My mind is a bit blank today. This is, unfortunately, not a novel occurrence, but it is decidedly unhelpful when I'm trying to write my blog. Inspiration, where art thou?
Ah, just a minute, the Coldwater Creek catalog seems to be calling my name. This may be just what I need.
Nope. Other than causing me to ponder whether I would like to get the mini-bootcut or the classic straight leg jeans with my $25 off any purchase coupon, I'm no closer to finding a topic for today.
Perhaps just a few random thoughts. There is always the chance an idea will sprout.
Saturday went well. The Writers' Conference was a success. I learned a lot about the business. I'm still rubbish at mingling, but I did manage to meet some lovely people and make a new friend or two.
I also stayed in a hotel room alone for the first time in my life. Years ago, when my husband traveled for work he would tell me he just hated going back to his lonely hotel room. At that time with two kids, cats, dinner to fix and laundry to do I thought he was crazy. An evening alone after someone else served me dinner sounded a lot like heaven.
And years ago, it probably would have been heavenly. But now it was just a little lonely. Not only that, as soon as I got into the big, comfy bed and switched on the remote, my legs started cramping. And they continued cramping throughout the night. I may have to give up heels for good. Anyway, I finally gave up about 6 a.m. and just went home.
Monday, I went to see my great-nieces play an away volleyball game at the school where my son teaches. Hearing the little freshman girls say, "Hi Mr. Petersen," is a hoot. And I was totally impressed that he knew all of their names.
I now know more about volleyball than I did previously. Which is to say that I now know something about volleyball. First, high school gyms are incredibly loud! Second, double-tapping the ball is a big no-no. But how the official (I now know that's what the term for the official is) determines that the ball has been double-tapped, I could not figure out. Supposedly, he can hear it. But in that gym I don't know how.
On the way home I stopped at K-Mart in search of peanut brittle for my husband. I was walking through the parking lot when a woman who was backing out, saw me, stopped, and waved me on. For a fleeting moment as I trotted past her car I suddenly wondered if this was a set up. Was she going to hit the gas, mow me down and laugh hysterically? Of course she did no such thing. She just waited until I was safely out of the way, the proceeded to back out just like a normal person. Does anyone else in the world think of these weird scenarios or is this just the mystery writer in me?
Speaking of mystery writing, I'd really better knock off the random thoughts and get to work. Amazingly an idea has sprouted. I think my next scene may well be a woman, driven to insanity by the sound of incessant double-tapping, laughing hysterically alone in her hotel room shortly after she's mowed down her daughter's teacher outside the gymnasium. Or maybe should that be K-Mart?
September 19, 2013
September 11, 2013
Ms. Magoo goes to a Writers Conference
I will be attending my very first Writers Conference this weekend. I am excited and really looking forward to it.
At the same time I am a bit nervous. I am hoping that I will not do or say something incredibly stupid. I would very much like to appear confident, poised, and professional. And though I'm hoping, I am not particularly hopeful.
You see, I have never been, or at least have never felt, confident or poised. I tend to trip over my own feet. When someone runs into me, I apologize. I am hopeless at small talk and have absolutely no idea how to go about promoting myself or my book.
And, much as I hate to admit it, getting older has just made things worse. My memory which was never great is now abysmal. My 'noun aphasia' is getting out of hand. For instance, I'm a docent at the beautiful Riversdale Mansion. Much too often lately I have found myself standing in a room, the salon perhaps, staring blankly at my little group of visitors, having totally forgotten the term for the cornice I am pointing at. You can only claim senior moments so many times before they want their money back.
My memory for simple nouns has gotten so bad that my husband feels like he is playing an interminable game of charades. This afternoon I was attempting to draw his attention to the cooler. The best I could do was keep repeating, "you know - the red thing" and making a rectangle in the air with my hands. I am sorry to say he is not amused by this.
Another thing that is getting worse by the minute is my sight. I had Lasik surgery about fifteen years ago and for quite a while my vision was wonderful. Not so much now. I smile and wave at old friends, only to find out that they are actually total strangers. I squint a lot. I see things that aren't there. I wear my cheaters on a chain around my neck, a thing I swore I'd NEVER do. I've become Mr. Magoo's twin sister!
It's very sad, really. The other day I sharpened an eyebrow pencil. The sharpener wasn't working and upon investigation I discovered that my 'pencil' was not actually a wooden pencil. It was plastic. When I bought it I could have sworn it was a wooden pencil. It certainly looked like one. Of course, this one may not be a vision problem, so much as simple idiocy.
Whichever, I really am looking forward to the Saturday. Lord willing, I will remember my name and, possibly, even the name of my book. I will smile at strangers because they may or may not be old friends. When I trip I will just laugh endearingly. When I meet Jeffrey Deaver, I intend to be sophisticated and interesting right up to the minute I spill my drink on him. All in all, it should be a grand experience. Perhaps I will see you there - whether you attend or not!
At the same time I am a bit nervous. I am hoping that I will not do or say something incredibly stupid. I would very much like to appear confident, poised, and professional. And though I'm hoping, I am not particularly hopeful.
You see, I have never been, or at least have never felt, confident or poised. I tend to trip over my own feet. When someone runs into me, I apologize. I am hopeless at small talk and have absolutely no idea how to go about promoting myself or my book.
And, much as I hate to admit it, getting older has just made things worse. My memory which was never great is now abysmal. My 'noun aphasia' is getting out of hand. For instance, I'm a docent at the beautiful Riversdale Mansion. Much too often lately I have found myself standing in a room, the salon perhaps, staring blankly at my little group of visitors, having totally forgotten the term for the cornice I am pointing at. You can only claim senior moments so many times before they want their money back.
My memory for simple nouns has gotten so bad that my husband feels like he is playing an interminable game of charades. This afternoon I was attempting to draw his attention to the cooler. The best I could do was keep repeating, "you know - the red thing" and making a rectangle in the air with my hands. I am sorry to say he is not amused by this.
Another thing that is getting worse by the minute is my sight. I had Lasik surgery about fifteen years ago and for quite a while my vision was wonderful. Not so much now. I smile and wave at old friends, only to find out that they are actually total strangers. I squint a lot. I see things that aren't there. I wear my cheaters on a chain around my neck, a thing I swore I'd NEVER do. I've become Mr. Magoo's twin sister!
It's very sad, really. The other day I sharpened an eyebrow pencil. The sharpener wasn't working and upon investigation I discovered that my 'pencil' was not actually a wooden pencil. It was plastic. When I bought it I could have sworn it was a wooden pencil. It certainly looked like one. Of course, this one may not be a vision problem, so much as simple idiocy.
Whichever, I really am looking forward to the Saturday. Lord willing, I will remember my name and, possibly, even the name of my book. I will smile at strangers because they may or may not be old friends. When I trip I will just laugh endearingly. When I meet Jeffrey Deaver, I intend to be sophisticated and interesting right up to the minute I spill my drink on him. All in all, it should be a grand experience. Perhaps I will see you there - whether you attend or not!
September 3, 2013
All the News That's Fit to Print
I continually make the mistake of reading the entire newspaper. And it's just depressing. Why I don't stick to the comics and the Style section I really don't understand.
But every morning I get up, turn on the electric kettle (best invention in the world), feed the cats, make my tea, then sit down and read the Washington Post. I guess I'm hoping for something good to happen. It seems it rarely does.
I don't count sports. Although I enjoy a baseball game, I don't follow baseball. And not being a football fan, the exploits of the Redskins on the front page simply irritates me. I do not rejoice with the team.
I read the obituaries. My mother always read them and I like to keep tradition going. Of course, it is heartening not to be among the chosen few, so I guess that's a good thing. On the other hand, many of those chosen few are my age or younger and that's fairly demoralizing.
World news veers from tragic to horrifying to terrifying. Pictures of dead bodies lined up in a row, articles about chemical weapons, riots, uprisings, drones, earthquakes and tsunamis, the economy, and, for comic relief, the ever-present political shenanigans that Washington thrives on. I mean you've got to ask yourself, when Anthony Weiner's wiener is front page news have we strayed just a bit too far from the path of sanity.
Local news is a series of fatal car crashes, plane crashes, the trial of the month, inappropriate teacher/student interaction (euphemisms are wonderful, aren't they?), inappropriate pastor/child interaction, inappropriate politician/big donor interaction. There is a lot of interaction going on and none of it's good!
The health and science section isn't too bad, a lot of interesting facts. I now know that there is a fish that walks on land. The main disease story is usually sort of an upper where some poor sap finally finds a cure. Of course, it comes after years of needless suffering, but it is a cure.
So why don't I stick to who George Clooney is dating, where Michelle Obama had dinner, and what advice Carolyn Hax has for Anonymous in Maryland? I wish I knew. It's a mystery. Perhaps I'll find the answer in tomorrow's Post.
But every morning I get up, turn on the electric kettle (best invention in the world), feed the cats, make my tea, then sit down and read the Washington Post. I guess I'm hoping for something good to happen. It seems it rarely does.
I don't count sports. Although I enjoy a baseball game, I don't follow baseball. And not being a football fan, the exploits of the Redskins on the front page simply irritates me. I do not rejoice with the team.
I read the obituaries. My mother always read them and I like to keep tradition going. Of course, it is heartening not to be among the chosen few, so I guess that's a good thing. On the other hand, many of those chosen few are my age or younger and that's fairly demoralizing.
World news veers from tragic to horrifying to terrifying. Pictures of dead bodies lined up in a row, articles about chemical weapons, riots, uprisings, drones, earthquakes and tsunamis, the economy, and, for comic relief, the ever-present political shenanigans that Washington thrives on. I mean you've got to ask yourself, when Anthony Weiner's wiener is front page news have we strayed just a bit too far from the path of sanity.
Local news is a series of fatal car crashes, plane crashes, the trial of the month, inappropriate teacher/student interaction (euphemisms are wonderful, aren't they?), inappropriate pastor/child interaction, inappropriate politician/big donor interaction. There is a lot of interaction going on and none of it's good!
The health and science section isn't too bad, a lot of interesting facts. I now know that there is a fish that walks on land. The main disease story is usually sort of an upper where some poor sap finally finds a cure. Of course, it comes after years of needless suffering, but it is a cure.
So why don't I stick to who George Clooney is dating, where Michelle Obama had dinner, and what advice Carolyn Hax has for Anonymous in Maryland? I wish I knew. It's a mystery. Perhaps I'll find the answer in tomorrow's Post.
August 23, 2013
Here's to our Best Days
What makes 'the best day'? A few weeks ago we had family over to share crabs, beer, and burgers. My granddaughter, Sophie, who is five was the only child there. She seemed to enjoy herself, played nicely, ate crabs and lots of corn, found her Twizzler in her dessert drawer (where I keep candy just for her), put up no fuss when it was time to leave, waved and said "Bye everybody" (after a bit of coaxing - she's very shy), and hopped in the car.
On the way home Sophie kept saying to my daughter, "That was the best day, wasn't it, Mom?" and "Wasn't that the best day?" and "I had the best day!" for the whole hour ride.
So, what made it 'the best day' for her? Who knows? What makes any day that good? It's kind of impossible to pin down, isn't it?
I have found that special days are rarely 'the best days'. My wedding day, for example, was not a 'best' day. It was a good day and marrying Tom was the best thing I've ever done, but the day went by in a whirl. We were tired and nervous and it was over in the wink of an eye.
But there was an evening when Tom and I sat at the Lincoln Memorial and talked for the longest time. Just the two of us. I can't remember why we were there or much of what we talked about, but it was a lovely night and the feeling of that night has never gone away.
Another memory that always makes me smile is driving home from Baltimore with my brother back in the summer 1965. I remember it vividly, the sun roof open, Beatles on the radio, a tree lined portion of Route 1. We were happy and singing and having fun and it was the best .
I have so many 'best' moments with my sisters, my best friend, Tom and the kids. Unfortunately, these tend to get overshadowed by the rest of life, the hard parts, the sadness, the day to day routine. So my new resolution is to try and think about a 'best' time, a memory that will make me smile, every time 'real life' chooses to smack me on the head. Maybe it will help. maybe not. But I think it's worth a try.
On the way home Sophie kept saying to my daughter, "That was the best day, wasn't it, Mom?" and "Wasn't that the best day?" and "I had the best day!" for the whole hour ride.
So, what made it 'the best day' for her? Who knows? What makes any day that good? It's kind of impossible to pin down, isn't it?
I have found that special days are rarely 'the best days'. My wedding day, for example, was not a 'best' day. It was a good day and marrying Tom was the best thing I've ever done, but the day went by in a whirl. We were tired and nervous and it was over in the wink of an eye.
But there was an evening when Tom and I sat at the Lincoln Memorial and talked for the longest time. Just the two of us. I can't remember why we were there or much of what we talked about, but it was a lovely night and the feeling of that night has never gone away.
Another memory that always makes me smile is driving home from Baltimore with my brother back in the summer 1965. I remember it vividly, the sun roof open, Beatles on the radio, a tree lined portion of Route 1. We were happy and singing and having fun and it was the best .
I have so many 'best' moments with my sisters, my best friend, Tom and the kids. Unfortunately, these tend to get overshadowed by the rest of life, the hard parts, the sadness, the day to day routine. So my new resolution is to try and think about a 'best' time, a memory that will make me smile, every time 'real life' chooses to smack me on the head. Maybe it will help. maybe not. But I think it's worth a try.
August 16, 2013
The writing bug is back
Fall is in the air a bit early and the dog days of August seem to be skipping us this year. Windows are open. My husband is wearing a sweatshirt which seems a bit excessive, but he finds anything under 90 degrees to be a tad cool. And I have got the writing bug back.
It tends to desert me in mid-spring and return in the fall. I have no idea why. I'm retired and have no fixed schedule to follow. But my muse or whatever little irritant that goads me on seems to run on a school schedule. A hangover from my youth when summer was for play? I have no idea. I just know that suddenly I have an urge to write something.
So, I've begun to map out my next Daisy&Rose mystery. I am not good at this process. I tend to invent as I write, but I do need a basic outline. First and foremost, I need to know who did what to whom and why. I also like to have a good idea about a little sideshow, so to speak - the hormonally exuberant Malcolm or a jogger who keeps showing up revealing a little more of himself than anyone would like to see.
There are other questions I need to think about. Is romance in the air? Probably not. Who needs romance when you've got dead bodies. What outlandish things will Angela be up to? Any more pets to be added to the menagerie? But really, I just need the basic plot. The rest will come, like Shoeless Joe Jackson in the movie.
Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get my ideas. And I usually have to say that most of the time I have no idea. They just arrive. I sit down to write, the flow is good, words get put on the page and there it is. A paragraph or a page or a chapter.
There are times that I've read something I've written a day or so later and think, "Wow. That's not bad. I like it. I don't remember writing it and I wonder where it came from."
Then there are times when I know the moment an idea came to me. This week it happened twice, both between four and five in the morning, my usual hour of insomnia.
The first was Saturday night. I was doing my version of counting sheep - going through the alphabet and listing items (flowers in this case) that begin with each letter - and it wasn't working. I suddenly remembered the meteor shower and decided to see what the heavens had to offer. Tom and I watched for a while (he, too, often has 4 a.m. insomnia). When I got back in bed, I had an image of Daisy and fog and knew just how I wanted to begin the book. Wonderful. Then I fell fast asleep.
The second time was the night before last. Again 4 a.m. and the alphabet thing not working. I just tossed and turned a lot thinking about all those little things that drive you crazy at four in the morning.
One of those things was the new book. I had a basic plot and the first sentence, but I was stuck. I couldn't grab what I call 'the hook', the hinge I hang the story on. After about forty-five minutes of checking the clock and making no progress with sleep or storyline, I gave up trying. I needed to talk to someone.
But Tom was actually sleeping for a change and I felt it unfair to wake him. So I had a little chat with my mother. A tad one-sided seeing as how she passed on to a better place quite a while ago, but I know she can still hear me.
My mother loved mysteries. She turned me onto Miss Marple, Peter Wimsey and tons of other wonderful detectives when I was about twelve. So I told her about the new book and how I would love to be able to pick her brain because I was a bit stuck at the moment and it was frustrating. Then I said good night, closed my eyes, snuggled down, and there it was! I had the hook. A ghost who walks at four in the morning. Coincidence? I don't think so. Thanks, Mom.
It tends to desert me in mid-spring and return in the fall. I have no idea why. I'm retired and have no fixed schedule to follow. But my muse or whatever little irritant that goads me on seems to run on a school schedule. A hangover from my youth when summer was for play? I have no idea. I just know that suddenly I have an urge to write something.
So, I've begun to map out my next Daisy&Rose mystery. I am not good at this process. I tend to invent as I write, but I do need a basic outline. First and foremost, I need to know who did what to whom and why. I also like to have a good idea about a little sideshow, so to speak - the hormonally exuberant Malcolm or a jogger who keeps showing up revealing a little more of himself than anyone would like to see.
There are other questions I need to think about. Is romance in the air? Probably not. Who needs romance when you've got dead bodies. What outlandish things will Angela be up to? Any more pets to be added to the menagerie? But really, I just need the basic plot. The rest will come, like Shoeless Joe Jackson in the movie.
Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get my ideas. And I usually have to say that most of the time I have no idea. They just arrive. I sit down to write, the flow is good, words get put on the page and there it is. A paragraph or a page or a chapter.
There are times that I've read something I've written a day or so later and think, "Wow. That's not bad. I like it. I don't remember writing it and I wonder where it came from."
Then there are times when I know the moment an idea came to me. This week it happened twice, both between four and five in the morning, my usual hour of insomnia.
The first was Saturday night. I was doing my version of counting sheep - going through the alphabet and listing items (flowers in this case) that begin with each letter - and it wasn't working. I suddenly remembered the meteor shower and decided to see what the heavens had to offer. Tom and I watched for a while (he, too, often has 4 a.m. insomnia). When I got back in bed, I had an image of Daisy and fog and knew just how I wanted to begin the book. Wonderful. Then I fell fast asleep.
The second time was the night before last. Again 4 a.m. and the alphabet thing not working. I just tossed and turned a lot thinking about all those little things that drive you crazy at four in the morning.
One of those things was the new book. I had a basic plot and the first sentence, but I was stuck. I couldn't grab what I call 'the hook', the hinge I hang the story on. After about forty-five minutes of checking the clock and making no progress with sleep or storyline, I gave up trying. I needed to talk to someone.
But Tom was actually sleeping for a change and I felt it unfair to wake him. So I had a little chat with my mother. A tad one-sided seeing as how she passed on to a better place quite a while ago, but I know she can still hear me.
My mother loved mysteries. She turned me onto Miss Marple, Peter Wimsey and tons of other wonderful detectives when I was about twelve. So I told her about the new book and how I would love to be able to pick her brain because I was a bit stuck at the moment and it was frustrating. Then I said good night, closed my eyes, snuggled down, and there it was! I had the hook. A ghost who walks at four in the morning. Coincidence? I don't think so. Thanks, Mom.
August 8, 2013
The elusive, mysterious 'Woman of a Certain Age'
Let me begin by congratulating two fellow Intrigue authors who launched novels this week. DB Corey's thrilling Chain of Evidence and CA Verstraete's wonderful zombie novel Girl Z are taking off with a bang. Go to http://dbcorey.blogspot.com and http://girlzombieauthors.blogspot.com to see what all the excitement's about. Both books are available at Amazon.com.
*****
I am a woman of a 'certain age'. Just what age range this encompasses I am not entirely sure. It's a phrase women like to use instead of uttering an actual number. And I think it's a nice idea. But let's face it, I do believe it's just a nice way of saying pretty old, but not old enough to be elderly.
Age is a funny thing, isn't it? Ask a teenager how old she is and "I'll be sixteen in two months and then I can drive!" is shouted with glee.
A few years later the same post-teen might utter, "I'm 21. I'm legal!".
Twenty-five is certainly acceptable. Right up to about thirty-two seems to be fine. Then we start hedging. "Why do you ask?" "How old do I look?" (Never a safe question as many have found out the hard way.) A few years later we move into "In my thirties," and "Old enough to know better." Sometimes we simply give the silent 'how-dare-you-ask' stare which we've been perfecting for just this moment. And so it goes until we become 'women of a certain age'.
So when does a certain age start? I suppose it's when we've stretched middle-age just about as far as we possibly can. Because as much as I hate to say it, 60 is not middle-aged. It may be the new 40, but I'm just about positive that 120 will not be the new 80.
Why am I pondering this arcane question for the ages? I have a birthday coming up shortly and being a woman of a certain age I want to make sure that I still am - a certain age. Of course, if you think about it, who isn't? Everyone is a certain age. Unless of course you have no idea when you were born.
Which brings me to a funny little story about my amusing little family. If you haven't caught on by now my family can be a little eccentric. Case in point. Until I was sixteen and I applied for my learner's permit I thought my birthday was August 15th. It isn't.
My older sister, Mary, and I had always shared a birthday. I was told stories about Mom having to leave Mary's party to go to the hospital to have me. So at sixteen when I excitedly filled out the application for my learner's permit, I wrote down August 15th under date of birth. I also sent a copy of my birth certificate with the form.
About a week later I eagerly opened my envelope from the DMV only to find my application and birth certificate returned with a note saying that there was a discrepancy in the birth dates.
This is when I found out that I was actually born on August 16th. For over sixteen years, no one, not my parents or three older siblings, ever mentioned that Mary and I did not really share a birthday. My Dad, a wonderful, but thoroughly goofy man, explained it by saying that if I had been born on a train, my birthday would be the 15th because trains ran on Standard Time, not Daylight Savings Time and I was born shortly after midnight DST which would have been shortly after 11:00 pm EST on a train. I was not born on a train. I was not born on August 15th. But I was born, I am having a birthday, and I will still be 'a woman of a certain age'.
If you enjoy these little musings of mine, would you be so kind as to click the Google+ button and/or the Facebook share button? I'd be most appreciative.
August 2, 2013
Questions about very important things
I have questions. Lots of them. Most will never be answered, but I like to ask them anyway.
For instance, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? Why doesn't he move away from the faucet. His little web just gets pulled apart each time I wash my hands. He then rebuilds and sits there doing nothing, apparently waiting for me to turn on the faucet so he can rebuild once more.
Yes, I have a spider. I don't kill spiders. I think they do good work. And I'm fine as long as I know where they are. And as long as they are not actually on me. If they bother me, I simply put them outside. (Glass over spider, cardboard slid under glass, someone to open the door for you. Easy-peasy.)
I remember a particular spider that lived on the windshield of my little red VW. He was a little white spider and had been there for a few weeks, just walking back and forth. I don't know what he lived on. I didn't have food in the car. Well, I probably did - old fries or chips, but nothing on the windshield or dashboard.
Anyway, one day my sister got in the car and said, "Oh, a spider!" and smooshed the poor thing.
She no longer kills spiders. Perhaps it was my response when I yelled, "Why the hell did you do that?", but I think it more likely that she matured in her thinking just as I did learning that spiders are good people, too.
This spider inquiry seems to have nothing to do with writing, except that recently - this entire summer - I feel very much like my little spider. I sit and I wait and something interrupts me and I sit and wait again. Not much is getting done in the way of editing or outlining another book. Not much is getting done at all.
So the question remains, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? More to the point, of course, is why do I? I'll let you know as soon as I find out. I'm sure you'll be waiting with baited breath. Relax, I may be a while.
In the meantime, a question about hummingbirds. I know, you think I'm going to ask why they hum. But I already know that. (For anyone who has managed to live a life without hearing this oldie, but goodie, it's because they don't know the words.)
No, no. I have read that they like clean feeders. And I have watched them feast on my little feeder for two days, but the next they just fly by without even a sip. How do they know it's time for a wash? It's a mystery.
For instance, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? Why doesn't he move away from the faucet. His little web just gets pulled apart each time I wash my hands. He then rebuilds and sits there doing nothing, apparently waiting for me to turn on the faucet so he can rebuild once more.
Yes, I have a spider. I don't kill spiders. I think they do good work. And I'm fine as long as I know where they are. And as long as they are not actually on me. If they bother me, I simply put them outside. (Glass over spider, cardboard slid under glass, someone to open the door for you. Easy-peasy.)
I remember a particular spider that lived on the windshield of my little red VW. He was a little white spider and had been there for a few weeks, just walking back and forth. I don't know what he lived on. I didn't have food in the car. Well, I probably did - old fries or chips, but nothing on the windshield or dashboard.
Anyway, one day my sister got in the car and said, "Oh, a spider!" and smooshed the poor thing.
She no longer kills spiders. Perhaps it was my response when I yelled, "Why the hell did you do that?", but I think it more likely that she matured in her thinking just as I did learning that spiders are good people, too.
This spider inquiry seems to have nothing to do with writing, except that recently - this entire summer - I feel very much like my little spider. I sit and I wait and something interrupts me and I sit and wait again. Not much is getting done in the way of editing or outlining another book. Not much is getting done at all.
So the question remains, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? More to the point, of course, is why do I? I'll let you know as soon as I find out. I'm sure you'll be waiting with baited breath. Relax, I may be a while.
In the meantime, a question about hummingbirds. I know, you think I'm going to ask why they hum. But I already know that. (For anyone who has managed to live a life without hearing this oldie, but goodie, it's because they don't know the words.)
No, no. I have read that they like clean feeders. And I have watched them feast on my little feeder for two days, but the next they just fly by without even a sip. How do they know it's time for a wash? It's a mystery.
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