Are you trying to be funny?

I consider myself a pretty funny person, with stories, puns, dark humor — a pretty good complement of funny.

However, I tend to write pretty dark, picking topics that might be too close to home at times (climate change) or contemporary with fantastical elements (immortals, people with preternatural talents).

What are some ideas for a funny (maybe dark funny) short story?

A vampire at an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting
A man who time travels to the future to find it’s being run by sentient cats
A man who tumbles an autocratic government by introducing them to cat memes
An “elixir of life” that ends up inducing extreme altruism

I’m actually having fun here! Let’s see if one of these becomes a short story.

***********

I’m almost to the point where I might take up Gaia’s Hands again for editing. I’m not convinced it has good bones, but I’m willing to wrestle with it. I might have Whose Hearts are Mountains on dev edit soon.

I have to come up with a novel idea (see what I did there?) for NaNoWriMo in November. Wish me luck.

Bits and Pieces

Having a relaxing weekend in Kansas City celebrating my birthday, just as I needed. Now in a coffeehouse on the south Plaza, typing this and drinking coffee and trying to come up with good ideas for writing.

The computer issue was a ID-10-T error (look at what that spells carefully); it was my dongle for the mouse rather than the USB port itself. But what the heck, it got me down here for a birthday celebration.

I’m feeling really frustrated with ideas of what to write, however. I just finished a short story called “God’s Broken Promise” which was based on an experience I had. Richard keeps suggesting characters — a guitar-shredding Buddhist monk, a woman with a pack of cats — but I can’t find the stories there. I guess I don’t start with characters like I thought I did. I start with plot, run with theme, and then the characters make themselves known.

So what do I want to write about? I want to write short stories with twist endings — shocking or satisfying or dramatic or silly. (I haven’t written enough silly stuff lately). I want to write novels again (although I’m about to embark in another dev edit).

I need ideas that grab me.

Disgruntled with my computer.

I have no words of wisdom today; just a grumble.

Remember the new computer I got a few weeks ago? It’s on the fritz; same problem as the previous one. The USB port failed again, and it keeps making that “boop boo buh boop!” noise Windows machines make when you plug something in to the USB port.

I am beginning to think the surface book has a problem with its USB ports, in which case anything they replace this with will have the booping/failed USB port problem. Which makes me upset — I didn’t get a computer for it not to work.

I hope they can fix this to my satisfaction.

melancholy

Things haven’t been going well lately.

I think I’m feeling the emotional toll of losing two cats (the long-time cat Snowy and baby kitten Belvedere) in a week. Strangely enough, Belvedere is the hardest to get over, even though he was only five days old; he had a purity about him with his little milk mustache and his snuffling my hand.

There’s not much good to balance that unless you count the fact that I’m still writing. I don’t want to go to work today; I just want to sleep.

Of course I’m going to go to work. That’s top priority; in Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs (a psychological construct), physiological needs (food, clothing, and shelter) are the foundation that needs to be satisfied before we fulfill any other needs:

And physiological needs cost money, which one gets by working.

In a deep depression (which I am not in), I have to remind myself of this basic fact because the inertia and hopelessness weigh me down into immobility. In a hypomanic state (which I am also not in), I have trouble concentrating on the need to go into work. In either case, the larger than life emotions of bipolar overwhelm the logic of everyday life. So constructs like Maslow’s Hierarchy keep me focused on the facts of life.

So right now I’m sleepy and sad. It’s an easy day at work today, as I get to watch other people run a poverty simulation. Then there’s the weekend, and time to recharge.

requiem for Belvedere, a five-day-old kitten

Belvedere (aka Belly Cat) died this morning after declining for the past day. We don’t know why he died; as he had been rejected by his mother, he might have had a defect incompatible with life. I don’t know.

In his five days on this earth, he traveled to work and back with me and resided by my bed at night so I could feed him every two hours (my husband took the evening shift so I could pre-nap). He squeaked and rumbled and squirmed, a delightful little creature.

As the days passed, though, he squirmed less. Last night he quit urinating, and I knew he wouldn’t make it to go to the vet the next day.

I was right. When I awoke this morning, he was limp and not moving. No heartbeat.

We did the best we could, buddy. I’m so sorry.

Happy 56th birthday to me

Today I’m 56 years old.

This is not me. This is Belvedere the kitten, who’s 4 days old

For you younger people out there — time just chugs along and you hardly notice it until you get to one of those milestone years — 40, 50, 55. You’re too fixated on things like careers and children to wake up and think, “wow, I’m getting older.”

The grey hairs, the wrinkles, the thickening of the body come gradually, until you look in the mirror and see someone who looks older than you remember being.

You don’t even notice that the cultural touchstones — the music stars, the memes and jokes — flow and change around you, and you wake up one morning to find that the younger people around you don’t get your jokes anymore.

But you’ve survived so much! Everyday events that would panic you before — a flat tire, sleeping through the alarm — you now handle with aplomb. Your fears that you can’t handle crises have been proven wrong time after time.

And you have stories to tell. Middle age (late middle-age?) is a great time to start writing. Or find friends who like to tell stories and swap them.

When you’re older, you have the perspective of years, and that is your gift to the world.

Belly cat and updates

Update:

Belvedere the kitten (Belly for short) is still alive in his fourth day, slurping down syringefuls of milk and sleeping in happy milky drunkenness. He’s absolutely tiny:

I’m not quite getting enough sleep given his every two hour feeding schedule, but this too will pass.

Meanwhile, I’ve gotten a few more rejections from agents and I just don’t know what to do about “this doesn’t really grab me” comments. Still haven’t heard from DAW and it’s officially been six months.

I wrote another short story I’m thinking of posting here but, since my stories are the least read of anything I post (TL; DR?) I don’t know if I will.

Waiting for another idea to come my way.

In other words, I’d feel down except for the kitten. Kittens somehow exude happy chemicals.

I’m Mom to a Baby Kitten!

Life can change at a moment’s notice. One moment the waters are perfectly calm, then a hasty decision can create turbulence that roils the waters for weeks, or even years, to come.

We’ve taken on a foster kitten.

Belvedere (Belly Cat for short) is a newborn orange-and-white kitten whose mother rejected him at birth. We don’t know why; he might have a defect or she might have had too many mouths to feed.

We’re feeding him by syringe every 2 hours, which means we’re waking up for dinner time every two hours. He’s pooped once and peed several times, so the plumbing works. Right now he’s calm, but when he screams, he sounds like a squeaky toy.

The other cats will have nothing to do with him. Girlie gave him a good sniff and then hissed at him (because newborn kittens are threatening).

I hope Belly survives. I hope he’s not too burdened not having a mommy. I hope he grows up to be a cuddly cat. We’re doing our best.

In Search of Small Happinesses

How do I kick myself out of these blahs?

These aren’t bipolar blahs, they’re just plain blahs. Lots of rejections, one dead cat (RIP Snowy), nothing exciting to look forward to. Except my birthday, and I have my psychiatrist’s appointment that day. So lots of reasons to stay blah.

If I want to stay blah, I can rehearse my hurts and aches and pains, hoping that I can win some sort of concession from God (“Look at all this crap that’s happened to me. I deserve some compensation!”). Note: It doesn’t work, and it keeps me from seeing good things that could be happening.

It’s my responsibility to do what I can to get into a better mood. I wouldn’t say happiness is a choice, because that’s unfair to people like myself who face depression. But I can help myself until I feel better or. in the case of depression, till the meds kick in or I can talk to someone else. When I’m depressed, it’s so much harder to think of these, much less do them. Work helps me connect with people, and that helps a little, as does forcing myself to write. These things don’t get rid of the depression, but they take the edge off it.

What can I do? I think I’ve talked about this before, but I need a refresher, so here I go again:

Gratitude journaling — three things I’m grateful for every night. I admit I fall behind on this, because at night I generally want to sleep.
Walking — I could walk to coffee this morning. That might be a good thing.
Pet therapy — with five cats, this isn’t hard to do.
Getting out — I’m contemplating the Board Game Cafe, as usual.
Accomplishing something using my character strengths — I have a story I’m writing which I’m not currently in love with; I can send Whose Hearts are Mountains off to dev edit; I could come up with a new story. Or submit more queries/submissions.
Connecting with people — Board Game Cafe works.

So I’m off to take care of my mood.

Looking for the Good in Today

It turns out we had to put Snowy to sleep yesterday; she had had a stroke as suspected. It’s always a little hard to witness, the anesthesia and then the needle to the heart.

I’m a bit subdued today — a little tired, a little down. It’s about Snowy and it’s about a lot of rejections lately, with no glimmers of hope on the publishing front. I don’t despair as much as I used to with rejections; I’ve become inured to them. I am wondering once more if my writing is unmarketable, and if so, why.

Looking for the good in today — my classes are going well and I’m getting enough sleep. I’ve been productive both in writing and in submitting (short stories and the like). I stirred myself up enough to write this.