Mug shots

A friend of mine posted a photo like this, mentioning that it is something that is going around right now that she decided would be fun to join in on. I agree. :-)

I use this mug every day. My daughter gave it to me after I decided to pursue a career as a writer. She knows her Mom well - I have a hard time believing in myself - and this reminder to do so has really helped me.

My daughter and I are best friends. She has even introduced me to several authors whose books I never would have read and I now love. She is my first reader on most of my stories and has done a great job with advising me.

Thank you, Sarah, for everything you do for me, but most for being the best daughter in the world!


Do any of you have a mug that inspires you?

Success!

What is it about the peaches growing on a tree in southern Pennsylvania that seems to be causing strange side effects for a young woman and her dog?


In a case of flagrant self promotion I am, with great excitement :-) , posting the link to Abandoned Towers magazine issue #7.

www.lulu.com/product/paperback/abandoned-towers-magazine-%237/13236112

My first published original story, "The Peach Tree", is in the magazine. The issue is available in either a print or a download-able file edition if any of you are interested in purchasing it.

I am so happy! I'm a published author :-D

Trailer for cool new book

Check out this trailer for a fascinating new book.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9BUXnHmNZY

It has been a long time since I posted here. I had let it fade away because 1) I had nothing of interest going on with my writing and 2) no one was commenting so I reckoned no one was bothering to read what I was writing.

However, I've taken on a challenge of sorts, suggested by Jennifer Blanchard of Procrastinating Writers (http://procrastinatingwritersblog.com/). The challenge is "30 Days to a Better Writer" and involves writing every day for 30 days - including writing to your blog at least 2-3 times a week and writing down at least two story/scene ideas per day.

So here I am at my blog again.

I still have nothing much of interest going on with my writing. I doubt there will be a rush of comments, especially since I doubt anyone is checking here any longer, but, I will be posting that 2-3 times for at least the next few weeks.

I hope I will bring something of interest to you as I do this challenge that will, hopefully, help me become a better writer.

Joyfully,
Sandra

A news blip on my "Odd News from AP" widget caught my eye this morning.

"Australian cat strays 2,400 miles, returns home."

Clyde the cat went home to his original owners after three years of wandering about. One of the most interesting points of the story is that Clyde started out on Tasmania, which is an island in the ocean off Australia's south east coast. He ended up in Cloncurry a city two thousand miles into the Australian outback. If he hadn't been micro-chipped he would still be a wanderer.

As his happy owner said, "If only he could talk."

What is it about such stories that fascinate us? We are thrilled with the tale of a lost person or animal finding their way home.

Perhaps it is because we all feel a bit lost sometimes. We move around so much more than people used to because travelling is easier, so home is left far behind. It calls to us with its knowledge of our beginnings; sometimes making us long to return or sometimes causing us to keep moving further away.

Or maybe, as was popular in the 1960s and 70s, we feel we have lost ourselves. That need to find their "true self" caused many people to leave home and family, even walking out on their spouse and children, to go "find themselves". All too often the results were like Dorothy's: the realization that they hadn't lost themselves to begin with and there was no place like home. They had only become bored with who they were and what they were doing.

The stories of those who have truly been lost, stray animals or homeless people, finding their place in the world can help us see how good we have it. We get the chance to see our home, family, job or community through new eyes when we realize we could lose it all.

So, thank you Clyde. Thank you to all those who once were lost but now are found and whose stories give us hope.

See a video about Clyde here:

A Foggy Morning in Kickapoo Park

I love walking in the fog.

I go for a walk a few days a week in a local park and the fog changes so much. Part of the walk leads through open areas where the mists swirl and occasionally the sun can be seen looking like a white dinner plate in the sky with no glow of its own. The distant tree lines could be mountains as all that is there are dark masses.

Then the road enters a dimly lit tunnel of trees. Spider webs dusted with moisture festoon the oaks and white pines. Osage orange trees look ready to pounce on spindly legs, like the giant parents of the lesser spiders. The fog is no longer comforting and relaxing, but menacing, hiding unknown threats.

I round another curve and the air is lighter, the light brighter as the trees give way to another open field. And so my walk goes, forest and field, welcoming mist and foreboding gloom, until I'm back at my cozy little car, my hair curly from the dampness of my foggy day stroll.

Goldie on our deck

It is Monday morning and I'm out on my deck.

There's a piece of earth-shattering news.

Last week ended up an emotional disaster and I barely managed any writing because of it.

This week will be better.

I have my cat, Goldie, out with me. She's wearing a halter and is hooked to a leash tied to a leg of the patio table. Goldie has wander lust. She used to go out everyday until five years ago, when she took to adventuring too far from home; that being out of our yard. A stray to begin with, money has been invested in shots and spaying so I had no desire to find her dead on the pavement . . . or not find her at all.

Investment aside, I love the little pest.

Goldie and I found each other the last weekend in August, 2000. I was walking home from the art in the park part of my town's hot air balloon fest when I set my bags down to take a breather. From a pile of dead brush behind the redi-mix office I heard a tiny, high-pitched mew.

"That's a kitten's mew," I said to myself, then mewed back.

A small orange streak shot out of the brush pile, stopped at my feet and then tried to climb my left leg; mewing non-stop the whole time. I picked the kitten up, held it to my shoulder and it snuggled up tight. After a little cuddle time, I held it out to check its "equipment". The little orange tabby was a female.

"Ah!" I told her, holding her up to look into her eyes. "You're an unusual orange tabby. Only 20% of orange tabbies are girl kitties. Did you know that? You're not rare. It doesn't make you worth a lot of money. Just unusual. How would you like to come home with me?"

She was purring and struggling to get back to my shoulder. I took that for a yes. I gathered up my bags and off we went. I asked a couple of boys, who were playing on the sidewalk a block down, if they knew who owned the kitten. They said they had taken her around the neighborhood the day before and no one had claimed her. The kitten snuggled deeper and started to knead my neck.

Not sure what my husband would say to keeping her (we already had three cats although, technically, one was our daughter's) I sat with her on our deck while she guzzled the food and water I brought out to her. There was a Christian Contemporary Music group around at the time named PFR (it stood for "Pray For Rain"). On one of their CDs they had a song, "Goldie's Last Day". The song was about a golden Labrador retriever who has passed away, but I found myself singing the chorus with the words adjusted to fit my situation. The changes are in brackets:

"Goldie's last [first] day. Goldie's last [first] day.
If a picture paints a thousand words,
There's nothing left to say.
Wish I could've been there for Goldie's last [first] day."

The kitten jumped up into my lap.

"Are you Goldie?" I asked as she climbed up to my shoulder and started kneading my neck again.

I took that as a yes.