tuesday.

Winter? We gotta talk.

Otherwise, I need to find something to eat, and then go curl up on the couch and read for a bit.

#

Monday. Cloudy and chilly.

Breakfast was rice cakes and cream cheese with pineapple juice. Finishing up my first cup of tea. Lunch will depend on what looks good when I go to the grocery store.

This morning I have errands, and banking, and staging the trash for tomorrow; ASL review; at least inputting some correx, if I don’t have enough spoons to write that scene. Also, I’m behind on my correspondence.

Slept a good long while, though I have the impression I woke up every hour to look at the clock. Finally truly woke up, but feeling very tired. Which really seems unfair.

The old silver studs earrings wore well yesterday and overnight. I took them out to shower, and this morning put in the pearl studs on their surgical steel posts. Sometime realsoonow, I’ll get to the sapphire studs, but they’re rather heavier and I’m trying to be — what’s that word? — prudent.

I once again thank everyone who left a review of Diviner’s Bow for your generosity. And I again remind everyone else, as is my duty, to please leave a review as you have time. And a special note for the folks who are rereading the previous two books to prep — reviews of old books count, too, and! the Ribbon Dance mmp is coming our RSN, so new reviews there are good, too.

And that’s all I’ve got, really. Given my general state of fuzziness, I should probably warm the kettle for a second cup of tea before I get on the road, but, yanno — mere details.

What’s Monday like at your place?

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From the Department of Old Photos

This fell into my lap, so to speak, when I was looking for something else.

BaltiCon 15 would have been in 1981. The young lady in the picture would therefore have been…28. The shirt is a patterned satin, white on white, the skirt is white. The sash is red. The funny thing sticking out of her head is a red scarf, which — I don’t know why it was there. Must’ve been a reason. And those glasses weighed A TON.  Photo by Steve Miller.

#

OK, somebody wanted a pic of Young Steve. The back of the photo says “BaltiCon 1979,” which would make that BaltiCon 13. Steve was 28; I was 26.

Photo possibly by jan howard finder. We had been talking to him in this space. (Longer History: Steve and I were arriving at the con separately, and had arranged to meet “at registration,” as one does. I was dawdling alone, and jan had just asked me (1) my name (2) if I would like to do the con with him. I told him I was waiting for Steve Miller, who arrived just then, whereupon jan said, “Here’s the lucky man now.” So, yes, entirely possible, jan took this picture.)

Contented Saturday at the Cat Farm

What went before: Thanks to all for the outpouring of positive energy for Trooper. He seems to me to be more relaxed, and we haven’t had an episode of him hitting me in the arm, or sitting by my feet and crying since we got home. So, fingers crossed that we’ve hit on something helpful.

Er — about Catholic school. Y’all have to remember that this was back in — well. does a quick calculation — 1957. People nowadays treat their dogs with more care and gentleness than ’50s kids ever got. IMHO. And Catholic school was worse than how it was on the outside. Also — I was a Repeat Offender. My mother sent me to school early — Not Quite 6, against ALL the advice that she wait until I was Not Quite 7 — I was left-handed, I couldn’t talk straight, I was already in the “retarded class” (the fact that I could read anything that was put in front of me was discounted because — I dunno. Maybe because I read the words in the “right” order proved that I just didn’t care about talking right?)

In any case, no — I wasn’t kidding, and I wasn’t the only kid who got stapled to the bulletin board, or had their knuckles whacked, or — nuns were inventive, let’s just say that. I’m sorry the image disturbed people — it’s just a Thing That Happened, and it was a long time ago.

Thinking about this a little more: It’s one of the Universe’s jokes, I suppose, that I wound up in a career where I was required to sit-or-stand in front of large groups of people and talk.  Even though I had a most excellent front man in Steve, I still had to occasionally same something.

Saturday. Gloomy, though not particularly foggy here by the river. Weatherbeans are calling for temps around 50F/10C again.

Breakfast was oatmeal, cranberries, walnuts. Second cup of tea to hand. Soup defrosting for lunch. I’m a little dizzy this morning, and got off to a slow start. Good thing I can do most of what I need to do sitting down.

I hear from Informed Delivery that my watch, originally scheduled for delivery on Monday, will be delivered today! Ahem. By 6:30pm. I take leave to doubt this, and expect I’ll see it on Monday, per the original plan. If you’d like to start a betting pool, please step over to the left side of the room by the plants so you don’t impede the folks who want to get to the drinks, or the books.

In Real Life News, the hospital in Augusta, which will be taking the brunt of patients cut loose from Inland Hospital when it closes, is quietly freaking out. It’s been revealed that they, too, are in financial distress (honestly, they’ve been short of cash, doctors, and beds pretty much since they opened). Fun times.

Today will be Sedentary, given the dizzy thing. I will have to go downstairs to perform my duty to the cats, but that can wait a bit. Hopefully, the dizzy will abate.

We pause here for an Advertisement, a PSA and! and Author’s Plea.

Advertisement: Don Blyly, aka Uncle Hugo’s SF Bookstore, is mailing out signed hardcover copies of Diviner’s Bow as I speak. If you want a signed copy, email him at unclehugoATaolDOTcom. If you ordered Ribbon Dance from Uncle last year, and your credit card information has not changed, tell him that, too, and you can have your book in hand BEFORE the release date.

PSA: Related to the above: If, after you finish reading Diviner’s Bow, you find you want to talk about there, a Spoiler Space has been created for that purpose, here.

AUTHOR’S PLEA: I know it’s early days, and Amazon won’t open its review page until the release date, but please consider reviewing the book after you have read it. Reviews are vital. You may think that a series that’s been around since 1988 and has a devoted fan base wouldn’t need reviews — and you would be wrong. The Liaden books have been around for so long, they’re just part of the general landscape — people take them for granted. (This also happened to us when we went to cons — “Oh, it’s Steve and Sharon. They’re always around.” Until, yanno; they’re not.)

And with all that out of the way — My plan today is the comfy chair in my office: writing, homework, correspondence, aaaand . . . yeah, that’s it. The cats are all in their comfy spots, having enjoyed a mid-morning snack of crunchy salmon treats from Blue Wilderness, and despite the predicted race for Warmth, it’s a little cool in my office, due to lack of insolation.

Anyhoots, we’re pretty much content, if a little sleepy, here at the Cat Farm today.

Who else is having a contented day?