More Polyglot Bullshit

This was my response to a Rumpus article I read just about a year ago.  Every other person that commented on the essay, which was about how Asians have their own special kind of racism that nobody else can understand, ranted about their personal experiences with discrimination. You know what? I am having a lot of trouble with my teeth and it really bothers me because I think having unattractive teeth speaks poorly of that person.

 The truth is that everyone one of us thinks we are so fucking special for one reason or another. Examine your conscience. Be the best human you can be. It doesn't matter what people expect of you and it doesn't matter what color your skin is. How could it unless you are on one of those Ethnic bandwagons? Just do your best.

December 17th, 2013 at 4:43 pm
I cannot finish reading this. My forehead is hot and my heart is pounding. Everyone EVERYONE has something to bitch about. This guy whose wife is fooling around on him says she can’t read my fiction and she hates my daughter because she is 5’10″ and hates short people. I am a red head. 2 to 4% of the world population. I will be 70 in the Spring. SEVENTY. This whole ginger thing is maybe 2 to 5 years old. When I was a small child, Ginger (Rogers?) was a cute nickname for a redhead or a person named Virginia. I so desperately wanted it to be my nickname. It wasn’t. “Redhead, redhead, fire in the woodshed.” In my early teens a little song I won’t repeat referring to having menstrual fluid on my head. And I was freckled and skinny. WHY did it NEVER hurt me? I knew I was smarter than my big brother and that was the win for me. No other redheads in the family that I ever saw. Lots of dead ones.

At my ten year reunion from high school I received the ultimate left-handed compliment. “I wish I knew you were going to turn out like this.”

Why can’t you just be you? Why do you have to take on a burden of a “yellow” race? I have never seen a yellow person or a red person or a black person. At a family gathering, introducing the very suntanned son of my Irish nephew and his Italian wife, I said, “He’s one of those little brown people.” He was. Just like your face IS flat. I married a Spaniard. My brother teased him about living in a cave with a goat and a wine bota, but got all freaked when I said his wife was the first Italian we let into the family.

Calm the fuck down. I’m trying to.

Five Feet of Heaven in a Pony Tail

I think it is because of the time I grew up in. My grandma used to take me to the Novena at Our Lady of Sorrows Basilica. I think we would go on the bus. I would have to research how far it was from our home, but I won't. She knew I was obnoxious and fidgety, but she didn't want to go alone, and I was available.

There was Care, Devotion, a Crush, falling in Love, Crazy about someone, being in Love, Loving, being Loved, being Cherished, Adored, Worshipped, making Love,  Nuts about someone, Obsessed, being the Love of someone's life, at least for a few weeks. All words tossed about, referring to your  brother's friend, the guy down the block, someone on a movie screen or a television, a teacher, your boyfriend, your husband, your child, a pet, a painting, a singer, a city. How are you supposed to know what love is? We read a book, I think in college, I think in Philosophy, The Art of Love. It certainly didn't have anything to do with sex, and, frankly, I have no recollection of a single word of it. But the cover was red.

The only thing I know about love is that, for sure, when we were talking about someone wanting to take someone dear from me, and that dear someone climbed on my lap and I gently circled that tiny, dear, cool, little arm with my hand, the thing I felt in my whole being was Love.

BOOKS

The local library probably has more actual "books" inside their doors than the last "bookstore" you were in.   Still, most of them are now lending e-books and actual e-reading devices,  and I am sure they are not lying awake all night worrying if they are doing the right thing.  Which thing? Take your pick.  This is going to be kind of like those books you buy in the gas station when you are on a long road trip and they fill in the blanks in the story and then you are supposed to laugh or marvel.

Anyway, it is moot.  Libraries run on tax dollars, right?  Not counting the tote bags they sell and the money that they get from over due fines, and from the used book sale and that box in the corner of the hall full of unclassifiables that are twenty five cents a piece.  Oh, no.  Wait.  Now those are free.  They have the unclassifiables shelved and priced now.

(Aside)  I used to take a book I owned and had finished reading and put it on that shelf.  Hardcovers 50 cents, paperback, 25 cents.  One day I got "caught".  You have to put it in a special slot so it can be catalogued.  A person does this, a library employee, paid with your tax money.  Not a volunteer.  I asked her why they decided to do it that money wasting way and were they afraid someone would not put down the quarter or the two quarters that they were charging for books people left off for free? I guess our town is so safe and secure that they do not have a training program at the library for new hires on how to deal with the local anarchist.  I just set my book on the shelf while making a noise that I hope sounded like a wry chuckle and not a threat and left.  She can stick it in the slot herself.

Anyway, I just read another article about how Penguin is determined to crush the world of publishing and reading under their heel, or maybe that is the wrong metaphor.  Maybe Penguin is actually trying to bring the world of publishing to its knees.  Heels, knees, what ever. Now they will not give the author of the book a copy of his own book pre-release, unless he pays  $300. Why did he NOT upload his MS to Adobe Books before he sent it to them? Well, someone said then he is not seeing any of the final edits. Lora Leigh sells like hotcakes, and you would go through two red pencils sitting and editing any of her books just for fun. The same rule applies to the cover art, or the facsimile of the actual cover, or something.  And everyone is ringing in, which is I guess what I am doing here, and wringing their hands about rights and DRM and piracy.

I am small potatoes.  I do no promo and I drop off the map in two or three months.  But I did enough business back in the day when I cared about being a writer to win a spot in someone's algorithm so if someone buys even one of my titles, my rating jumps way up.  Of course that probably doesn't mean anything to most of you since you don't know anything about purchasing one of my titles since you have no experience at that sort of thing. (Yeah. Bitchy.) During one promotion when I was able to offer Sacred Sin for free, I had over 6,000 downloads.  The day after the freebie was over I had eight cash sales (no returns) and shortly thereafter, in one day, which I remember clearly, cuz it never happened again, I had thirty two cash sales of different titles. I have had (few) cash sales in Germany, France, and Italy and I do pretty good in New Zealand for some reason. I am building up to this.  As an Indie I may have had equal or less success than most, but most of the stats I have read state that I have sold more than the average Joe E-pubber.  Well, actually it said I made more money than Joe.  And this is my point.  I am on Pirate sites. Some let you download a PDF for free.  I saw one the other day that was charging more for my Anymore than I do.  I don't see a cent of that money.  I actually find it flattering.  They go on about DRM which has been a non-issue for at least four years.  You can find how to break DRM in dozens of places on the net.  They talk about having a real publisher, a real agent, a real book.  I net more on a single copy of my book than almost anyone who goes through the traditional method.  Unless it keeps selling for years, like Harry Potter but not like Shades of Gray which is already dropping out of sight.

I cannot understand the furor they are trying to create.  It is like they are screaming from the bottom of a well and there is a hurricane roaring right over head of that well.  I know they have to try.  I know there are firm believers, but how many JKRowlings come along?  Not enough to make more than one publishing house happy. That David Foster Wallace was goopy and he is gone.  Did you read him?  Did you try?  I tried.  I think I checked out a Franzen but returned it unread.  I read this book that knocked my socks off about this guy that was having weird dreams and deja vus and then a missile crashed into his office building and I never saw a review of it and I cannot remember the title much less the author's name.

Maybe I will never publish another book.  Maybe I am a flop.  Maybe I am jealous.  But that is all about me trying to be an author.  Me being a reader, I have the creds.  And I know these people are barking up the wrong tree.  (That happened just before they fell in that well. )

Did you see that movie Happy Feet? They inserted a huge electronic tracking module into the body of this famous dancing penguin and he was happy. There is surely a metaphor in there somewhere.

Image attribution:  Life-Is-But-A-Stage.blogspot.com

Everything Makes Me Cry

Just now I feel like I must be doing something right.  At least about one thing.  I think it would be better if I KNEW I was doing something right, but I take a lot of convincing.  But this is good enough to actually outweigh my worries for the moment.

It doesn't matter it seems.  I think I cry more tears over the good stuff.  

Excerpt from LAWMAN

The new addition was completed, and it seemed that everyone had recovered from the break in. The Jackson business seemed totally behind them.  Tim mentioned in what Lily always thought of as his way too casual voice, that the whole case was pretty much wrapped up, and all the indictments, and there were enough of them, were handed down, and the evidence was pure and plentiful, and by the way—here it comes thought Lily—they did get a hit on those cigarette butts found near her property in  Iowa, that for sure it was Jackson stalking her that far back, and it helped screw the whole thing down, and the guy that followed up on it—his name was Redding—yeah, he was watching her face for any reaction, but she was ready for that—and the Bureau had issued him a memorandum for his file for his foresight and cooperation, and,  “I thought maybe I’d go down there and give it to him personally and kind of put a more positive spin on it and maybe give the guy’s career a little boost, cuz otherwise, it’s just a piece of paper and since I’m kind of personally involved and all, and I’ll take the bike tomorrow and why don’t you guys drive down after school and we can make a long weekend of it?” 

“And you wanting to check him out personally doesn’t have anything to do with it?”

“So what if it does?  Should I not show an interest--my wife having been nearly murdered and all?”

“This is ancient history, and you know I don’t mean the Jackson thing, but I get the ego thing, like I was avid and anxious when I had to meet Paula at the airport that time, so go ahead.  Just be cool.  He’s a good guy with a beautiful family.”

“Yeah, and so very fucking helpful to you when you really needed it.  . .”

“Could we not just let this be?  Or do you really want me to do the putting my foot down thing?  Go satisfy your curiosity and play big city Fed honcho at the same time.  Didn’t know the ego was feeling so starved, but whatever.”

He left early the next morning, taking the bike, she knew, being  a huge part of the macho thing he had to express to this poor little hick town cop, and the weathered old black biker jacket, and no shave, and those old biker boots, and those crappiest of all black jeans.  He’s so cute.  But wait til he gets a load of Darryl.  I don’t want to have to see that.  No.  On second thought, it might be kind of fun to be a fly on that wall.

**

Tim had of course checked with the locals in Iowa so he knew Darryl would be at the station, and he told them why he was coming by and insisted this was not to be any kind of ceremony, but he did want to discuss a few loose ends about the case, which was the purest bullshit.  He roared into the parking lot of the little police station and that in itself caught the attention of everyone in the stationhouse and half the neighbors.  The desk sergeant said to the secretary that was busy flirting with him and laying a little unnecessary groundwork, “Who the fuck is this?  Paul Fucking Bunyan?  Blue Ox MC?  And why the fuck would anybody that big have to wear those boots?  Does he honestly think he needs to look any fucking taller?”

“It has something to do with safety and the brake pedals on the bike, I think.”

“Right.  Whatever.  Jeez, huge fucking bike.  I sure as hell hope this guy is here to pay a fucking traffic ticket and not kill us all.”

“Maybe it’s that guy from Chicago to see Darryl.”

“Right.  Like this guy could be FBI?  He’d be driving a fucking Taurus and wearing a cheap, shiny blue suit.”

So when Tim took off the helmet and was shucking the jacket, because, damn, this station house was like a fucking oven, and the desk sergeant got a look at the shaved head and the tats and the grizzled face and the pecs under the tight faded black t-shirt, and Tim did the badge flashing thing and announced who he was, the desk sergeant at least had the grace to give the cute little secretary, who was having a little trouble catching her breath,  a slightly chagrined smile as she went to get Darryl. 

In a kind of a shocked state when the guy walked out to meet him, Tim quickly introduced himself and flashed the badge—ID thing and tried not to trip over his tongue.  What kind of vitamins did this guy take?  A fucking red head?  Jesus Christ.  She’s already weird for red heads.  Chiseled face like a fucking Celtic god.  Do I need this?  Six foot two at least.  Well, I’ll give him three, so who cares if he’s as tall as I am, and we’re not going to have to have a pissing contest, and why wouldn’t Lily pick a huge good looking guy.  Jerk probably has his fucking polyester uniform tailored.  Probably has to.  Huge fucking shoulders.  Why would she pass this up for me?  If I was gay I’d be fuckin’ fallin’ in love, maybe am a little, falling in love, that is.  Damnit.  I never should’ve done this.  Fuck.  Tim felt a small unfamiliar shiver of inadequacy which he quickly shook off.  Well, so what if he’s younger; of course, I’m the better man.  After all, I won.  He offered Officer Redding his hand and asked if there was somewhere they could talk.  “It is Officer Redding?  Or would it be deputy?”

“No.  We go by Officer and Chief.  It’s deliberate.  We’re trying to get away from the Barney Fife image.”

“Well, pleased to meet you and I understand you go way back with Lily and her late husband, Ben?”

“Yeah.  Team mates.  Double dates, standing up in weddings, neighbors, the whole nine yards.  Ben was a great guy.  Terrible tragedy.  Wrecks a small town like this for a while.  And Lily is such a doll.  Shouldn’t a happened to a sweety like her.  Cutest thing.  We’d all go skinny dipping out at the quarry, well. . .  I was crazy in love with her, but Ben was my best friend.  And he was that kind a guy, y’know, no one stepped on his toes.  I just had to keep my mouth shut.  Y’know how you never get over that stuff. . .   Did you get to know her at all working on the case?”

“Kinda.   Talked to her about it a little.”

“How is she doing?  Heard she married a Fed.  Hope it’s not some wimp bureaucrat asshole.  She deserves the best.”

And you did your part trying to give it to her, you small town prick.  “That would be me.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“That would be me, the wimp bureaucrat asshole she married?  I’m Senior Special Agent Tim Raia, if you didn’t bother reading my creds when I flashed ‘em for you, and Lily is my wife now and the mother of our year old son.  And she’s fine, she’s doing just fucking fine.  And thanks so much for asking. . .”  Edge on the voice now very apparent.

“Sorry, sir.  Thoughtless of me, sir.  Not thinking you’re FBI, sir.  Don’t look it, sir.  Sorry.  Well, congratulations, sir.  (Am I twelve?) You’ve got yourself a real sweetheart there.  Everyone loves her.  Give her my best.”  Darryl was just glad his voice still worked and wasn’t too sure what he was actually saying.   Stopped himself up short when he realized he was actually backing toward the door.  He knows, he fucking knows.

“You fucking red heads, with that fucking blushing, blinking on and off like a fucking Christmas tree. . .”  He was kind of talking with his teeth gritted.  I hope what you did give her was at least your best, god damn it.  I never should’ve come down here.  “Actually, I’m kind of ill at ease here, Darryl,” Tim said, white-knuckled, his hands gripping the back of the thankfully bolted down metal interrogation room chair, “putting bits and pieces of what I’ve heard from Lily about you helping her out  back then, together with tying up the loose ends of this nasty case.  You are not at all what I was expecting, and this is apparently an Alpha dog situation, since I am pretty good at sizing up people, and we both know Alpha dogs don’t sniff each others’ butts.  They go nose to nose, and one of us is going to have to back down and this time, I’m just guessing here, it’s going to have to be me because I don’t want the fucking roof flying off this cute little stationhouse you have here in your cute little home town.  Just make goddamn sure I don’t hear your name from my wife’s lips, ever again.  No, actually, I never heard your name from her lips, and we best make sure we fucking keep it that way.”  Or maybe I should just go ahead and rip your fucking head off your fucking shoulders right now.  And he slammed the tan envelope with the now forgotten letter of commendation down on the desk and stalked out of the office and the little brick building and roared out to the farmhouse and poured himself a stiff drink.

**

“Jesus, Darryl.  Did he know you fucked her?  You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Nobody’s   s’pose to know that,  Ned.”

“Everybody fucking knows it, Darryl.”

“Yeah?  Well, I better not find out who told him.”

“He’s Bureau, Redding.  He didn’t get where he is not being able to add two and two, now, did he?  And y’know we’re supposed to think those FIBs are a bunch of pansy ass detectives?  I’d steer clear of that one for a while.  Lay low a little.  They’re out at the farm house every couple weeks.  God help us you run into ‘em at fucking Pizza Hut or something.”

**

Hours later, Lily and the boys drove up to find a slightly stiff Tim waiting for them on the front steps.  The lawn was mowed, the storm windows up, the pond closed down for the winter, the gutters cleaned, the furnace cleaned and tuned up for the coming winter, the floors mopped and dinner was simmering on the stove all within a very few hours fraught with anger and nervous energy.  He got up and walked across the yard and grabbed her in a little bit too hearty of a hug and planted a little too wet and serious kind of kiss on her and said, “Don’t say a word about him.  Don’t dare ask me anything.  Fucking bastard told me to send you his best?  I shoulda shot him right then and there.  Fucking small town ass-hole trying to play big city detective with his fucking sniffer dog and his fucking DNA lab.  Don’t say another word.”  Lily was still smiling about it in the morning when she got up to fix breakfast even though Timmy hadn’t let her do much sleeping.  It was a nice weekend anyway.  Gorgeous weather for this time of year.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005KN6S4E

Considering Blogness

I am so stuck.  Inside my head is an old phonograph.  There is a recording on it playing at medium volume. It is "Rags to Riches".  I think it might be Tony Bennet singing.  It is stuck in the groove  and keeps saying,  "My fate is up to. . . My fate is up to. . . My fate is up to.. ."

There is this thing about money.  I have lived the kind of life that has taught me to enjoy money when you have it and don't worry about it when you don't.  This lesson, learned  by having the information shoved brutally down my throat, has not over ridden my natural tendency to be conservative, even in madness.  But sometimes I wish I had enough money to fool around with.  I would use it to help me figure stuff out.  That would be why I would have it, the reason for having it. It would be frivolous, like buying a new winter parka when you already have a winter parka because I can figure stuff out on my own.  But sometimes I don't want to bother.  That is where the money would come in handy--when I want to know something right away and don't have the patience or the desire to figure it out myself.  I would pay someone to figure it out for me.

I do not remember what set me off when I started to write my first novel.  I do know I was manic and needed to be distracted from some stuff that was going on around me in my life, stuff I couldn't dodge or hide. I don't know why my attempts to distract myself took the form of writing. But one person somewhere said, "Crazy good read" about my first effort, and it was a male reading a kind of chick-lit type story, and that was it.  I was sunk.  I couldn't stop. I can't stop.  But the needle is kind of stuck on that old phonograph record.  It just needs a little nudge.

I seem to have taken on something that I cannot comprehend.  I was unprepared for this and I cannot understand it.  Maybe I don't want to.  I used to struggle to post on my blog.  I used to blog surf just to see what was going on.  I don't remember why I started to blog or how I first heard there was such a thing, but this thing has taken on a life.  Lately I have been feeling like all I have to do is walk by its cage every few days and throw it a piece of raw meat. Still, it is flattering.  It is addicting.  "Stats" are addictive.  I just wish I knew what happened.  Maybe I could transfer the knowledge to my Kindle works.

There was a certain blog that used to send me so many hits.  Then they started to taper off.  I knew why it was happening.  I was down in the corner of her home page along with my picture and my link, saying I liked her blog and apparently she got lots of traffic.  That started to taper off and I was a little worried.  I even checked, and I was still down there in the corner.  So maybe her traffic slowed down, but my blog traffic grew instead of dropping off.

Someone else I used to visit with blog-wise recently wondered who all these people are that follow her on twitter.  I don't know who these people are visiting my blog, but, hey, you guys, feel free to say hi and to come back when ever you want.  I just kind of wish you were part of the book buying crowd.

Thanks for stopping by.  Really!


Attribution of photo:  Posted on razzarsharp.com by Doug B. 

New Lawman Blurb

Why is this not yet on Amazon's page?  Annoying.

If you lost your husband in the line of duty, would you take a chance on another lawman?  Maybe it is what you are used to.  Maybe you think it is not worth the trouble to get involved just to end up alone, no matter how much you love each other.

Lily falls in love, but won’t commit to someone in a dangerous job, someone who puts his duty to his country before his family.  Forget what Shakespeare says about honor.   Go defend your nation, but leave me out of it.

How would you choose?  Would it be worth your while to have those few precious moments of happiness?  Tim is not going to wait for her to decide.  He is always in command.

Could you stand up to him?

Lawman by Virginia Llorca is a fast-paced racy modern love story that will keep you wondering whose side you are on. Lily will certainly try your patience.

 It is available for electronic readers at Amazon, free to borrow with no due dates at any time.

http:www.amazon.com/dp/B005KN6S4E

The first chapter is just down the blog a bit from a post earlier this month.

Ephemera

Actually, my blog is basically always ephemera if you go for the strict definition.

Anyone using the word ephemera in their blog for the next week will be subjected to my derision.

I told someone I would post this chapter for their consideration but it was some time ago, so it is probably useless at this time.  Feel free to skip it since you are already in the counter*.  It is the first chapter of Lawman, and I had to check if Select allowed it and they do.  Frankly, I like the last chapter better.  And I am tired of people saying my characters are promiscuous when they sleep with maybe two or three different people in their fictional life frames. And always for the best  and most non-casual reasons.

LAWMAN

by Virginia Llorca

Kindle Press Edition

9/1/2011

Chapter One

“Called on the carpet.  Monday morning.  Ruin the whole week for me why don’cha?  Probably getting the axe.  Hope it’s budget and I didn’t goof up.  Stop, Lily.  No point in wild conjecture.  Not wild.  Gotta be the axe.”  She tried to talk herself out of the worst case scenarios as she walked toward the States Attorney’s  office.

“Shoulda found my own job.  Stop it, Lily.  Not the end of the world.  You already survived that.  Chin up.  Paste on the smile.   Hi, Kelly!”  as she walked in.

“Hey, Lily!  How are ya doing?”

“Do I look as scared as I feel?”

“Wait til you see the crowd waiting on you!  Seriously, don’t worry.  It’s all good, hon.”

“Just have to tough my way through it.”

“And we all know that’s your strong point.  You’ll be fine, hon.   Lily’s here, sir,” she said to the intercom.

Lily had never seen so many people in Don’s office.  “Fire code violation,” she thought.  “Terminate me, I’ll retaliate!”. . .trying to buoy herself up.

“Lily, darlin’!  You brighten my day!”

“Whoa,” she thought, “aren’t we cooling the family stuff at work anymore?”

“Let me introduce you around, darling.  Lily, this is Max Davidson.  Midwest Regional Director for the FBI.  Mr. Davidson, Mrs. Scofeldt.”

“How do you do, Mr. Davidson.  I’m honored to meet you.”    (“Crap.  What did I do?  Regional Director?  Crap. . .”)  Two more FBI associates.  Someone from the governor’s office, the mayor’s office, and two ADA’s she already knew.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about, darling.”

(“Please stop calling me darling in front of the brass, Don!” she was screaming in her brain.)

“I can only imagine I’m being terminated.  And I’m hoping it’s budget related and not because of some horrible error I am blissfully unaware of.  But all the brass. . .   I mean. . . . Well. . . ”

“No, honey.  We have no intention of terminating your service.  We’re very pleased with your performance.  Especially liaising this difficult case.  Actually, Celeste was saying the boys are both going to be full day at school now, and we were thinking of asking you if you could come in the other two days.  Of course, we’ll still make sure you get home in time for the bus.”

“Oh, that would be so great, Don, er. . .  I mean, Mr. Solomon.  I was gonna ask about it.  Yeah.  Thanks.   I would like that.”

“Ahem. . .” coughed Mr. Davidson.

“Yes.  We’re getting sidetracked.   Down to the business at hand, Lily.  I’m afraid the subject we have to discuss may strike you as a bit more awkward  than being terminated.  You know how difficult it is to keep our personal lives out of the office, especially in this town.  And you know how serious this case is.  We just need to establish a few facts because we’re planning to hand down the indictment Wednesday a.m.”

“Yes, sir.  And I’m really glad we’ve finally reached that point.”

“We all are.  It’s been difficult.  Hon, there has been a kind of persistent undercurrent of gossip lately, and normally, giving it credence would only exacerbate the issues. But because of what’s at stake. . .” he paused to let Mr. Davidson jump in. 

“This is of a personal nature, and you are, of course, free to choose not to answer. We have to tell you though, that choice may affect our decisions.  We feel we must ask you at this time, Mrs. Scofeldt, if you did have or if you are having a personal relationship with Special Agent Raia.”

Lily was rocked back on her heels, but, of course, only figuratively, although it was apparent to everyone that she began to blush furiously and took a slightly deeper breath than usual.  Being taken completely unaware, and naturally tending toward being a bit outspoken, she blurted, unthinking, “Not yet!”  The sound of several chuckles being muffled was all that was heard for a few seconds too long.  “I mean, it seems. . .  I mean, I’ve heard. . .  I take this job very seriously, and I’m sure Special Agent Raia does also.  And, well, no.  I mean, I’ve never even had a personal conversation with him.  Well, wait, once he called me into his office for a conversation about an error, but I understand those instances have to be documented.”

The director spoke up to Don, chuckling, “That would be the now famous ‘tiny, arrogant, expletive deleted, small-town prom queen with attitude’ document?”

“I do believe that is the incident she is referring to,” Don laughed.   “And I believe since he insisted that be in her file, we will have to give her an opportunity to respond.”

“Perhaps in writing would be the best venue, although, if she insists, we could have a hearing,” the Director went on, with more than a hint of unprofessional sarcasm in his voice.

“I am confident enough in my standing on the issues he brought up that I don’t think it’s necessary for me to respond in any way.  And, since this isn’t vaudeville, I think we can stop the ‘schtick’ at my expense for now.”  Lily’s self assuredness quickly overcame the feeling that all this brass might be a little intimidating.

“Sorry, ADA Scofeldt,” said the Director, with an actual humble note in his tone.  “Sometimes we can act a little unprofessionally as we wind down these difficult cases. We’re probably all just a little too comfortable with one another after so long.”

“Okay, hon.  We can see clearly where you stand on this matter,” said Don.  “And we do seriously appreciate your candor.  We’ve already interviewed SA Raia, and we’re satisfied that we can go ahead with our plans.  SA Raia’s plans. . .  Well, probably not appropriate to comment on that in this venue.”  He rose from his desk and stood at Lily’s side as she shook everyone’s hand and walked to the door.  He put his arm around her shoulder so all would see she had his complete support, and he walked her past reception into the hall.  He figured they already knew he was her godfather and uncle, anyway.  And didn’t really care what they thought at this stage of his life. “Baby.  I’m so sorry to have put you through this, but you handled it beautifully.”

“Foot in mouth.”

“Nothing they weren’t already too aware of, babe.  And, honey, I don’t want to scare you, but this Tim, this Agent Raia?   I sat in on the interview, and he’s as straight arrow as they come. But we had to ask him some very direct questions, and Lily, as far as you are concerned, this is a bull in a pen, pawing at the ground.”

“Don.  Yikes.  I mean, Celeste already gave me the big sister talk and I can’t help but be aware of the tension in the room when he’s around.  But, yikes.  I mean.  I’m not disinterested, but you’re scaring me a little.”

“You’re ready for a little fun, babe.  Ben’s been gone two years now.  You know you’re ready to move on.  Just don’t make any hasty decisions.  Gotta get back.  Love you, darlin’.  You’ll be fine.”  And he didn’t care who saw him give her that affectionate smooch.  There were certain advantages in being the big gun in a small town.

***

“Well, the guy is a fox,” she was thinking.  "Tim?"  All she had ever heard was SA Raia.  “Timmy?  Cute.  Well, I’d give him a second glance for sure.  Guess I already have.  But, heck,  his job is over in this town on Wednesday.  And that starts my two weeks off.  Bobby starting first grade.  Really a way bigger deal than Agent Raia’s potential.  But, yeow.  Everyone can feel what’s going on when he’s in the same room I am.  Might be fun.  Well, we’ll see.  The ball is in his court.  Anyway, who knows where he even lives.  I’m not even gonna ask Celeste.  Any information goes out as quick as it comes in with her.  Last thing he needs to hear is me making inquiries.”

***

But Celeste was calling before Lily even got half way home.  “I heard you were interrogated by the big brass.”

“Not exactly interrogated, Celeste.  Everything is cool.”

“No.  It’s not cool, babe.  This is anything but cool.  How many months did you work together?  Four?  Five?  That’s a lot of foreplay.”

“Don’t be gross, Cece.”

“The weird thing is he’s actually asked a couple of people if you’ve said anything about him.  I don’t know if that’s adolescent or stalkerish.  Kinda creepy.”

“The last thing I read off this vibe is creepy.”

“What’s the first?”

“C’mon, Cece.  Give me a break here.  I’m practically a novice at this.”

“And he’s been divorced eight years!  Fireworks, Lily!  Even the Director made a remark about it.  Something about fireproof sheets when the two of you get together.  And he talks to Raia all the time.  Wow, love to be the fly on that wall.”

“That would border on sexual harassment if I heard it, I think.”

“Well, it would have to be Agent Raia to bring charges and who knows who started that conversation.  I just get the trickle down from Don. You know guys are utterly gross about that stuff.  But Don did emphasize the fact that the word was when you get together, not if. ”

 “Like I’m not going to have anything to say about it?  Too bad they don’t have something a little more professional to discuss. Anyway he’ll probably be on a plane Wednesday night.”

“No, baby.  Lots of people are laying money on this one.”

“Nice.  Small town mentality.  Nothing else to talk about.”

“You’re our star, honey.  You’re everyone’s darling.   But I kind of get the feeling your goose is cooked.”

“Speaking of cooking, gotta fix dinner, sweetie.  Let it rest.  Love you.”

***

The indictment went down without a hitch on Wednesday.  Senior Special Agent Raia and the Director, along with State’s Attorney Solomon, handled the press conference.  Lily was so far down on the totem pole she didn’t even have to hang around for that.  Of course her absence was noted.  “I wanted to give a special thank you to our newest ADA, Lily Scofeldt for the great job she did for us, but apparently she has already left.”

Someone spoke out, “We’re sure you’re going to be able to deliver that thank you personally, Tim.”

“I hope the mikes are off.  You guys really need to get a life.”

“Right now it’s your life we’re talking about, Raia.  And Lily’s. Don’t forget this entire town thinks she’s under its protection,” said Don, trying to sound a bit protective and fatherly, despite the huge smile on his face.

And Lily was driving home thinking Agent Raia might have at least made an effort to say good bye to her after all the hype.  But mostly she was thinking about Friday being the first day of school for Bobby.  Only a half day, but so exciting for him to go on the big kid’s bus.  Still, she admitted she felt a little let down.  And it turned out the whole weekend seemed kind of long.  Maybe being away from work for two whole weeks with the kids gone all day wasn’t such a good idea.  And weather unseasonably warm for this late in the summer was promised. Of course there were plenty of projects around the house that needed attention, especially the yard which was showing signs of neglect and needed an end of summer clean up.

~~~~~~~~~~~

End of chapter one.

*Speaking of counters--my blog site shows counters with three differing opinions.  They must be opinions since they so widely vary.  Well, maybe not widely.  It just goes to show me I shouldn't be concerned with them, right?

33 ways to stay creative

Good nudges:

(From Stumble Upon)

33 Ways to Stay Creative

Except. what if you aren't so creative in the first place?

Stealing

There was another big plagiarism brouhaha recently but it was all blog wise, so maybe some of you, the uninitiated, missed out on it. It was very blatant and the person tried to apologize in a bunch of euphemistic terms in such a way that she was not accepting blame.  Finally, weeks later I think it was, she threw in the towel and said, "Yeah.  I'm a thief."

I went through this when one of my grandaughters was in high school and she had to do a biographical poster for math class.  You didn't ask me, but it seems obvious we are in trouble here from the get go.  What kid that  can read doesn't do cut and paste for this type of project?  Well the teacher's biggest complaint was she did not source one of the photos which was scanned from a book.  I went to every body that had anything to do with it with the most amazing letter that I came across recently and still wonder at.  Its verbosity, its cunning use of language, its explicitness.  It left no room for argument, and it made such a huge impression on me that I never bothered to find out if he decided to cut Cas a little slack on the grade.  Similar incident when Fran was in high school, but different.  She got twenty percent for the research, twenty percent for the outline, twenty percent for the index cards, twenty percent for the rough draft and twenty percent for the final doc.  (Is that 100 yet?)  So she never handed in the final doc so the teacher gave her a zero.  It was agreed that the system of grading was indeed flawed but it was also agreed that Fran did indeed earn eighty percent of the grade.  That one I know was changed.  Didn't matter in the long run as is true of most of the causes around which I choose to rally.  She got a scholarship to Loyola based on her GED scores.

Anyway. . .

The thing is, and this is at least the third time this has happened,  I drop the husk on the floor when I leave which is all that is left of the seed of the idea that blossomed into some marvelous piece of editorial genius, and someone finds it and runs with it.  Only they don't even run in the right direction.  It isn't just stealing, well, let's be kind and let them call it inspiration, it is rubbing my nose in it.  Cuz I can say it better and it was my seed so get the hell off the farm. It's like that meme on Pinterest where they show you how to make the inside out cupcakes and then you post your photo of the outcome which is a hilarious mess and the caption reads, "Nailed it."  I swear, if I had any way of knowing if that person derived any satisfaction from finishing their pointless paragraphs, I would be even more pissed off.  Every time I see a movie or read a book and say, "Oh, I used that in my book"(months before) I want to weep except I am so far past being emotionally involved in this little hobby/career foible I call my writing.  And there is a screen play and some dick actress doing a shitty job of saying what my Jenny said or my Deanie said.  And they are sitting in the basement counting their nickles.  Oh irony of ironies.  

Well, I guess it is time for me to fall back on "I had my day in the sun" and just remove myself from the issues.  But no.  I am too nosy, too curious, too conceited to let it drop.  I shall drag it kicking and screaming with me to the grave.  Except, I forgot, I'm not going to do the grave thing.

BRAVE

So glad a curly haired Celtic redhead is the new heroine  since all mine are. Wonderful film by the way. 

Bird cages

I really just wanted to see how this looked on my site.  Pretty nice, I'll say.

Sorry about the border drift. For the sake of art. It will correct next blog which may be any minute now.

Mixed feelings

This is the plan. I am going to rotate the four books through Select and rewrite each one, heavily editing the sex out of the first, at several people's suggestions, and doing new covers at least for the third. I feel like I am done being a writer. I wanted to do the four and they are done. And they pretty much are tanking. I average a sale a day. I realize that is sixty times better than no sales for months at a time, but the word of mouth thing is not working for me. I blame my personality and lifestyle for that.

But I'd like to say a few things about the "business" end of this business. I get lots of email and even phone calls that they want to tell me about this publishing deal and that. Okay. Leave me alone. I'm published. Unless you have some promo ideas, I have nothing to say to you and I don't want to listen to you. Word of mouth is the ONLY thing missing from my equation and you cannot sell me a program for that. Don't ask me to send you copies of my work. It is all out there in many different forms or places. If you can't do anything else, you can name search for me. As far as I know there is one other Virginia Llorca and she is a 23 year old girl in North Carolina.

Thanks to everyone who read my stories and double triple thanks to those who said nice things about them, and think about the Karma, especially you family members who pretend it doesn't exist or it's a whim. Read any Lora Leigh and then get back to me about MY work.

The only thing that is bothering me now is that I am toying with ideas. It is just because I am bored and am so very unused to dealing with a sense of relief. I'm trying to talk myself out of it.

Today's CTA: Do you get angry with yourself when you break promises to yourself or do you just shake it off? What do you learn from the experience? Share.

Rejection letters

Feel bad when you query an agent about your most illustrious work? Sad they don't appreciate genius when they see it? Feel the whole world is being done a disservice because your wisdom and wit will not be available to them? Depressed and confused because you are beginning to realize your mission to change the history of civilization will never be fulfilled since some ignorant, misguided gate keeper doesn't fall in love with your masterpiece?

This is Hunter S. Thompson's idea for a rejection letter. He didn't actually send it. He gave it to Rolling Stone along with the piles of stuff people had send to him unsolicited. They admitted they used it a few times.


You worthless, acid-sucking piece of illiterate shit! Don’t ever send this kind of brain-damaged swill in here again. If I had the time, I’d come out there and drive a fucking wooden stake into your forehead. Why don’t you get a job, germ? Maybe delivering advertising handouts door to door, or taking tickets for a wax museum. You drab South Bend cocksuckers are all the same; like those dope-addled dingbats at the Rolling Stone office. I’d like to kill those bastards for sending me your piece … and I’d just as soon kill you, too. Jam this morbid drivel up your ass where your readership will better appreciate it.

Courtesy of Futility Closet via Wikimedia

From the Playhouse

I've already been read the White Paper on why it is not nice to "shit" in the Playhouse. So I have left the Playhouse for the moment to say words that I know are not "shit" in my own house, on my own soapbox (If you don't want to read them, you can leave.) , but judgmental people also seem to be kind of quick on the draw. At least in my experience.

The organ harvesting entity in our state is corporate. Here is part of their statement regarding employment.

" Our employees enjoy competitive salaries, a team environment and business-casual workplace attire. Qualified full-time staff receive full medical, dental, vision and life insurance benefits, as well as pension and tuition reimbursement benefits and a generous time-off plan.

All of our employees work in support of our critical mission: to save and enhance the lives of as many people as possible through organ and tissue donation.

All candidates must demonstrate excellent verbal, written and interpersonal communication skills; be detail-oriented; possess the ability to handle multiple projects; and possess the ability to work independently. Basic computer skills are a must. Travel by personal auto and the ability to work outside normal business hours may be required."

A teenager gets $15.00 plus to sell t-shirts in a record store in this neighborhood. Also, a corporation may stipulate they are not for profit in order to get certain ear marked funds, but they manage to build executive type salaries into that structure. A fund raiser for Community Chest cannot live in North Oak Park on thirty grand a year.

Certain people with certain lifestyles tend to take offense at certain things. I feel this is drawing a parallel, not making a judgement. That is, of course, an exercise in semantics. I have gotten on my high horse about being treated dismissively before, and I will fight it. Say it if you want, but I do have the ammo. And as I have said before I will lend you some so the battle will at least be almost even. People say things in public about their most personal relationships, like why it is just easier to give the husband a blow job then have to explain one's thoughts on love and respect to him. They can do what ever they want in their multi layered lives. My marriage and my life in general are travesties of the case model. Maybe yours is model perfect. I don't fucking care. What I do care about is you pointing a finger of judgement at me for no reason. I did not point the finger of judgement at you, so back the fuck off.

Do you honestly think Larry Hagman or Steve Jobs were on a waiting list? Do you know all the fine print on signing the organ donor thing on your driver's license? The rules about why you can't let the EMT intubate the 92 year old stroke patient, and what you MUST do to prevent that? The ramifications of putting the tube in versus taking the tube out. I don't care what kind of environment you work in, there are people doing the same job you are doing that are way dumber and less capable than you, just as there are people doing the same job you are doing that are way smarter and way more capable. There is also a very broad spectrum among these various people regarding their moral judgement and personal prejudices or beliefs.

I am not going to go look in a book to find out if I should put a certain comma in a certain place in a certain sentence. I am not going to take what someone else "feeds" me as the truth. I am going to make my own decisions based on my personal experience, my knowledge, and carefully gleaned and weighed knowledge and opinion from other more experienced people. Then I am going to do exactly what I want and make a shit load of mistakes, errrors, wrong turns, false statements, and when I find out about it, I will apologize. I will also live with the results of my choices.

When zulily, or some like entity, asks me to post for them on my Pinterest board, that is whoring. When I post a link or a remark on Mises.org, that is whoring. When you have sex with someone you don't respect cuz he makes the car payment, or lets you come first, or whatever, that is whoring. I do not care what sex either of you are, or whether or not a priest made a gesture in front of you, or you have a piece of paper with an embossed emblem on it. Everyone is a whore for something. But that is just MY opinion, my PERSONAL feelings,and another exercise in semantics.

It is strange how you get a sense of pure hatred through the ethernet. It is so palpable, and yet, it cannot be seen or measured. Can it? And if you stopped to ask yourself why you were emitting that or receiving that feeling, you would be hard pressed for an answer. You would be. Probably not me.

Once upon a time, a girl. . .

Sometimes you see something at just the right time.

Inexplicable.

Philippa Gregory says she has to fall in love with her characters. The book about Margaret Beaufort was not easy to read. She pissed you off most of the time. But she willed stuff to happen and at, what I consider, great personal sacrifice. "What I did for love" etc. She could love and did love but had this other agenda. Couldn't do it. I'd carry the growler to the bar to get a refill for grampa. So she admitted she found it hard to love her and you knew it when you read the book THE RED QUEEN. It was one of her least enjoyable works.

So this last book I wrote, I couldn't fall in love. There really was not a character for that. But now I am finished and I am in love with them and don't want to put it up, want to keep living their lives for them, controlling the weather and what color to paint the porch.

Amazon goofed up the listing and the royalties and Smashwords has yet to cough up a cent. And the promoting is so whorish. Either you like it or you don't but why the fuck don't they even want to look? I spend hours every day just reading blurbs cuz I am so afraid I am going to miss something. And my Kindle has at least twenty books I am dying to get to. So I sit and play Spider Solitaire on the iPhone. I am so sick of it. I don't think I am going to do it anymore. I just read this John Steinbeck quote where he says you have to not stop and think and plan otherwise you lose your association with the words that are making these people live and that is in direct opposition to all this MFA stuff and outlining and little index cards with plot points. And how I write. Just sit down and wish the fucking crippled fingers would not keep hitting the wrong keys I want to go so fast.

And I am half in tears over it. Like they said my baby was funny looking and kind of dumb, and that is when I get these ridiculous blog spikes and I do not even know where they came from. Some one read a post from about six years ago. It tells you that, so I looked at it and I was talking to Louie about it being when Lisa had that little house and Billy lived with her and it was like a lull in our lives. So strange. Why did someone go and read that out of a clear blue sky? And what could it mean to them? What do anyone else's words mean to someone else? I don't know, but sometimes I am crying over it and laughing and hoping for a certain thing to happen to imaginary people. Cuz I couldn't make it happen for my real people. I guess.

Tomorrow: back to the big white Welbies, for sure.

Today's CTA: Do you put stuff in your fiction that you really wish did happen to you? Or do you want it nothing like your real life?


Image Attribution:  thecollaboratory.wikidot.com

Over the Pipe

Mood. What a silly word. Silly sounding. Something a cow did. Must look up the etymology. Starting to think Wikipedia is more useful than google. Reminds me of a joke.

That was cheap of me. Cute tho, no?

I am in the slough of despond, I think. I am in an adolescent place. For sure. I did one of those Kindle Select promotions, and it was so important to me that I forgot to start promo til half way through the first day. So it pretty much tanked. I felt so desolate. For a couple of minutes. Whatever I didn't do to enhance that promo, my blog stats again went through the roof. Then I got some kind words about my "craft" from another source. So if my life is a see saw, I am standing on the board in that middle place where you could make it rock back and forth. You know exactly what I mean. In our playground it was over the pipe. Which sounds much cooler than 'mood'.

Then we had a recent family event where an aunt by marriage died and all the other strings tied to that part of my life are already gone. I hold grudges till like eternity, and found less and less reason to deal with those people, but the aunt was always nice to me. She kind of treated me, when I was little, like she knew I needed someone to be nice to me. My brother did some really mean stuff to me, like the story about the swimming pool and the watch, Bobby. And auntie Edie was kind. Maybe she was kind to everyone, or maybe I noticed it cuz she was the only one kind to me at that time, but when I went up to the casket, I was thinking, Auntie Edie, this does not look like you AT ALL, but where ever you are you are fine now, and thank you for teaching me the easy way to learn to swim.

You go to these things to offer condolence and to say good by and "pay respects". Because you are supposed to. They had this slide show thing about her with many wonderful pictures of her and her family and these certain friends of theirs. One of the sons said, "You are in there a couple of times." No. I wasn't. Nor my brothers. Nor my grandma who was her mother in law, one glimpse of my mom who was Edie's husband's sister, that I got ticked off about at his wake cuz my mom, his sister, was left standing in the rain, and one glimpse of my dad. This family was so close to mine when I was small. I would take the bus to go stay over at their house. My cousin, the godmother of my first child, used to ask me everything about the facts of life. And at that wake, I realized, we were nothing to them. Not even a memory. And all my instincts to draw away from them over the latest years have been correct. When my mom was dying, they did a couple of things that displeased me, but I chalked it up to them trying to be nice and it being an awkward time, and most of them are kind of slow, but now I don't think I am going to have anything to do with them if I can possible avoid it. My circle of friends and relatives is growing smaller and smaller. It seems convenient to me. There are so many things in life you can't control--that you have to put up with, and up to this point I thought I was growing more mellow and tolerant, and making peace with some of the crap that is my life, but I'm not. In my head I am more angry than ever, and at the same time, I feel so good about so many things. One thing I would love to tell younger people is that they need to be more selfish, but I can't because I don't know how to tell them how to do that with out hurting anyone's feelings. That has been the consistent thread running through my life. I was always teased about having hurt feelings, (which I always had)and I always worry about hurting people's feelings. This from the person who has said, "I hope a truck runs over you on your way home." Yeah, I apologized.

"The problem is all inside your head", she said to me.

The gospels should be Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul and Art.

It Is Just Me. . .It Always Is

"Women are more likely than men to have rapid cycling and mixed episodes (both depression and hypomania occurring at the same time.)"



My current doctor is very casual about my condition. It is a good way for her to be because sometimes she is in a friendly chatty mood and sometimes she is in a hurry and somewhat brusque and skeptical in dealing with me. And the fact that she has written in rather too large letters at the top of my file BIPOLAR DISORDER absolves her from having to pay too much attention to how I might react because she figures she never knows what she is going to be dealing with from visit to visit. And she is pretty good about the drugs, listens and explains, but that is because she knows I usually come in well-armed for that battle.

But I opened with this quote for another reason. I was first told when I was about thirty and a raving 104 pound lunatic that I was probably a "manic depressive" but he wanted to use lithium and I fail the kidney test. (It is a heavy metal) so I blithely went on with my life, forging tranquilizer scrips and altering dates on the bottles for refills from the elderly pharm that was a good friend of my dads. Yeah, one of my more reprehensible moments, I agree. And buying quaaludes and valium from a girl I worked with who knew a nurse who was a thief. I also spent a year or two in Rum therapy. Oh, and smoked a barrel of dope. But pregnancies and other life crises brought me relatively unscathed (at least visibly)to the present day. Not speaking for those surrounding me who still look a little shell-shocked. And I have resources available and kind, educated people to keep me on an even keel. Pretty fucking boring sometimes.

BUT

I had a discussion with someone some years ago whose adult child had committed violence against his mother and had to be hospitalized, etc. ultimately being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which, the story went, he had been self treating with alcohol. (A common manifestation) The person went into some detail about the current treatment of the adult child and discussed the classes they took to familiarize themselves with the disorder. (Never heard of them) and when I mentioned that I was a rapid cycler he showed utter disdain and dismissiveness indicating verbally that that WAS not a component of the illness and the cycles were usually months long. I had always had respect for that person, and what he said did shake me up a bit, but he wasn't a doctor or even working in social services, so I didn't let it change my life patterns. And now I kind of think of that person, who is a pretty nice guy, as one of those people that think they know it all. Which he really kind of isn't, generally. But reading this in someone's blog today validated me, in a kind of over due back in the shadows of my mind way.

It is true that people with this disorder tend to make light of it, and sometimes, oh,no, use it as an excuse for some outrageous behavior, but, to some one who was always the grade skipping high IQ star of the academic scene, to be dismissed so lightly, and for my knowledge to be ignored (pooh-poohed) certainly left a much bigger mark on my ego than I realized. As I did today when reading the quote.

I don't need to grasp at straws. I am doing quite well, and I like me just fine, you may have noticed me saying. But, it is another case of someone thinking knowledge you pay someone for is better knowledge than the stuff you live and learn on your own. Actually, I look back and try to think of other times I was treated so dismissively, and, at this moment cannot call one to mind. (Except for the regular day-to-day junk I get from the spouse which rolls off my back.) I'm not so sure of what the point is I am trying to make here, but I do want you to know that the 'know it all' types, (there is currently one ranting on the Linked-In author's group about grammar. He would stroke if he read my books. Grammer, schmammer) (Cuz I wanna--that's why.) really get my goat. So if you want to question my knowledge, come to the table well-armed. When I make stuff up, I am very careful to tell that to everyone, and it usually becomes truth in a week or two anyway. Yeah. I do have those credentials handy. Here. . .