the future...

I'm trying to decide the future of this blog.

Do I want to connect it to my real name? I've always kind of enjoyed the anonymous side of my blog.

Maybe I can start a new one to connect with my real name. On the other hand... this one does have a good title, and a long history.

But I really like being able to post here without feeling like everyone will know who I am.

Humor Columns

I would love to write humor columns. Unfortuantely, my writing seems to run more along the lines of heartfelt and angsty than uproariously funny.

I scrawled out several of 'em after highschool and took one to a local writer's group that met in a bookstore. I ran to the bathroom after passing it out. (Uh, I had to go -- really.) When I returned, the other writers all assured me with solemn faces that it had been quite funny, really funny in fact, and that I shouldn't give up. (Maybe THAT would be a good subject for a humor column!)

There are a lot of things to laugh about in the world. All I have to do is find some of them, and write some decent columns.... Maybe I'll post 'em here if I do.

Sherlock, Thoughts On

I finished my editing and submitted my story to the Amazon.com novel contest. Since then I have been reading and writing rather obsessively about Sherlock Holmes, I suppose to decompress. I haven't finished all of the Sherlock Holmes stories -- mostly because when I had my huge fad on Holmes I didn't have access to all of them, and now that I have access to all of them it's a little depressing. Well, maybe it's me that's a little depressed.

But still. When I like a series, I hate finishing it. When I read what I thought was the last Thursday Next book by Jasper Fforde, I was tearful the whole time and could barely finish it. Now there's another one, and I haven't been able to read it at all. I don't want to read the last one! I may need it someday.

Sometimes, a series means a lot to me because of how the stories have helped me through difficult times. I hate to read the last of them because then a new one won't be there if I need it someday. (I've tried re-reading books; it's not the same.)

I'm enjoying the Sherlock Holmes 'pastiches' much more than the actual stories, maybe because I know I'll never run out of those! I'm particularly enjoying "Holmes for the Holiday," a collection of short stories about Holmes at Christmastime, written by various mystery writers of today. (So far there have been no less than two involving an adult Tiny Tim!)

Anyway, reading Sherlock Holmes stories (the real ones) now kind of depresses me. Partly because I just want Sherlock to be happy, (especially when I'm not) and he never seems to quite be. (I guess that sounds silly, but I identified heavily with him in my formative years -- I'm not sure why, I just did.) And partly because re-reading them reminds me of seemingly endless years of teen angst, and sitting curled up as small as I could get on a sofa reading Sherlock Holmes. (The only thing 'helpful' my brother could ever say about Sherlock Holmes seemed to be "isn't he a druggie?" which made me want to cry.)

I remember when Holmes 'died.' I was trying not to cry, and my mother was the one who told me "Oh, the author had to bring him back because he was such a popular character." I remember thinking, "She knew that?" (I had been pretty sure she'd never read any Conan Doyle in her life.)

Perhaps I identified with Sherlock Holmes because he (at least in my mind) was as eccentric and lonely as I was -- and as confident as I wished I could be.

Publishing Angst

I want so much to write an animal story right now... but I probably shouldn't. I mean, there is so much work to do.... Then I think, "But isn't that how I got in this trouble in the first place? By making it into work."

When I used to just write for ME, before I worried about publishing at all, that was so much nicer, so much less stressful. I didn't think what other people would think of my stories, or worry about publishers, or editors, or mean critiques. I just didn't have to show my stories to anyone! Now, I don't have to -- because I'm not writing as much, for one thing.

I just need to let go, let go of that critical side of my brain, and write. Writing is rather like plunging off a cliff, you always have to have faith, and just jump. No matter how much you've written before, it's always new, and rather... dangerous. You have to really be able to think of nothing else, and let the criticism in your brain fade away. Get enchanted with a new story, the best story ever....

And then I think of how old I am, how the years have flown by, and I haven't worked fast enough, the years are almost a blur! When will I be published? And I have to be, don't I, or how else will I ever earn a living?

Or those are my thoughts, anyway. But they are less than conducive, even if they by any chance were true. Frankly, stress makes things worse, all things.

I've been learning that I need to trust God, and He will help me bring it together in His time... but somehow, that needs to reach my emotions, and my sometimes-frantic thoughts about publishing. I want to just trust Him about all of this!

Last year at this time I felt barely alive... and yet, when I wrote, it was heartfelt, beautiful, funny and gorgeous! It had something wonderful. But now, when I think of a story, I think somehow I have to write it and put it through a gauntlet, so I'm tempted to put off writing it.

I've been hurt, I guess, with critiques and rejections, and part of me never wants to be hurt like that again.

On Fishwives

Ladies and gentlemen, we've been sold a bill of good about fishwives!

What do you think of when you hear 'fishwives?' Old wives tale, swearing like sailors, vulgar, angry, brutish? Anyway, something bad.

The negative connotation remains when you hear the word, but I don't believe it should. (You may not hear it often, but when you do, it's negative.) I believed the rhetoric that to be a "fishwife" was to be a poor, vulgar, angry woman with little or no self control.

I saw a picture - one picture - which changed my whole view about this. It was printed in a book about Scotland. None of the pictures were newer than the late 1890s, I believe. Naturally, they were all in a sepia tone that gave the book a lovely atmosphere.

Most of them were of buildings or landscapes.

However, a few showed nobles, poor people, even orphans, in their daily lives. (Sometimes the nobles were stiffly arranged for portraits.)

One picture was of a group of 'fishwives,' i.e. the wives of fishermen, who worked with fish themselves, all gathered together around tables working together doing something rather messy with fish.

I do not believe I am exaggerating when I say they were the happiest group of women I had ever seen in a photograph.

Not dressed richly, but nonetheless clothed well, they each wore white aprons, had strong-looking hands obviously accustomed to work (they looked as strong as many men's hands), and wore happy, laughing smiles on their faces.

It was obvious, to me at least, that they enjoyed working together, talking, and being outdoors and accomplishing something.

There was NOTHING vulgar about them, unless it is vulgar to use your hands, to be healthy, and to smile unaffectedly.

I'll tell you, I envied those ladies. To have such supreme confidence in their own physical skills, their friends and co-workers, and their own necessity in their lives & with their husbands' professions. They shone with health, comraderie, and honest happiness. What could be better than that? And what jealous Victorian sensibilities could have kept the negative stereotype of 'fishwife' alive about them?

In the age that promoted "fishwives" as a negative thing, an insult, the writing was mostly done by men, and rich people. I don't suppose a single fisherman or fishwife were heard in printed material on any subject.

People still have biases today. And they aren't always obvious. I guess you always have to look deeper than you think, to understand what's going on with what people say.

But if you notice any honest profession becoming an insult, take notice of who's saying it, and why.

People can reveal so much by what they say. As long as you remember to look. :)

I dug out and started re-reading one of my stories I was writing a lot of after I had the heat exhaustion a few months ago. It wowed me.

I don't know why I get surprised sometimes to find I've written something good. It had spirit! Guts! I really like what I did with the characters (and I didn't even remember I'd done so well). They were whimsical and well-drawn -- just like I wanted them to be! I can't believe I thought that story was crap.

Anyway. I'm trying to work more on it. I can't believe I wanted to throw away the best character in it (or put him on the back burner) so I could introduce a different character.

Maybe the more characters I introduce the better it will be (or not), but I certainly can't get rid of him. He's practically the star of the story.

It really is hard to judge one's own writing. Especially by memory. One can get discouraged and dissolusioned with a story when you're not sticking with it. You forget. (The same thing kind of happened with my romance story, but I haven't really gotten into it again yet.)

On the other hand, sometimes you can be surprised later by how bad a story you liked is. Usually that takes years though, when you've grown a lot more skilled at writing. I haven't had a story like that for ages, partly because I give myself a little more slack than I used to (I found I had to or it discouraged me from trying), and partly because my writing style isn't changing and improving as rapidly as it did while I was in grade school and highschool.

(Test Photo)

My White Cat








Yay! It works. :)

~Mysteries I'm Reading~

Here's a list of the mysteries I'm working on right now:

Morality for Beautiful Girls, by Alexander McCall Smith The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books are quite nice. Their peaceful atmosphere is fun. I'm reading this one slowly.

The Right Attitude to Rain, by Alexander McCall Smith An Isabel Dalhousie novel -- almost not a mystery at all. There's a lot of philosophizing and thoughtfulness about humanity in these books.

Death of a Dreamer, by M.C. Beaton (A Hamish Macbeth mystery) He now has, as well as his dog, a wonderful, tame half-wildcat named Sonsie.

Too Many Women, by Rex Stout. Archie pretends to be an employee at a corporation to investigate whether a man was murdered, and if not, why people are saying he was.

The Bigger They Come, by A. A. Fair (actually Erle Stanley Gardner) The first Donald Lam and Bertha Cool mystery. I've heard these books billed as being like Nero Wolfe and Archie mysteries, with Bertha Cool (a rotund lady) as the Wolfe-like character. I had to try one, after that. So far it looks good. So far Bertha seems just as persnicketty as Wolfe, but a lot less scary. I don't know, I guess I find a fat woman who (possibly) despises men a lot less unnerving than a fat man who (seeminly) despises women. Less of an insult against myself, somehow.

The Daughter of Time, by Josephine Tey. This is supposed to be one of the best mysteries ever written, about a guy in the hospital investigating whether Richard III really did kill the little princes in the towers. I'm having trouble getting into it, though.



I've been reading a lot of Rex Stout books lately, so some of these others have been on the back boiler a bit. The last eight books I read were all by Rex Stout, and all starred Archie and Wolfe. Possibly I go through seasons where I either want to read nothing but these books, or can't stand the sight of them. I'm not certain why that may be.

Anyway, this is my last Rex Stout book until I get back to the library. Unless I tap into my reserves. But I think I should go slow for a bit on them. I'm starting to get irritated with Archie, and when this happens it usually means I need a leetle break.

And by getting annoyed, I mean "thinking he's a manslut," or whatever the polite word for that is. Can he ever *not* chase anything in a skirt?

Yep, little break. :)