Christmas in … May?

It’s already time for me to start planning my next Kringle novel. Why? It’s only May!

The Kringle novel I write for this year will be for Winter 2025, so it’s even more ahead of time. A year and a half for a novel?

The ideas start in May so I have a while to play around with them in my head while I work on other things. Plots often come up on car rides with my husband, and there are more of those in the summer season (which, in my academic calendar, starts about May 1).

There are so many tropes to play with in romance — two of my Kringle books so far have mystery elements, two are enemies to lovers, a couple are friends to lovers, one involves second love, but no boy next door, snowed in at an inn, billionaire, bad boy or mafia yet. (I don’t foresee doing the latter three, to be honest. I like cinnamon roll guys myself.)

Friday, on one of those car rides, we decided that the next novel would be another second love with a touch of snowed in at an inn, where a divorced woman goes for a lone Christmas retreat at a great lodge, only to meet a local bar owner who hasn’t met the right woman in town.

The actual writing doesn’t happen till the Christmas season, November 1st-to be exact. That’s the season for NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. I won’t get it done then, but I will be well on my way. The benefit of this schedule is that I’m in the mood for Christmas, surrounded by the trappings of Christmas and immersed in Christmas carols, while I’m writing.

January through May is when I’m reworking the story, editing and refining. That needs to be done by October 1, which is publishing time. The cover gets finalized by the end of summer, and August is when I’m doing the mechanics of getting the novel uploaded onto the Kindle Direct Publishing site.

Other things are happening at the same time, of course. Teaching college from August – May, writing on other books and publishing them. I tend to keep busy, and I think it’s a blessing that I cannot be idle for too long. And that I love to write, and that there’s a Starbucks nearby.

My next Kringle-related activity is to go one more round through the 2024 novel, Kringle Through the Snow, which I actually wrote in January of this year because I thought I would never write another Kringle novel. But I can’t quit, because it’s now one of my Christmas rituals.

So Merry Christmas in May, and watch for Kringle Through the Snow on October 1!

What gives me direction in life?

Daily writing prompt

What gives you direction in life?

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Motivation needs direction, or else people waste their energy. There are several things that give me direction in life, honestly. Some are lofty; some mundane. I need to talk about both.

One thing that gives me direction is love. Love of people becomes an evident focus in my relationships, and it’s the answer people expect when I say “love”. But what loving what I do? That’s at least as strong a guide for direction in my life. I think about two activities I term as “flow” activities in my life, moulage (casualty simulation, otherwise known as making victims for emergency training) and writing. The love of the activity and the stimulation they give me gives me direction.

Another thing is striving to be better. This points me toward improvement activities, such as reading about my writing craft and practice, practice, practice. Related to this is the desire for recognition. Although I don’t like to talk about my need for external validation, it’s there. It’s definitely there.

Sometimes, it’s duty that gives me direction. That I get up in the morning on days when I’m depressed, and go to work even when I am hypomanic, is the power of duty. Duty to myself and to my husband and cats. The need to provide food, clothing, and shelter; safety and security, and emotional support. I also do these things because I love all of them, but the daily things fall under the category of duty.

This list is pretty prosaic, more of an essay answer for my positive psychology class than a creative piece. But these are the places and the reasons I focus my energy.

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?

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Christmas^* is my favorite holiday. It’s strange writing about Christmas in April, but then again, I have a Christmas tree still up in my parlor, and I turn the lights on now and then. And I just got done writing a Christmas romance. (It’s my sixth). No other holiday comes close to me.

Christmas lasts an entire season, and that’s one thing I love about it. I get to celebrate from post-Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day. It comes when I need it, toward the end of a very busy Fall semester at the college. It livens things up against the leaden skies and frozen ground waiting for snow that doesn’t come till January.

Christmas also has traditions handed down from many cultures (mostly Western) to give it a rich color and flavor. Red and green, silver and gold, touched by Hanukkah blue and white (it is part of the season), ribbons and blown glass ornaments and Della Robbia wreaths (my mother had a particular fondness for them, as do I) and twinkly lights.

We have special Christmas foods from many cultures as well. Pfeffernuse (ginger cookies) and springerle (anise cookies) from Germany, Mexican wedding cakes/Russian tea cakes, sugar cut-out cookies, Christmas goose, plum pudding, KFC (in Japan) …

Christmas remains my favorite holiday, even though I’m too old for Santa. But given I write about a secret society of Santas, am I really too old?

^*I am talking about the secular parts of Christmas here. I am of a “spiritual but not religious” bent, best described by “omnist“. Or maybe “panentheist”. I’m not sure. My beliefs are very personal, and I don’t want them hijacked by the “one true religion” crowd.

The Taco Truck’s in Town! (Severe Weather)

We in the far northwest corner of Missouri have spent two consecutive days down in our basements (about two hours total) because of tornadic activity. We didn’t fare too bad — the tornado at Maryville did not touch down but wasn’t that far from campus, although some neighboring areas saw some damage. Northwest of us — Omaha and Lincoln — got some bad damage, as did parts of Oklahoma on day 2.

I wrote the other day about how today’s weather warnings are so much more sophisticated. The FEMA app (my favorite for severe weather) informed us throughout the afternoon and evening. This app distinguishes between “Your neighbors should be in the basement” and “YOU should be in the basement” when setting alarm noises; the latter noise is more alarming than the city’s ominous siren. What struck me was that, despite the neighborhood destruction in Omaha and Lincoln from an EF3 tornado, there were no fatalities and only non-life-threatening injuries. This speaks to me of a robust warning system and better awareness of the danger of a tornado.

The graphic at the top of this page is perhaps one of the most ingenious tools of the current emergency mitigation response. It’s a non-threatening way to describe the threat levels in a tornado. It’s funny enough to go viral. And on those severe weather days when we’re waiting for the sirens, we’re looking for taco trucks. Only we want to avoid them.

In Those Glorious Days of Civil Defense Tornado Warnings

For the next couple of days, my city (town?) is in a severe weather zone. The Weather Channel says, “There is a likely risk of severe weather today. Wind, tornadoes and hail are possible. Look out for large hail and powerful tornadoes. Have a plan and be prepared.”. This risk continues through tomorrow; the National Weather Service has given a Hazardous Weather Outlook (pre-Watches and Warnings) to our area.

Our house has weather radio and our phones have weather programs with warnings. Our basement has bottled water and emergency kits. We remember the tornadoes in Utica, IL and Joplin, MO (home town-adjacent areas for each of us) and take severe weather seriously.

Weather awareness has changed significantly since I was young, and I was in one of the few areas with any form of local weather response. When I was young, most people got their television through antennas, and so network TV carried tornado watches and warnings. I don’t believe stations posted severe thunderstorm watches or warnings back then. Our middle-of-nowhere town was in the Chicago market, yet 90 miles away, so we watched warnings in which we may have been obliquely mentioned. However, because there was no way we could receive TV waves in a river valley, we had cable TV in LaSalle County, IL, which was novel 55 years ago. This was important to the current discussion because we had our own emergency warnings.

At the time, FEMA didn’t exist; the national civil defense organization was named Civil Defense. Our Civil Defense person was Bill Bailey, who I believe was the Sheriff. And he delighted in Civil Defense. When a tornado watch or warning occurred, he cut into our regularly scheduled programming with emergency tones. He then droned on about the warning of the moment. Originally, the screen would go back, but I think later interruptions had this symbol:

We would all go to our basements like good little Midwesterners. Ok, I kid. I would go to the basement, as would my mother. My sister and dad went out to the front porch to watch for tornadoes. I was scared to death of tornadoes back then (and many other things as well, but not spiders or snakes or bees or wasps).

Nowadays, we have a much better warning system. We have warnings about weather days in advance from the National Weather Service. We have FEMA with not only warnings, but sophisticated operations in the aftermath of severe weather. But I remember when all we had in LaSalle County, IL, was Bill Bailey.

P.S. on the Bat Thing

By the way, the bat tested negative. Chloe is out of quarantine and I can have my blood draw tomorrow.

About the Bat …

I’m writing again. Mostly because office hours (my last for the school year) are very quiet. My day, on the other hand …

Last night, I was sitting on the couch when I heard a chittering. I thought, “No big deal; my cat is hunting.” I looked over at her and she had a very angry bat in her mouth. I love bats; I think they’re the most darling creatures on earth. But I’m terrified of rabies. Chloe (the cat; I didn’t name the bat) dropped the tsking creature on the carpet and looks at me expectantly. The bat flies away, and flies a few laps of the upstairs and downstairs. Chloe streaked after it.

I found the trusty pair of leather bat-handling gloves and trudged upstairs. I found Chloe in the bathroom with the bat in her mouth, and the bat was once again screeching. She once again dropped it on the floor and before the bat could take off again, I inverted a shoebox-sized tub over it. (If you’re wondering why we conveniently placed a shoebox-sized tub by the bathroom, we’ve been meaning to put it away.)

I was now in possession of one mad bat who was not long for this world. Given that this bat had been in the mouth of my unvaccinated kitty, I wanted to get the bat checked for rabies. However, the County Health Department has advised me not to bring them any more dead bats because of the sheer number of bats that have come from our house. We apparently have a colony in our chimney and occasionally one breaks into the inside of the house. So I grab our standard bat-keeping gear, an empty tub of Coffeemate creamer, and shove the bat inside it, closing the lid tightly. The bat should suffocate by morning.

This morning, I call the vet to find out if my cat Chloe has current rabies vaccination and find out that hers expired in 2022. I tell them County Health doesn’t want to test our bat. They say we need to quarantine the fur critter (Chloe, not the bat) for two weeks. My husband calls County Health and they say to bring the dead bat (not Chloe) in.

I open the canister where the bat is located, and — the bat is not dead. The bat is, however, very mad, injured from the cat’s rough treatment, and again, very mad. I dump it out on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to put it out of its misery, and I can’t come up with anything. So I get my bat-handling gloves out, slide them on, and go outside to put the non-dead bat back into the creamer container. It attacks my glove and — well, it has white stuff on its head and around its mouth which is either saliva or creamer, but to this hydrophobicphobic, it’s not a good tiding.

Then, when I got back to the car, I realized my keys were in the house, and the house was locked. So there I was, in the car with the not-dead bat in a bucket and no way to drive it to whatever vet would be free to euthanize it. (That I didn’t fall over crying is a testimony to my psychiatric meds.) I instead texted my husband, who declared it a work from home day and drove to save me from my stupidity.

That being accomplished, I commandeered Richard to go on my extermination errand, followed by my “take the dead bat to County Health” errand. The following developments stymied us: 1) Vet #1 said she wasn’t our (by which I mean our cats’) provider, so she wouldn’t euthanize the bat. 2) Vet #2 was not equipped to euthanize bat; 3) Vet #3 never called back. So we called County Health, who prevailed upon Vet #1, and now our not-dead bat would find itself in the hereafter soon.

After that, Richard and I went for ice cream. We will pick up the deceased bat tomorrow and take it to County Health to find out its status Thursday or Friday. In the meantime, I will struggle with my hydrophobiaphobia, arguing with myself: “What if it DID manage to bite through those leather gloves?”

“… surreal, but not very impressionistic …”

I wish I was better at poetry, lacking the impressionistic bent I need to write the type of poetry that is in fashion right now. I am too involved in telling stories in a more straightforward fashion, even when I am writing dreams:

Last night, I dreamed I was walking after dark, late at night, armed with a pair of scissors. Someone approached me and put his hands on me, and I flipped him over my shoulder and then held my scissors at his jugular^*. He apologized and ran away. I walked and walked till daylight, and I found myself at my old alma mater^** wearing a white blazer and a skirt too tight for me. I ran into a couple of colleagues from my current job as a professor, who were going to a lecture together at a conference. I didn’t get the impression that they wanted me there, and I felt self-conscious because of the clothing and my weight anyhow. I walked out of the conference, which was held in the student union where I went to college. I walked to where my office used to be when I was in graduate school, which ended up being the mailboxes in my former department here where I currently teach. The mailboxes were no longer there, but I walked down the hall to find where they were located back at my alma mater.

This is surreal, but not very impressionistic. I could make it impressionistic, but it would aggravate me. What is happening? What happens next? I love poetry, but I can’t make it happen. My poetry is too concrete.

^* By jugular, I meant where I think the jugular is. I’m really not sure where it is.

^** for non-English speakers, “alma mater” is a Latin phrase that we use to describe the school we graduated from, usually college.

Easing into Summer Professor/Writer Version

An end-of-semester status report:

All I have left to grade is final essay exams for my Personal Adjustment students.
I’ve successfully weaned myself off the lithium with apparently no difficulties. We shall see.
I am done with Kringle Through the Snow (Kringle Christmas romance); struggling with Carrying Light (Hidden in Plain Sight series; a novel about Barn Swallows’ Dance and societal collapse)
My summer will be spent supervising 10 interns (a smaller amount), putting together two new classes for fall, and writing. I foresee lots of Starbucks time. Starbucks will have to learn to love me.
Summer trips: A conference in San Francisco end of May, New York Hope (disaster training exercise for which I am moulage coordinator) at beginning of August, and hopefully a writing retreat here and there.
My writing/publishing goal list for summer: Finish Carrying Light; prepare Kringle Through the Snow for Oct. 1 release; prepare Reclaiming the Balance (Hidden in Plain Sight series) for Jan. 1st release; Set up my social media posts through December on Loomly.
My wish list: That amazing bit of happenstance that will propel my writing into notice, continued health for my family (one husband, four cats, extended folks), and inspired writing.

A Reminder of COVID

In my office today, I found a yellow mailing envelope. Inside I found two masks, cloth with clear plastic windows in the front so people could read my lips. This was a reminder of COVID from almost four years ago, when we spent the semester sending our live lectures over the Internet, disinfecting surfaces, wearing masks, and spacing our students six feet apart in a classroom. All challenges we survived as faculty, although I’m not sure to this day if anyone learned anything.

I wanted these masks because I figured that if I couldn’t hear (I have a noticeable hearing loss and need hearing aids), my students couldn’t. I ended up not liking the masks because they weren’t flexible enough and I couldn’t wear lipstick with them. It took me a while to not wear lipstick while wearing masks, because the habit was so ingrained and I wanted to feel normal.

There was nothing normal about that time. I forget about it for months at a time, and then something reminds me, like a news article, or an old blog, or a mask, or the test kits we still keep around in case the cold feels more severe than others. I remember crying frantically in the kitchen because there was too much to deal with, or becoming obsessed with sourdough bread and catching my own starter, and not going anywhere for a long time. It never completely goes away, and when I sit at Starbucks writing, sometimes I remember when I couldn’t.