Irene Peterson's Blog

Author Mills

2010-01-07T13:43:58Z

So, you want to be published? You want to wear the badge of distinction, the word "author" displayed proudly across your letterhead? You want to hold a book with your name on it in your hands and proclaim to the entire world "I wrote this"?

Well, if you've sent to all the NY publishers and agents and been rejected by the same, there's some place else to try.

You know those ads in the back of your writers' magazines? The ones that say something about "we need manuscripts"? No, not the ones where you pay them $2500 and they crank off a hundred copies of your golden opus for you to store in your trunk after you've given away copies to all your literate relatives. Not the vanity press...hell, for the money, anybody can get a book with their name on it. Sometimes even in gold lettering. Not the vanity press.

There's another way.
Usually one of those POD places that sound totally legit. Sometimes they even give you a small advance, just to seem legit. You find these publishers somewhere, sometimes at writers' conferences, sometimes in a magazine, sometimes through acquaintances, word of mouth. These are the folks who are interested in publishing that manuscript that has been everywhere and been seen by everyone. Suddenly, wow, this work of yours that nobody else saw fit to publish has a home.
And you get to join the hundreds of other authors this group publishes. Once. Hundreds of one book wonders by the same publisher.
You've been contracted by an author mill.

The following information comes through Victoria Strauss, who did some impressive research for an article that appeared in the RWA magazine. It's legit. I didn't want to waste time reading it until I saw the list of "first sales" in the magazine. There were plenty this month--thirteen--but sadly, only three were from NY houses. The others, well, let's just say most of them were from one publisher, three from what I know to be ebook houses.
Having so many from one "house" disturbed me.
I've noticed that this one house keeps cranking out first sales in every issue.
They're collecting authors.

Now, I've seen several books put out by this publisher. Some are decent, nicely printed with few typos or missed sentences. The first books were rather nice, plain covers with a flower or something symbolic to represent the internal content. Nothing too fantastic, rather generic. But what was inside wasn't too bad.
However, anyone who has read as much in the genre as I have could see where there should have been tweaks that just didn't happen.
No self-respecting editor would have let these booboos pass.
But they poked a finger in my eye.

According to Ms. Strauss, author mills rely entirely on digital technology. Their books are distributed solely online (with sales less than $200) and rely entirely on authors having to sell their books themselves. She suggested going to a bookstore and looking for books published by the house that is interested in your book. Nine times out of ten, the store won't have any because they don't handle books by this publisher.
So, you go along with the deal because you want to be published and you find that their promises of promotion are limited to their website sales.
You and hundreds of other authors have to fight for recognition, which means you have to get out there and promote yourself and your book.
You drive around with copies which you have paid for yourself sitting in a box in the trunk of your car. You give library talks, if they'll have you. You go to street fairs. You talk to the local women's club or readers' group and try to unload the books you've bought with your own money. You take really expensive ads in magazines and newspapers--anything to get your name out there. You spend way too much of your own money.
Dismal.
And those books you've purchased under pressure from the publisher are rife with typos and those silly mistakes the editor didn't catch because there was no real editor.

And these books they do print are big! Larger than trade paperback, more the price of a hardcover. Try selling a first time author badly printed/edited/written (?) book at a local library author day for $25. Ain't gonna happen.
Even the relatives to whom you have NOT given a "free" copy will balk at that.

The article has a few hints which I will pass on here. If you're thinking of dealing with an "author mill", see if this publisher fits any of these criteria:

1.) There are lots of new authors on their catalog list. Most legit houses have big author lists, but they're backlisted, not a hundred coming out in one month or two. To check this, put the publisher's name into the advanced search tab on Amazon and sort by release date. Hah! Lots of 'em?
2.) Lots of books coming out with a company staff of two or less. That means there will not be any editing whatsoever. A one or two person staff can't do it for hundreds of authors, now, can they?
3.) A new publisher name with too many books in their catalog before they even open their doors. And where exactly are these doors?
4.) If their website draws the attention of writers, not readers. There are sections on their services, gussied up to intrigue the writer. Readers seldom go there because it is aimed at the prospective "author" hoping to sell his/her work. Who is supposed to buy these books? The authors themselves, if readers don't go to the site.
5.) If you get a publisher asking YOU to submit, through email or snail mail. They get your name from your magazine subscription and bingo, they know you want to be published. Real publishers don't have to fish for authors. They have piles of mss. waiting to be read. They don't need to advertise in the back of a magazine for writers. They're already swamped with submissions.
6.) If you submit to the publisher in question and get a response far too quickly...like the next day or week. The legit houses have all those submissions to wade through. You all know how long it takes for them to respond. There's no magic involved. A mill wants your business, they'll get back to you with their promises as quickly as they can.
7.) If a bookstore can't even order books from this publisher, or if it isn't allowed to order from this publisher, wow, how are you ever going to sell more than the copies you buy yourself? If you ask a store to market books you supply yourself, good luck seeing any copies fly off their shelves, if they DO agree to carry them.
8.) Poorly printed books filled with errors. Books that cost way too much in comparison to a mass market paperback. Clang clang clang, Warning! Danger, Wil Robinson! It's a mill.
9.) Listen for complaints by other mill authors. You should belong to a writing group. Check with others who may have fallen for the same sweet bait. Did they have trouble contacting the publisher after they'd signed on the dotted line? Were their books not quite as well printed or edited as they thought they'd be? And if you do contact the publisher, do they do anything about your questions or have they burnt these authors in their emails to you? Authors tend to be picky about how their books come out of the press (or computer) and if the product is lousy, they will complain. Listen.

This problem crosses all genres. Those ads appear in lots of writers' magazines, specific to science fiction, mystery, romance, even westerns. Hundreds of writers get suckered in by these "publishers" and find themselves miserable with the association. Is this what you want, just to be able to hold some oversized paperback book with your name on the cover?

Thanks to Victoria Strauss, who with seven published works to her name, has founded (with Ann Crispin) Writer Beware, a publishing industry watch-dog group. There is a website-- www.writerbeware.com and blog at www.accrispin.blogspot.com .

peachette48 @ 2010-01-07T07:25:00

2010-01-07T12:25:32Z

Why can't I ever sleep?

2010-01-06T00:31:35Z

Ugh. I have these huge bags under my eyes. I really, REALLY need to get more sleep. This morning, I was up at 5:30, coughing and snarfling and feeling disgusting, but not able to get back to sleep. Story of my life.
So, as I lay there, squinting my eyes shut to keep out the rising dawn, I tried to think of the next episode of Silver. Didn't work. I know I have to get her back skipping stones and finding them the next morning.

And I have a little surprise planned for the loch in the mail.

And another little tiff with Cameron, but not too ugly because they will eventually get together. It's the way I want it to be.

Nothing gory, though, because this isn't a book, it's a novella. Serialog, that is.

Last warning. I am shutting down the first ten episodes of Silver tomorrow.

My computer is finally up and running correctly. We got the new router. It didn't work. Herb tore into all the wires, cursed a few times, pulled things and went into the cellar to check stuff, then went outside and discovered a loose connection there. Funny thing, when the UPS guy delivered the router, shortly thereafter, some guy from Optimum cable showed up at the door trying to get us to go back to them. Elyse handled it.
Then, the outside connection to Verizon got loose.

You be the judge.

I am not one to point fingers or accuse anybody, but coincidences are too weird for me.

Okay, so back to me not being able to sleep. I got this idea for an article sure to make somebody's "favorite post about writing" list. I was going to entitle it "Pomposity and Hubris". Start off with this quote I once heard from some wannabe in which it was declared, "I often go to the bard for inspiration."

I remember at the time thinking...the bard? WTF (okay, this was before WTF meant what it means) Oh, okay. Not just any bard, THE BARD.
As in Bill Shakespeare. This person was writing some historical claptrap and had the heroine or hero (I was so turned off by this that I am not quite sure which) beaten and left at the crossroads in the Dark Ages. The person is picked up and brought to the castle where immediately, he/she is perfectly all right and then is going to fall in love with the king/queen/heir or heiress and that's it.
Some story.

Now, I haven't read much Shakespeare recently, but I do not recall this situation being taken from The Bard. Or inspired by him.
Maybe I'm wrong.
Or maybe this wannabe didn't know which end was up.
Sounded more like some earlier romance novel than THE BARD.

We shall never know, though, will we.

This person is still a wannabe.

(Bard my ass.)

At last

2010-01-04T22:34:15Z

Rejoice with me.
The incomparable Jennifer, Nurse Practitioner extraordinaire, called this afternoon to tell me that she got the results of my PET Scan (and correctly guessed that I had not) and I'm okay.

Whoopeeeeeee!

Anyway, all news is not wonderful. During my visit with the orthopedic surgeon today, the
x-rays showed that the large bone is not healed yet...and sort of bent out of shape. Like I thought. The ankle is really fat. But now I have to go back to using the ultrasound device to
get the healing to work. I am not happy about this. I want to be better, all the way. But it is far better to worry about a busted ankle than that devil cancer.

Thank you, God.

Silver XV

2009-12-31T19:30:58Z

The drive to the other side of the loch didn't inspire Silver all that much because the day was grim, grey and altogether lousy. Rain splattered down her windshield. It slicked the road to the point where she worried about hydroplaning in the little car. Every time a truck passed her, the car shuddered and shook. Had she not been on a mission, she would have turned back to Thorne Cottage.
But she was on a mission.

She'd tucked the mysterious rock into her jeans' pocket after checking to see whether anything else strange had appeared on the loch shore where she'd been skipping stones. Nothing. But she had a funny feeling there would be something soon. Whether the guys at the pub were putting her on or Cameron was jerking her around or...something else was happening. Nah. Nothing stupid. All this supernatural fairy-tale stuff of her Grandmother's shouldn't be getting to her.
But she still had no explanation for the fish in the tank back home or the dogs in the pub. Selkies were myths. Just like Nessie, though the people here thoroughly believed in the monster.
Silver didn't.
She didn't want to.

There were two places she could go to learn more about the loch. The big fancy legitimate one in a castle-like building looked far more impressive than it proved to be educational. Stuff about the loch, dioramas, films...but nothing to really answer the questions she had. She'd gone over the geology section, found it incomprehensible and left, disappointed.
In the parking lot, she tried calling her grandmother. The line was busy (or "engaged", how quaint) but the line to the Chronicle rang and rang. The time difference probably had everybody either not yet at work or out of the office...she hoped.
She did manage to get through to the Middlebrook police department and after a satisfactory chat with the Chief Rich, headed off down the road again.

"Oh, boy. Just the thing for souvenirs!" This second centre (yeah, they reverse the 'e's and 'r's) didn't look nearly as impressive as the first, but, Silver smiled. It looked pretty tacky, something along the lines of The Dinosaurland of her youth rather than the Museum of Natural History. Cool.
If she couldn't learn what she wanted here, at least she could pick up a kilt or something, at least some tchotchkes for the Chronicle staff.
Okay, so the monster held center stage here, but that was okay. Schoolkids gathered around the exhibits while a guide patiently with that lovely lilting burr of an accent filled them in on the particulars. She stayed and listened, moving on her own when the kids started bombarding the guide with questions about Nessie. They weren't there for facts about the loch, they were there for their favorite monster and that was that.

How could anybody blame them?

It did have a section about geology but that was more of the same...ages and this newer stuff about Scotland being part of North America because of the rocks. She understood about as much as those schoolkids would, she realized, but once again, there were no specimens of rocks that matched what she had in her pocket.
Silver lingered in this section, searching the displays in hopes of finding an answer to her question, but after an hour, felt no better off than when she had started.

"Didna find what ye were lookin' for?"
A voice interrupted her deep thoughts, startling her with it's proximity.
Turning, she saw an elderly woman seated on the edge of one of the displays, looking every bit the granny with sensible shoes, plaid skirt, light wool jacket and ruddy face.

The woman smiled. No threat there. Silver walked over to her and gingerly leaned against the glass.
"I didn't think I'd find the answer to my problem here," Silver blurted out. "I never usually find answers to my stupid questions."

The old lady peered over her glasses, her head tilted slightly then--a flash of recognition lit her face.
"You're the lass from the demonstration! The American! Ah, I read your story in the newspaper. Ye did a grand job. We had better coverage the next day, that's for sure. Someone from Edinburgh came with a camera crew. It should be on tonight's news report. Thank ye, from all of us."
Heat suffused Silver's face, no doubt turning it a lovely shade of deep pink--the curse of her fair complexion.
"It was nothing. Really."
The woman shook her head.  "Nay, it was somethin'. Ye got us the press coverage we needed to embarrass those men with the cannon. They covered it over with a tarpaulin when they saw the cameras. We're all hopin' they'll take it down today."
Well, she'd actually done something worthwhile. That almost made up for the goof on her byline.
"That's great. I hope they remove it, just so you all have peace of mind."

"We may appear to be a bit of a rag-tag group, but we've all grown up around the loch, lass, and we're all a bit convinced there is something in there. That's why I'm here today, just to reassure mysel' that no one is writin' the beastie off. A few weeks ago, it was murdered by aliens, accordin' to the press. Can't have that. We all know our Nessie is alive, somewhere in that loch."

Silver shook her head. "I don't know about Nessie. The scientists don't much believe in the monster at all."
"What do they know? I've lived by the loch my whole life. I just know there's something big and wonderful in there.  And I'm a scientist, ye might say. If I can examine the facts and still believe in the beast, why can't everyone else?"

Smiling as she spoke, Silver said, "I don't know. I just don't know."  But her voice drifted off as she remembered why she'd gone on this wild goose chase this day.
And the old lady picked up on her uncertainty.

"So, tell me, Sliver McLaren, have ye seen something in the loch?  Have ye? Ye have that look in yer eye."

"They got my name wrong, ma'am. It's Silver, like the color, not Sliver."
"Och, those idiots.  Anyone wi' half a brain would know Sliver wasna a proper name."
"Why, thank you. I'm rather fond of my name as it is. And, well, I can't say I saw any beastie in the loch (she heard herself sliding into that lovely burr and stopped herself) but the oddest thing has happened."
She related the stone skipping results and noted that the old lady's eyes twinkled with excitement.
"So, ye got the stones back, did ye? Are ye sure they're the verra same as ye tossed in?"
Silver shrugged. "I can't say for sure. The stones are like the stones I threw because they're all rounded on one end and flat, all the same dark color with white veins in them. Maybe it's basalt and quartz, I don't know.  I'm not a geologist, but I know what kind of stones skip best."
The woman straightened where she sat and stood slowly, holding onto the glass of the display with one outspread hand.
"Well, I know about skippin' stones and I happen to be a geologist."
The sun came out. Bells rang. The air sparkled and Silver's quest had perhaps come to an extraordinary end.
"A geologist, you say? Maybe you could help me identify this." Silver dug the white rock from her pocket and showed it to the woman.
"Where did you find this?"
"It was on top of the pile of skipping stones."
Excitement rippled the air around the old lady. "May I hold it?"
Silver hesitated then handed it over into the warm palm of the geologist. The old woman fairly shivered with delight, but when she looked up at Silver, there was something strange in her eyes that disappeared in mere seconds. Hmm.
"First of all, dearie, this doesna appear to be a rock or a stone as you called it. It appears to be a mineral. Some of us in the business are particular about that."
"Oh, sorry!"
"Think nothin' of it. You're nae in the business, are ye?"
Silver would have asked more but the old woman was lost as she examined the stone--mineral--through a hand lens she'd pulled from her jacket pocket. Small, silver metal, about the size of an American quarter, maybe as thick as a paperback, the lens wasn't something Sherlock Holmes would have employed, but the geologist moved it back and forth in front of her eye several times.
Then she snapped it closed, pocketed it and proceeded to scratch her thumbnail across the crystal.
Shaking her head, she closed her hand over the specimen, tilted her head, furrowed her brow and said, "I canna say what it is. But, if ye'd let me have it, I could find out for ye."
"No!" Silver snapped, then realizing how rude she sounded, she softened her tone. "I'm reluctant to let it go just yet, if you don't mind. There's just something about this rock--mineral--that, oh, I don't know, it sounds stupid, but I think it's rather special."
To her surprise, the woman nodded her head. "I agree. But I still would like to take it to Aberdeen and test it."
No. This would not do. Silver didn't want to let the rock out of her sight.
"Ah, I think I understand, lass. Ye don't know me. It might be worth somethin' and yer hesitant to let go o' it. What if ye bring it to me and ye watch what I do with it? Would that be better?"

A bit ashamed, Silver thought it over. It was just a rock. But it was different, and she thought the old lady geologist thought so, too. It was her rock--mineral. But it would be all right if it never left her sight, so she agreed.
"I'm staying for a couple of weeks at Thorne Cottage on the other side of the loch. Do you know it?"
"Aye. I live on this side, but I work in Aberdeen. That's a ways away. Do ye have an automobile of yer own?"
"A rental."
"Can ye drive on the right side of the road?"
Silver chuckled. "It's not natural for me, but I've been managing."
The old lady, who identified herself as Dr. Kensie of Hairston's Hill, offered to meet Silver in two days at Drumnadrochit. She'd guide Silver to Aberdeen; they needed an early start, but she thought they'd be home before dark so there wouldn't be trouble driving the narrow roads. She herself didn't drive, she added. Too many things in her head to concentrate on the road. Rocks in her head, she explained with a broad grin.

It sounded like a good deal. What could it hurt? Silver found herself wanting to have the mineral identified more than ever now.
"I'll be there."
Dr. Kensie stuck out her hand and grabbed Silver's. "Ye've made an auld lady very happy. See you then."

Funny thing about the Scots she'd run in to so far. They hear you're American, they speak differently, more English sounding, until they get excited, then they lapse into that wonderful burr.
Like this geologist lady.
Like Cameron.

The pub proved too rowdy for Silver that evening, so she retired back to the B&B early. In the middle of the night, someone opened her door, letting the exhuberant Rolly in to plop down alongside her bed. He smelled faintly of perfumed soap.
Silver didn't mind one bit and fell back to sleep wondering how the dog had managed to open her door by itself.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Gestapo tactics!!!!!

2009-12-31T17:15:08Z

So, I'm sleeping downstairs in the front room (old living room before the addition) on the sofa bed when at 2:54 am lights start flashing through the shades, through the front storm door, waking me out of a dead sleep. Doorbell rings, full chime. Front door, located about six feet from my naked self. (I know, more than you want to visualize, so don't.)
What's going on?
Where is Elyse?
Has something happened to Karyn in Missouri?
Is the house on fire?

I quickly get my nightgown and robe on, follow the high beams to the side door where the bell is ringing again.
I throw open the interior door, step out into the freezing mudroom, unlock both locks on the outer door and throw that open to find a policeman standing away from the steps.

"WHAT?" I insist, my voice a deep alto from sleep.

"Is there a Michael Bizhos here?"
He mispronounces the heavy Greek name of our next door neighbor.
I say, "No, he lives next door at 173 A. This is 173. They ran out of numbers or something."

The cop turns to leave, I say, "You scared the hell out of me."
Nothing in response.

So, I make my way back to the front to see if he's going next door, and the cop leaves!
He woke me up at 3 am to find the guy next door then doesn't go next door?????

Lemme tell ya. I never really imagined just how frightening it could be to have the politzei come banging on your door in the dark of night. I'm still kind of shaky.

And where were the other members of my family? The deaf, still sleeping peacefully ones?

Still snug in their beds, no doubt with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.
Me? I was looking up at the ARBEIT MACHT FREI over the gate....

I gotta stop watching that hitler stuff.

Hot Damn!

2009-12-30T21:11:26Z

OKAY, OKAY, THE COMPUTER IS BACK UP AND RUNNING!
I HOPE.

Herb spent from noon till 4 pm getting me straightened out.
I've lost some important email, like the one that contained my royalty earnings and numbers, so I wrote back to the agency to ask if it could be resent. So much for electronic stuff...I'd have rather had paper. But, oh, well, I have to make do with what I have.
God knows what else I lost.

Then I go into WORD to see what part of Silver was missing ( three episodes ) and I go through the routine of copying it from the edits of livejournal and go to paste it into the WORD file and it won't work. Seems you had to reregister for it or something, so I had to call Herb upstairs to work on that, and this was after the computer told me I had no virus protection. I plainly saw the little Norton icon on the bottom of the screen, but just so I wouldn't screw up anything, I had to rely on Herb to trundle up the stairs and take care of that.

But, as of now, this very minute, things are sort of working. I won't go into any more detail and my fingers are crossed.

Still no word from the oncologist as to my PET scan. I should think that if there were something serious, somebody would have called me, don't you?
I mean, if I were going to croak, somebody in the office would care to tell me, right?
Or are they waiting for the NEW YEAR to tell me something is amiss?
Or they're all in Puerta Villarta (sp) having a great old time and they can't be bothered? Or figure I can wait a few more days while they dive off cliffs or parasail or just get a really terrific tan. No, they're not like that.
I have to just think I'm okay.

Karyn's Christmas present for me was a "British only" beanie baby of the Loch Ness monster.
I have it sitting on my desk right now.
I love it.
But I don't see Nessie looking like this, or at least, I won't have it like this in my Silver.

Stay tuned. I was going to write today, but it is dusk and Herb left to go to his "club" and I am alone in the house.

As they say in the old country...crap.

Some things transcend reality

2009-12-28T17:34:14Z

I owe this to my sweet student lawyer, Nisha Sharma, who will have her YA novel published soon. http://nisha-sharma.com
I will post when it comes out. Now, this kid (she is about the same age as my Elyse) is going to law school full time, spends her "free" time writing and finding stuff like this on YouTube. The kid knows no limits!
Besides this, she's a great kid (since I AM older than her mother, I feel qualified to use that term.
Here he is in all his glory...Indian Santa!

Two days after Christmas

2009-12-27T17:50:00Z

Why does Christmas make everyone nostalgic?

Because some of the best times of our lives were Christmas mornings!
Waking up in the dark, checking the clock...is it too early to get up and go downstairs?
Did Santa bring the things we asked for or the things we wanted and knew we shouldn't ask for or more of those things we needed like underwear and socks?
Then you'd sneak downstairs or into the living room or family room (if you had a big enough house to have one, which we didn't) and you'd see stuff hidden in shadows, everything cleaned up, no boxes of ornaments laying about, no upset candles that were too pretty to burn, no angel chimes spinning and glowing, tinsel all straight and hanging from the branches of the tree, not the light strings, one at a time...and lovely smells of cinnamon and almonds and pecans and vanilla wafting through the house still from last night's last minute baking.

The stockings. Ahh, if you weren't lucky enough to have a fireplace, the stockings were lovingly placed on Daddy's rocking chair. Now, these we were allowed to sneak back upstairs with.
There would be coloring books and jacks and candy (these weird peanut butter hard candies that NOBODY in their right mind could possibly like) and oddly enough, some candy my mother fancied (how did Santa know?) and at the very bottom of the toe, a tangerine.

For years, I never figured it out.
Well, since Mom didn't have a stocking to fill, it was Santa's way of sending her the candy she happened to like. Nice of him.
We never even left him cookies, though he could have gone into the kitchen and snagged some from the multiple tins in which Mom kept her tiny bite sized cookies. Bite sized, she said, because that was the proper size for a cookie.
Too small, said we. But we helped make them, by the dozens, and tuck them away carefully in the left over fruit cake tins that multiplied over the years.
Some of them still smell of stale non-pareils.
One year, Mom tried tinting real sugar with food coloring in order to avoid buying the stuff in jars. The only year we had blue sugar on cookies. It was monumental.

The year I found out that Santa didn't live at the North Pole was traumatic as I didn't think I could get presents if he didn't live there. Middlesex New Jersey was a long, long way from there and he would forget about me if I knew where he really lived.

That didn't ruin everything, but it ruined plenty.

Santa is such a nice person to believe in. So giving and loving and merry, never got mad at me for doing something wrong...I had priests to take care of that, but they never got mad, they just gave me one Our Father and three Hail Marys and I was good to go again. Santa, I guess I was never too bad for him.

Now, my mother, on the other hand, I guess I could get her angry enough. And I guess, now that I have gone through the "threats to tell Santa" myself with my own kids, I can see how little things could tick her off. She's more mellow now although I sincerely doubt I've stopped doing things to tick her off.

There were trips to Grandma's for dinner after mass. Good thing we got up early enough to fit this all in before the big meal. And there were all sorts of relatives coming and going. Grandma had the only house with a dining room. She never had a tree. Maybe some worn out decorations on the windows, tin foil bells and red ribbons and a small birch log with three unburnt candles in it with a pinecone maybe. Not much.
But the food was good and plentiful and even though our presents waited for us back home, it was good to be with Grandma and Grandpa and some of the other relatives (varied from year to year) and finally come home to play with our new toys or go skating on the lake in our back yard.

Nostalgia.
Going to sleep with a favorite doll on the bureau looking down at me with unblinking eyes...full of hard candy and turkey...and cookies I'd helped make. Nostalgia can be most pleasant indeed.

Christmas Eve

2009-12-25T14:44:02Z

We had two guests in the Peterson house last night for dinner.
Mom, who has survived a small stroke and 89 years on Earth and Sammie, Karyn's best friend in the world who happens to be Jewish.
We had ham.
Sam loves ham.

He told Karyn a story about his 89 year old aunt who was Bat Mitvahed three years ago because back when she was 13, they didn't have such things for girls. So she wanted to experience it and she did.
This year, Sam walks into her dining room for their family meal and what does he see on the table but a spiral sliced ham. "What???" shout all those present (most of whom do not really do Kosher anyway for the love of a good BLT.)
Quote Auntie, "Vell, I never tasted ham and I vondered vhat I vas missing all these years, so this year, ve have ham."
Now, there is a lady who is firm in her beliefs and daring to experience something a little dangerous.

I think God won't mind. Not after 89 years of being devout and a good person, one small transgression won't hurt at all.

So, God bless us, each and every one, and especially Mom, Sammie and his auntie.
All those reading this journal, have a wonderful day.

Silver XIV

2009-12-19T16:23:47Z

She never could hide humiliation well, so Silver took a short walk to the loch, launched that pile of rocks as far as she could into the grey depths and, on a whim, scratched three lines into the last rock with another stone. If this came back, she'd know there was something weird going on.
In her pocket rested that white stone that had been on top of the pile. Maybe later, she'd go to the Loch Ness information centre and see if anyone there could identify it. That had been her plan for the day. Her cheeks still stung, though. And the urge to get him back, somehow, legitimately, for something she could catch him at, burned even stronger within her.
"Oh, Gram, now I know why Scots are known for their tempers! I sure have one, and it's bad."
The waters rippled but said nothing back to her. Just as well. If they had, she'd know she was nuts.
Her cameras were in her room, so she entered Thorne Cottage quietly and took the stairs two at a time.
"Get in there, ye wee pest! Come, be a nice doggie. Ye love the loch, this is better. See? Ye swim in the loch for hours and ye won't swim in this nice tub?"
Sounds of a struggle came from the bathroom nearly drowning out the deep male voice of her nemesis. Splashing, cursing, an occasional growl from man and beast forced Silver to peer into the bathroom doorway. Seeing Ross Cameron struggling to get his dog into the bathtub merited a chuckle on her part.
Seeing Ross Cameron struggling to keep his temper was almost reward enough for this morning's embarrassment. Taking a photo of him with his dog half in and half out of the tub made up for everything. The flash made him turn around and look at her.
He scowled, naturally. "Rather than stand there, ye might give a man a hand here."
Silver tamped down the urge to clap her hands. "Having some trouble are you?"
His eyes mere slits, he growled out, "Zara complained about Rolly, said he had a pong about him and if I didn't bath him, he'd have to sleep outside, and me with him."
Silver smiled, just enough to appear sympathetic. "And Rolly doesn't want to be bathed?"
Ross grabbed onto the dog's fur and stared into the big dog's unblinking eyes. "As you can see, he's reluctant to get clean. Can't say why...except that he loves to roll in any little stink he can find outdoors." Then, to the dog, he said, "Right, old boy?"
Silver thought she heard a distinct, "right", but knew she just imagined it.

Cameron wrestled the front half of the dog into the tub. The second Rolly's paws hit the water and suds, the dog howled, spun around and landed on the bathroom floor, all four paws splayed, digging into the lino, holding on for dear life.
Silver slipped her camera from her neck and placed it outside the doorway before strolling into the small room, made suddenly smaller by her presence. "Nice doggie. What a good boy! Here, sweetie, you really need a bath. Don't you want to smell pretty?" Her voice, low, liquid honey, seductive, reached the fussing animal and immediately calmed it.
Cameron sat back on his haunches, his face expressionless but calm. Silver patted Rolly's head and pointed to the tub. "There you go, sweetie. In the nice warm water. Good boy!" Again, her voice came out like silvered honey. And the dog hopped over the edge of the claw-foot tub and sat.
"He's grinning. Good God, the beast is grinning at me." Cameron quirked a one sided smile first at the dog, then at Silver. "Will you help me wash the beast, then?"
Silver shook her head. "I don't do dogs...or windows."
With that, she turned and left the room. It was hard to swallow down her satisfaction, though. Real hard.

There comes a time when this bickering ceased being fun and moved on to nastiness. Silver detested that stage and decided, in her heart of hearts and with the reasoning part of her brain, that it had to stop. She'd gotten back at Cameron and while it had satisfied that part of her that needed it, the nice part of her realized that she'd had enough.

Perhaps if she were nicer to him, he'd reciprocate.
If he wasn't a true dyed in the wool bastard, he'd smile a little and either ease up on his barbs or stop talking altogether.

Damn, he was good-looking!
And there was no denying that electric feeling she'd gotten when they touched down by the loch, even if he'd ruined it all by being nasty.
Humph. The odd thing is, she usually got along rather well with men.
The exception recently being that moron from the newspaper syndicate, true, but he'd been out to get something from her. Something she didn't feel like giving.
Take the men at the pub. They were constantly chatting her up, but not one had made an inappropriate move. They talked sports, even tried to teach her how to throw darts. Their jokes often went beyond her because of the slang, but she laughed with them, and the jokes had never been risque.
Perhaps being surrounded by their dogs had helped keep their hands where they belonged.
Nah. They were rough, but they were gentle men.

Ross Cameron was something else.

Eh. Enough thinking about him. She had work to do. Jamming her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, she felt the stone she'd put in there earlier...the whitish stone that had topped the pyramid of skipping rocks. It warmed in her hand as she touched it.
A flash of shimmering air zipped through her brain. Sugary walls, studded with diamonds. Then cold, dark water reeled through her mind in an instant dream.
What?
Silver swayed on her feet and grabbed the side of the Mini.
The world swam for a few seconds until she regained her equilibrium.

Once steadied, Silver took a good look at that little rock, turning it over, looking for anything out of the ordinary about it.
Hell. It just looked like a pretty white crystal sort of rock. But it didn't act like one.
Well, there was only one thing to do.
This called for a geologist.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Silver tomorrow

2009-12-18T20:50:11Z

Sorry.
I'm having trouble sitting down and actually writing anything worthwhile.
The weather forecast is for snow. Lots of snow. Maybe six to 12 inches.
Now, I thought we were safe...Herb bought this huge snowblower in August. It is big and powerful and red so it doesn't get lost in all the white.
So he takes it out of the garage and pushes something and zooom, it starts right up then dies.

He worked on it for an hour.

Nada.

There ought to be some kind of winter equivalent of "our ass is grass", but I can't think of one. "Our plight is white"? How's that sound?

I hate snow.
I really, truly do.

So, tomorrow, when the wash is going on and the tree (if we actually get one tonight) is up and decorated, I think I will get Silver into even more trouble. This time, though, she's gonna call the police. Back in Middlebrook. Can you guess why?

Oh, yeah. I have an appointment for a PET scan next Wednesday. It better be good.

Getting closer

2009-12-15T23:35:58Z

Today a package was mailed to NC containing the makings of the pannetone bread pudding that is absolutely out of this world delicious.

It is now possible that we won't be making that trip.

I'm just so tired! We went out today to my mother's house, the post office and back home again and I am completely wiped out.

Of course, had I been able to sleep last night, perhaps I would have a little more energy today.

When I was a kid, there was a commercial for Maypo, some sort of maple flavored hot cereal. I hate maple flavor and gooey wallpaper paste cereal is disgusting to me, so I never asked my mother to buy it or it would still be in her kitchen cabinet, one serving long gone and disposed of in the garbage can. But the ad was cute and cartoony, with Marky Maypo talking about how Maypo gave you "extra engerny". That was the only cute thing about the commercial, but to this day I remember it.

Yesterday Sally came all the way up from the shore and took me out to lunch and two liquor stores and Target. Neither of us are shoppers. It went quickly, though not the lunch...we took our time with that. We had sundaes for dessert.
My sugar was so up this morning, reaching a whopping 139. Maybe I should have stayed away from the cupcake. And maybe I should have had more than three hours' sleep. We shall see what the sugar level is tomorrow morning.
I've been real good so far today.

This sugar thing is weird.
One day it is 104. The next 119, the next 130, the next 102. Up, down, up, down.
Seems I can be really busy and run around and do stuff and the level is very low, then I do nothing and the sugar level is low, then I do something outside the house and my sugar level is high. Makes no sense.
The day of the LSFW party, I actually had a piece of Karyn's fudge and three cookies and next morning the meter read 104.

I hate this shit.

I am determined to have Christmas here!

2009-12-13T23:41:33Z

Okay, if you aren't interested in Christmas, you can skip this. I missed Christmas last year, remember? I was stuck in the hospital, waiting to find out whether I would live or die. Hey, that's dramatic, but it happens to be the truth.
Well, I didn't die, but I totally missed Christmas.
So, I'm trying to get it going here if nowhere else.

Relax. This won't hurt a bit. The singer was often referred to as the "velvet fog".
I just love this song and it is usually in my range.

It will be Christmas somewhere!!!

2009-12-13T19:11:09Z

A particularly ugly day

2009-12-13T19:08:14Z

All in all, it is raining and cold and miserable outside. The back yard is a swamp. The top of the pool cover is full of water. This morning, it was covered with ice.
The roads, the major highways, are choked with traffic and accidents. Elyse went out to get on the road to Rt. 287 and stopped with others for an hour and a half until she actually drove over the median to turn around and come home.
Herb tried to get to Flemington, had to get off the highway and take some back roads to get there. He did get there, but it was a hard journey.

I'm here doing laundry.

Yesterday, however, I had some excitement. The LSFW had their holiday party and Karyn drove me there. It was great! Lots of food and great friends and wonderful conversation to one who is so conversation-starved!!!

Thank you to everyone who had anything to do with it.
And it was good to see the latecomers. I wish I could have stayed longer but it was getting dark and we had a long drive home.
Karyn was a peach to take me. Frankly, I think she fit right in with all these creative folks. Maybe she'll join up and develop yet another of her talents!

I wish we could get Christmas going over here.

Silver XIII

2009-12-11T19:44:45Z

Wait a minute. There was no way Cameron could have picked up those stones. They lay at the bottom of the loch and, as she had been warned repeatedly, the loch was very deep. The stones just looked like the ones she had skipped. Flat rocks looked like flat rocks, she reasoned. Perhaps all the dark stones had streaks of white in them around here, just as all the flat rocks near her home in New Jersey were red shale (and good for skipping.)
Maybe he had made a little pile of stones to tempt her into going down on the shore. Maybe he hadn't done it. Maybe somebody else had been watching her.
She stooped to pick up the white rock that had been placed on top of the pyramid. It felt warm to the touch and as she turned it over to examine it, some trick of the mind made her think of a roaring fire and her body relished the sensation of warmth in the mist of this Scottish morning. Odd, that. But the image vanished and the stone went cold. She stowed it in her pocket anyway as a souvenir. Was it illegal to remove rocks from the UK? Oh, boy.

Back at Thorne Cottage, Silver found a hearty if not heart-healthy breakfast waiting for her. Zara, looking neat and perfect in her part as usual, had the teapot in her hand, ready to pour as if she knew Silver needed it. It occured to Silver that, yes, she did need the tea, and oddly enough, Zara always seemed to know when to turn around and find Silver standing in the doorway. No, it was just coincidence. All these oddities were coincidence. She was out of her comfort zone in a strange yet wonderful country and things just happened out of her ordinary experience. There really wasn't anything weird going on.

"Zara, thank you," she said as she accepted the teacup. "I was wondering, have the papers come in yet?"
"Papers?" Zara wiped her hands on her immaculate apron, giving Silver a tilt of her head and quizzical smile.
"The newspapers," Silver explained.
"Oh, yes. The newspapers. Yes, they were delivered, but I'm afraid they aren't available just yet. Ross came down and got them earlier. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until he's through with them."

Silver fought the urge to grumble out loud. Dammit, Cameron had this really annoying habit of getting in her way all the time.
"Was there something you were looking for? There's the Internet...."

"No, I suppose I can wait. There's nothing all that important. I'm here to get away from news, not look for it."
Now, that was a lie. She'd come to Scotland to run away from so many things, but not necessarily the news. And no matter where she went, the news seemed to find her. Had the paper in Inverness published her story? She burned to find out, but kept the fire under control.
She could wait for Mr. BBC to bring the paper to her.
She'd enjoy her breakfast, chat with Zara and make plans for her day...plans that did not include harpoon guns and old gentlemen, no matter how intriguing they might be.

Halfway through her second bite of toast, Cameron appeared in the doorway, folded newspapers in his hand and a smirk on his face.
Zara wished him "Good morning, Ross," then escaped into the kitchen, leaving Silver and Ross alone together in the small dining room.

He seated himself across the table from Silver. The smile remained in place as he wished her a good morning that made her grit her teeth. Something about his tone of voice, something about the edge of attitude in it got her defenses prepared for battle.
But when he spoke again, his voice was pleasant, just a hint of a burr to it, more like Sean Connery than ever and Silver dropped her guard.
"I believe you may be interested in seeing this." He slowly placed a newspaper, folded deliberately to one page, in front of her, then drew back his hands and rested his chin on them.

Her story. He'd found her story. Pictures, luridly showing the harpoon cannon and the crowd of protesters, topped the page and the story hung down at least eight inches. Eight inches of space!
She read it through. They hadn't changed a word. Lovely! Just lovely. It was enough to give her a thrill of satisfaction--take that, Mr. Syndicate Evans--she had made an international debut. This one story, with such complete coverage...wow. Oh, wow.
The smile burst through her entire body.
Yet she said nothing.

Cameron leaned closer, chin still in his hands. "Good reporting, even for an American."
A compliment? Silver looked up from the newspaper to see that smirk back in the man's eyes.
"Why, thank you."

Zara entered with the man's breakfast and set it carefully in front of him. He looked to her, muttered a quiet thank you and set to eating. Once Zara left them alone again, he paused mid-bite, his fork still on the way to his mouth with egg yolk dripping onto his plate. Silver watched it drip with slight fascination.
He waved his fork slightly. Silver followed the motion, not willing to look at the man's face.
"Next time, however, I'd be a bit more careful to get the byline right."
"Huh?" The fascination broke.
"The byline. Is that really your name, Ms. McLaren?"

Silver picked up the paper and scanned the story.
"Oh, no!"
The byline, her byline! They'd screwed it up! Everything else was so perfect, but they'd screwed up her name.
Contributed by Sliver McLaren.
Sliver!
Oh, crap!

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Why I'm not writing NOW!

2009-12-11T16:11:13Z

I have to go downstairs and shred pork butt.
Of all the excuses in the world, did you expect one as stupid as this?

I hope to get back to Silver later today, while the sunlight still shines. But I did promise to shred the butt.

Somehow, that sounds a little dirty....

Why I am not writing now

2009-12-10T23:29:38Z

It is after 6 pm. Outside the wind is blustering and the temperature is dropping precipitously, though not nearly as low as Buffalo, NY. Nothing is that low, except maybe Antarctica.
Anyway, I'm writing this here because I ought to be doing an episode of Silver, but I find I can't think at night as well as I can in the morning.
Yes.
It is not the cancer speaking this time, it is me.
I don't write at night.
Oh, I might be so moved to grab a legal pad and go downstairs and write something out, but I can't sit here at the computer and write when it is dark. Also, since it is in our bedroom and Herb would probably wake up if I turned it on though he can sleep through his incessant snoring, I don't do it.
Maybe I should.

He made this delicous bread pudding out of pannetone, served with some sort of Amaretto sauce. We had some for dessert. It is really good. Almost makes up for my complete lack of sleep.

Whilst looking through my pictures, I found this one of my long hair. I'm going to try to get it on here. Patience. Got it!!! Oh, the cleverness of me!!!!!

It is snowing.

2009-12-05T20:54:02Z

I hate snow.

Writer's Block: Reminiscing about the Internet

2009-12-04T00:55:36Z

Do you remember the things you did when you first started using the Web and how it has changed your life?

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View 313 Answers

I fought against having a computer. I thought I would rather cross out my errors and make my edits where I could see them, not delete them and possibly change things back to the way they had been...wrong. As for the Internet, once I figured out how to use it, I realized that all my research library was still good, but I could usually get the information I needed much quicker on line. And I found hundreds of ways to waste time on the Internet, something I didn't need to learn but did. Who knew batting penguins could be so much fun and waste so much precious time? But there is room in my life for my library and the Internet. One must use both wisely. One must not rely upon Wikipedia for facts. They're good, but they're not always reliable.
Rather than get lost online, I find a book's value finite. The Internet is infinite!

Silver XII

2009-12-03T21:20:12Z

She took the proffered hand.
With one quick tug, Cameron pulled her to the top of the bank so that she ended up chest to chest with the man. And he didn't let go right away.
Silver felt the rock hard muscles of his chest, his inhalations, smelled the scent of his aftershave or soap, something that temporarily mystified her and drew her to him...maybe call it a spell or something.
Whatever it was, seconds dragged out while they stood there, chest to chest, with no apparent desire to separate.
He moved away first, leaving Silver feeling slightly bereft.
Wow. What the heck was THAT all about?
Silver stepped away, slid a bit on the loose dirt of the bank, but that big hand grabbed her once again and prevented her from landing in the loch.

Her tinted glasses slid down her nose.
Stern eyes glared down at her. "Foolish woman! You nearly fell in. Do you have any idea how cold the loch is? How deep? How dangerous it is to play on the bank? You Americans...."

"What about us? Hey, big boy, don't get me started or I'll go through some recent history wherein the US saved the...oh, never mind. And for your information, I was perfectly safe down there. I grew up on a lake in New Jersey. And I can swim very well. I would have made it up the bank without your help, thank you very much."
She had her hands on her hips now. That little thrill she had felt being close to him was completely gone, along with any feelings other than contempt for the man.

"Well, next time, I will just let you fall, if that is what you want." His teeth set in a grimace, but she noted that it made his face even more handsome while in what had to be its natural pose.

"Don't bother yourself. It won't happen."

He moved away from her slowly. "There are some steps a few yards away. You might want to utilize them if there should ever be a next time."
He pointed to a spot hidden from her view by a large shaggy bush, but Silver could see something beyond it. Phooey. The big jerk. Just who did he think he was?

To respond to that taunt would be useless. But it bothered her to continue to allow this guy to heckle her as if she were some cheesy comedian in a club. After midnight, when everybody else was drunk. Or something. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't come back with anything else, something so un-Jersey.
In a few hours, though, she'd have all the comebacks she could ever want, and they'd be damned good. In a few hours. Just not now. Grrrr! How annoying!
Had he done that to her?

What nonsense. Her brain had better rev up and start working right.

Anyway, she had had enough of the loch for now. She took the car and went for a drive, stopping here and there along the banks to shoot the scenery. Further down the road, she came to a huge group of people gathered, bearing placards and banners. Some sort of demonstration. What was going on?

"Save Nessie." "Leave the Loch alone!" "We love our Monster." "Scientists Go Home."
Uh-oh. That little thing inside Silver, that thing that said there was something newsworthy and ought to be covered, clicked on. She pulled over, grabbed her camera and slowly walked over to the crowd.

"They're after killin' our Nessie." Someone shouted at her as she clicked away. After a few more shots of the crowd, then a couple of the men mounting a large, wicked-looking device to the front of an old wooden boat, Silver let the camera dangle from the strap around her neck and took out her pad.
"Who are these people and why do you think they want to kill your Nessie?"

Instantly people reacted by swarming around her.
"See that? It's a harpoon gun. What else would they be doin' with it? They want to kill the beastie, not just look for it."
A man with a long beard and red nose touched her arm, causing her to swing around. "They have their boats with their devices and they're goin' to look for our Nessie, like they do every springtime. But they never have had a harpoon. Och, never!"
A woman who looked as if she lived with ten cats or more, that old, grey-haired-wart-on-the-side-of-her-lip look gave her away, along with the strands of cat hairs on her clothing wiped away tears. "They've angered the gods of the loch! They'll bring doom and destruction to all Scotland!"
"Ye've got to do somethin' to help!"

Silver stood in the crush. "I'm afraid...there's nothing I can do about this. I just happened by and stopped to take a look. I'm writing a book...about the loch. Taking pictures. I'm not really the press...well, I am, but not here."

Someone in the crowd grunted. "American. We're wastin' our time with the lass."

A collective "oh" swept through the crowd which started to walk away.

Yet one old man lingered. "Ye can do somethin', lass. The photos. Ye can put them on our website, send 'em off to the papers. Ye can do that, if you chose."

Silver looked at the old gent. He had a fair, weathered face. His clothing was tweed and flannel, baggy at the knees pants and black Wellies on his feet. Yet it was his eyes that really caught her attention. Blue, bloodshot, crinkled at the edges from laughing or crying, she could not tell, but the sincerity shone through, straight to her heart.

"Yes. I can do that. I can put these photos online. Are you people a group? I mean, do you have a name? A website? What's the name of the local paper? I can send these on to them, too."
His weathered face broke into a beaming smile. "Och, I knew you'd be the one, lass. I can feel the reporter in you."
Silver smiled back. "Must have been the accent that gave me away, huh?"
"Nay. It was the cameras, o'course." With that, he stuck out his hand. Silver accepted it with a hearty shake.
"I'm Jake MacDonald. I used to work out of Inverness, way back before you were born, probably back before yer ma was born."
"Can't you send in the story yourself? Do you still have any connections?"
Jake barked a laugh. "Lass, I've nothing and no one left anywhere. I'm ninety years auld. There's no one left would know my name."

"Well, I'm Silver McLaren and I work for a small paper back home, but I know how to write up a story and I can probably get in touch with some local news people somehow. I can't guarantee anything, mind you, but I will try, Mr. MacDonald. I most certainly will try."

"Good lass. That's all anybody can ask of you."

"Let me get a few more shots of the boat and the men and that cannon, then, and I'll head back to my computer, see what I can do."

"Just let them know what's goin' on here at our loch, lass." With that, Jake walked back to the anxious group and passed on what he knew from the looks of things.
Silver got her photos, checked the back of the camera to make sure she'd covered everything and got back into her car.

She'd seen several newspapers back at Thorne Cottage. She'd look to see how to get in touch with them and do what she could. As she drove, she made up a short news story to include with her photos. But by the time she reached the B&B, she wondered whether it was worth any effort at all. Did she really want to get involved?

She'd promised Mr. MacDonald.
Somebody, a complete stranger, trusted her to do what she could.
So she had no choice whatsoever.

Back at her lodgings, Silver looked at the papers, got online with surprising ease and slipped her photo card into her laptop. By the time she sent in her story and the photos, it was near teatime. At least, that's what her stomach told her. She'd missed lunch, something she was not used to at all. But there was no provision for tea at a B&B. Not really.

Downstairs, Zara was just pouring out a cup of tea when Silver entered the room.
"Perfect timing. Have a seat, Silver." Zara patted the chair next to hers. She had pronounced the word perfect as "pairfect" which made Silver smile. The way the Scots spoke had something magic about it. Oh, it was English, of a sort, and sometimes needed explaining and interpreting, but she loved to hear it.

"What have ye been up to today?" Zara inquired over the rim of her teacup.
"Oh, you wouldn't believe!" Silver sipped from the delicate cup, bit into a warm scone and eventually told her hostess the whole story.

"Ross would know what to do about that."
Silver hung her head. "I'm afraid I had another run-in with Mr. BBC today. There is no way he'd ever listen to this, not coming from me."
Zara's eye's sparkled. "Oh, what did you do to him?"

Silver gasped. "Me? Nothing. I did nothing to him. I was just down by the loch, taking pictures, and he comes along and insists I get up and gives me his hand, then scolds me about being close to the water and points out how stupid I am."

"I think he likes you, Silver."
After gales of laughter left both women, Silver shook her head in denial. "Whatever would make you say that? The man hates me."

Zara motioned for Silver to lean closer. "The verra fact he spoke to ye at all means somethin'. He hasna spoken to anyone willingly, not more than a few words, since he came here. And I saw him watching ye at the pub. I'd say he showed more interest in ye than he's shown in anything in months."
"No. No way. He's just a cranky old man, destined to be cranky forever. Makes me wonder how he made it in television, unless the BBC wants cranky reporters to give the news."
"Maybe," Zara said softly, "it was the news that made him cranky."

"Oh, hell. You're right, Zara. What was I thinking?"

"Go on, finish yer tea. We'll go to the pub for dinner tonight, if you've a mind to. I know the men will be waitin' on ye. Will ye let them down?"
Silver shook her head. "If you keep talking Scottish, I'll be doin' it soon, lass." Both women shrieked with laughter, spoiled only when Ross Cameron entered the dining room. The wet blanket had arrived. Party over.
Silver excused herself and left to look over her photos of the day.

Cameron did not make it to the pub that night. Pity, Silver mused. He missed a great time.

Just to be defiant or something, Silver woke early and strolled down to the loch early the next morning. A mist rose from dull grey water and waves slapped against the stones along the rim without mercy. Silver shrugged off the damp, letting it tangle her hair and kiss her face. Boy, it was good to be alive and in Scotland!
She thought of the steps Cameron had pointed out to her but didn't feel compelled to hit the beach. Instead, she scanned the width of it, noting that the waves reached nearer the bank than they had yesterday. Wait. There was something odd on the beach.
Silver utilized the steps, skirted the waters with care to come to the spot where she'd stood the day before.
A pile of stones, shaped like a pyramid, rose up from the limit of the waterline.
The stones, all flat with a skipping edge, were piled neatly, precisely. She stooped and picked up a peculiar white crystal one from the very top and some of the others. All dark, all bearing the particular whitish lines just like the stones she had chosen to skip.
Exactly like the stones she'd skipped.
No. It couldn't be.
Those stones had gone out into the loch, far from the shore.
No one could have retrieved them. They were just similar.
Cameron!
She'd bet he'd done this. To tease her. To annoy her. To tempt her back down to the loch after giving her such dire warnings.

Cameron!
What was he playing at?

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

New Medication

2009-12-03T16:26:07Z

The bone doc gave me new medication, Neurontin, in order to stop the "electric shocks" I have occasionally running through my right ankle, where all the screws and the plate is.

So, after getting the stuff and reading that little booklet that comes with it from the pharmacy, I realized that about twenty things could go wrong. Considering how most meds get to me, like the chemo for which I had every single side effect, I did still take the first, second and third dose.
But this morning, I decided to contact the oncologist to find out whether I should be taking this stuff. It is also prescribed for seizures and other assorted head problems, you know, the kind of things I do not need. I'm waiting for her to get back to me. So I can't get far from the phone now and I really need to shower.
Anyway, I was thinking...if this stuff is supposed to stop the bzzts from the ankle nerves, it might retard the regrowth of the nerves in my feet and hands. You know, the sensation I've been hoping would return promptly and have yet to realized.

What if it does?
What if the four pills I have taken do something that stops the regrowth of my nerves in my hands and feet?

This is a most unpleasant feeling, I gotta tell ya. Sometimes the pinkie and ring fingers of both hands go completely numb. Sometimes they tingle. Sometimes, they almost feel good, like when I first wake up, but after a flex or two, the tingling comes back and while I can feel somewhat, I can't get rid of the tingling.

When it comes to my feet, God only knows what's going on there. I can walk, I feel the inside fine...except where the swelling is on the right ankle. Left foot topside is fine, inside is fine, but sometimes the entire foot bottom goes numb. The toes never quite feel right. Sometimes the ragged sock sensation takes over. Right foot? Worse. The ragged sock feeling is always there. My big toe never feels at all, except when I touch it somehow, then I feel something, but it isn't right at all.
The whole thing is, I don't mind the electric shocks if it means that by taking these meds, I will not get back the real sensations I should have.

Dr. Khalid once murmured that I might only get back 90% of sensation. My friend Bernice had cancer over ten years ago and STILL has no sensation in her fingertips.
Nobody mentions this when they start pumping poison into you. You're just praying that the cancer gets wiped out, so you don't really think that, gee, I might not be able to really use my fingers or feet right after this. YOU DON'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT KILLING THE CANCER.

Okay, okay, I'm not complaining, not really. I'm alive and sort of functioning. Yes, I worry about this weird feeling in my left side but I'll find out about that when I have the next PET scan. Can it be cancer back already? I thought they got rid of every trace of the lymphoma! It can't be that. It's just a lumpy mattress, it's just some fat in the wrong place, it's just leftover pain from the biopsy. I can come up with many excuses for the fear I really feel.
WHAT IF IT IS THE CANCER COME BACK?
What if I've been sitting at the computer too long every day and not sitting just right? What if I should be exercising somehow? What if the nerve bundle that was affected by the mass is damaged? What if I have to feel this weird feeling for the rest of my life? As long as that rest of my life is LONG, I guess I can tolerate it.

Several negative things resulted from the first cancer, most relating to my bodily functions. I have adjusted to them. I get up every morning at 6, no matter what, and use the bathroom several more times per night than I used to. I guess the radiation did that to me. I think the bone density started going with that, too, but I can't be sure.
This cancer has had myriad aftereffects, all of which are negative, but I will get used to them and adjust and survive, providing the cancer doesn't come back too soon or ever.
This cancer shit, it's always going to be hanging over my head. The Sword of Damocles, right there, hanging over me by a spider's silk, just there, just pulling against that fine thread with all gravity's might. One false move on my part, one sudden move to create turbulence in the air I have to breathe, and the thread may snap and the sword may come down right through me. I have to live with this now, every single day, every breath I take, every move I make (I'll be watching me!)

Considering the alternative, which would mean I would be dead by now, well, I guess I can live with these inconveniences. That's all they are. Some are rather nasty, but just inconvenient. They don't make me stay in bed. They don't prevent me from getting out in the world sometimes. They are annoying. They are messy sometimes.
They remind me constantly that I am no longer "normal".

I am a cancer patient.

Now, if the oncologist would get back to me and tell me that I have to stop taking these new pills, I will gladly do so. I think they may be bad for me.
God knows I don't need anything more bad for me.

How's this for reality?
I hope no one reading this ever has to feel this way. Honest.

PS 1:50 pm, call back from oncologist's office, it is okay to take the meds.

Leg II

2009-12-01T14:32:41Z

Okay, this is yet another view of the same foot/ankle right leg destruction and repair.
In this you can see more clearly the amount of screws holding my bones together. I took the photo with my phone and Karyn helped me figure out how to get it into this journal. It was easy, once I got the hang of it. So, that photo promised months earlier of the swirl in the back of my head MAY be possible to bring up somehow.
It's in the archives, though, and I am not sure I can get back to it. We shall see.

Please note that the foot still feels weird. I was given some meds to stop the electric shock feeling I get every now and then in my ankle. Neurontin, that's the stuff. Of course, I got a generic, but still. I hope to high heavens that it won't counteract anything else I have to take.

This is so boring. Sorry, but I thought somebody might enjoy seeing inside me.

For those who missed it, here is a picture of the back of my head from '
early August.

leg

2009-11-30T23:43:18Z

This might not work. It shows the left side of my right leg, only showing two of the seven screws and the metal thinger.