Getting Back Into Writing

I haven’t done a lot of writing lately

I really haven’t done a lot of writing lately. I’ve been tired and dragging, taking lots of naps, doing a lot of editing of prior works. This means I have about 5 novels that I could submit today if I were in a submission cycle, two needing beta readers, and one that I will finish at Camp NaNo this year. Hopefully.

I feel like I’m losing the knack

It’s been so long since I’ve written a novel start to finish that I don’t know if I can do it again. Of course I can; it’s only been six months. But when I write that down, six months seems like such a stretch. I’ve been editing things for that long, which uses a different set of muscles, as it were.

To be fair, I have almost completed a serial space opera of novella size, so it’s not like I’m not writing. In fact, that whole last paragraph sounds stupid if I take that into account, doesn’t it? It’s not like novels are a whole different beast than novellas, is it?

Ok, never mind

There is a tend to aggrandize novel writing over other forms of writing. I’ve never had anyone ooh and ahh over short stories. Novelists are a rare breed (hint: No, they’re not) and what they do is mysterious. So non-novel writing is, indeed, writing.

I must go write. Bye!

Fear of Tik Tok (or: Facing a Budding Addiction)

What marks an addiction?

A long time ago in my general psychology class, I learned that three characteristics of addiction, whether physical or emotional, were dependence, habituation, and withdrawal. Dependence means going back to the drug or behavior repeatedly, needing that “reward” (a physical sensation in the case of drugs, a psychological boost of brain chemicals for non-drug items). Habituation means getting used to the dose (psychologically or physically) and wanting more, and withdrawal means feeling tension or even physical symptoms when away from the stimulus (again psychologically or physically) From there, continuing the drug or behavior despite bad effects to one’s life, cements the addiction.

There are various psychological addictions that follow this path: gambling, television, and, as it turns out, Tik Tok.

Tik Tok?

I am dealing with the beginnings of the addiction response in my relationship with Tik Tok. Although I’ve only been there a month, and watching content for about a week, I have found myself scrolling through my For You page a few times a day.

My behavior shows:

Habituation, as it takes more and more content to satisfy me;
Withdrawal, as I feel figuratively itchy when I put the phone down.

I’m missing the dependence, the actual part where I continue despite bad effects. This is mostly because I recognize when the process is happening and break the habituation.

The almighty algorithm

Tik Tok’s “algorithm” makes the app more addictive. Although nobody but Tik Tok knows the exact algorithm, users believe that the app provides you with more content in areas where the user lingers in. In other words, if a reader watches certain content all the way through, they will get more of that content, thus boosting dependence. And since the viewer is watching more and more of the same thing, habituation develops.

What saved me

I tend to get frustrated with passive pursuits like television and Tik Tok. No amount of habituation gets past the fact that I’m not doing anything. I like making things happen, and Tik Tok isn’t going to make that happen. I get bored lately, and the content algorithm of Tik Tok doesn’t deliver new content (like educational content) to keep me occupied.

So I think I’ll put Tik Tok up on the shelf for a while and let it tick without me.

Cute Fluffy Wide-Eyed Things That Love You

What are they?

Cute Fluffy Wide-Eyed Things That Love You (henceforth to be known as Cute Fluffies) are multidimensional creatures about the size of a bocce ball but consisting of iridescent, gossamer, silky fluff. They are almost all fluff. They have googly eyes and spindly arms and legs. They weigh nearly nothing (not surprising) and they burble and coo and like to hang around with people, who they find endlessly captivating. Being from an alternative dimension, we do not see them, but sometimes we feel them in a breeze.

Their effect on humans is usually to make people act giddy with how cute they are. Those in the know can elicit this effect in other people by scooping up the invisible critters and throwing them at someone. A person hit by these little puffy creatures is usually a giggle.

Where they come from

They are, alas, a figment of my imagination. I think.

Let me explain. I have never truly grown up. Yes, I’m 57 and hold down a pretty demanding job, but I have a strong sense of play. And when I dated another person with a strong sense of play, we chanced across the Cute Fluffies, and how much fun it was to throw them at people.

The secret to throwing the Fluffies is to scoop them up, pet them, and burble at them before throwing them at people so they know that they have, in fact, been hit by a cute fluffy. It helps to pick imaginative people who will appreciate them. Many people actually giggle and feel temporarily buoyant when hit by Cute Fluffies.

Why don’t I have a picture?

Nobody has been able to photograph a Cute Fluffy.

An Excerpt of My Current Project

Arriving at Port Serenity

“I miss my new ship already,” Kel Beemer groused as the shuttle lifted off toward the Ridgeways. Her new ship, the spoils of subduing two slavers, had been detached from her former passenger/light cargo ship, the Stalwart. Before her lay Ridgeway III, restricted class beauty world. And beside her in the shuttle were two handcuffed slavers, their unharmed victims, and the man who got her into the mess. The runner in control of the shuttle sat rigidly, not looking back at his passengers. Maybe, Kel thought, he was having a rough day.

“We’ll get back to your ship,” her new partner, Brother Coyote said, his lanky height folded into the small seat. “What are you going to name your ship?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She ran her hands through her buzzed blonde hair in a characteristic gesture and scowled in her passenger seat. Kel could only imagine how she looked after a dramatic scuffle with the slavers. “Am I going to get a chance to freshen up before I meet the Prime Minister?”

“You mean the Convener of the Moot,” Coyote corrected. And smiled. “Not likely, but knowing my mom, she won’t notice. She’s never been interested in outward appearances.”

Kel grimaced. Brother Coyote looked a little rumpled in his order’s garb, yet serene, his staff across their knees as if it didn’t focus immense energies and create wormholes. His long blond hair had even fallen back into place. She looked like a shipper complete in jumpsuit and the de rigeur buzz cut. With her big brown eyes and diminuitive stature, she looked little older than the two chatting merrily across from her. She did, however, feel every hour of her 32 years, especially when about to meet the head parliamentarian of Ridgeway III, who was also Coyote’s mother. What a mess.

“I should warn you,” he smiled. “She doesn’t want me to leave Ridgeway III again, and will try to exert pressure on me to get me to stay. And on you, of course.”

Of course. This was going to be a trip to remember.

###

Kel expected a guard station at Ridgeway III’s port, which she discovered was named Port Serenity. Cute name, she thought, as the party whisked through the almost empty customs office with no difficulty.

Kel learned the reason why at the other side of the gate. A woman at the center of a small collection of people, dressed in a muumuu of deep purple shot with gold thread, held her arms out. Brother Coyote stepped away from Kel’s side and rushed toward the figure – doubtless his mother with her entourage.

Coyote’s hug enveloped his mother, who was not much taller than Kel herself, although much better dressed.

“How was your little trip?” the Convener of the Moot said in a warm alto voice as she held him at arm’s length.

“Oh, Mom,” Coyote said, “I need to introduce you to my partner.” He stepped back toward Kel, who checked escape routes only to find none.

“Partner!” Coyote’s mom exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d slipped your bonds for a partner!” She stepped forward to envelop Kel in a massive hug, and Kel found she couldn’t escape. The Convener of the Moot smelled like exotic flowers, and Kel smelled like – she didn’t want to think about it.

“I’m not that kind of partner –“ Kel squeaked.

“What am I thinking?” Kel’s mother exclaimed, letting Kel loose. “You need a bath and a good rest before dinner. Bojun, take Kel to the Statehouse and settle her in.”

“But Mom, where is she going to stay?” Coyote – Bojun? – pleaded.

“In your room, of course.” And she and her entourage drifted away in a cloud of frangipani, taking the twins and the prisoners with them.

Better Safe than Sorry

I worried for nothing

It turned out that the irritation on my lip was a chronically inflamed ingrown something. Like a really, really deep blackhead. I went through a pimple-popper procedure with my doctor digging it out with a pair of tweezers and sent on my way.

Yes, I feel a bit foolish. I worried for nothing. I suspect I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.

Yet I don’t regret going.

The area looked like a peeling mole a good part of the time, and I’ve heard that’s A Very Bad Thing. So I wasn’t going to mess with it. If the choice is between looking foolish and getting something too late, I’ll take the former. Besides, I don’t go to the doctor for every ache and pain — I’m pretty reasonable with my worries.

So now I have a big sore bump on my lip, and if it doesn’t clear up in 4-6 weeks, I go back to the doctor.

Better safe than sorry.

A Trip to the Doctor

The sore that doesn’t heal

I will visit my doctor today, who squeezed me in to her schedule to look at a sore on my lip that doesn’t heal. It’s on my lip, and I do worry a bit. Not so much about whether it’s cancer, but whether they’ll have to do a biopsy that may make my lip lopsided or something.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

It looks like nothing to worry about

It’s like a scab that forms on my lip, shrinks, comes off (without my assistance) and there’s an open wound underneath, like a picked scab, and maybe I’ve been doing the facial scrub too vigorously.

It looks suspicious

The scab is very thin and brown, and to a casual observer, it looks like a mole. So if this is a mole whose top conceals, say, an open sore, it could very well be suspicious. I would say “it’s just a scab” but it’s been doing this for over a month and shows no signs of shrinking. I’m doubtful that it’s anything to worry about.

Smart enough to drive myself crazy

This is why I get worried when I get something like this happen. On one hand I think I’m making too much of a little thing and annoying my doctor. On the other hand, I have to go to the doctor because WHAT IF. So there’s worry that it’s bad and worry that I’m going to cause my doc to do an eyeroll, even though she’s taken three suspicious moles off me previously and would the large one off on the side of my face if it weren’t on the side of my face.

Takeaway

You should always get suspicious sores, moles, bumps checked regardless of whether you think you’re making too much of it. My sister’s father-in-law died of melanoma that had been undetected for years and had metastasized. Something we all should avoid.

Thunderstorm

Where have all the thunderstorms gone?

Until today, they’ve curved around the south of us. Sometimes the north. Maryville has the distinction of being the highest point between Kansas City and Omaha. I wonder if this is part of the reason why we haven’t been getting the good storms.

Cue this morning

This morning I woke up to thunder. Close thunder. And rain pattering on the roof. Hours later, it still looks cloudy out and maybe rainy. And we are in a flash flood watch.

Maybe daylilies will come back from their wilting sulk. Maybe the grass will green up.

There’s another peal of thunder. It has been so long since we’ve had a good storm.

The Road Trip and the Dead Bat

Ok, gotta go, bye

My husband and I are driving to Kansas City to visit an intern. He has to take me there because my vision is getting increasingly worse in my right eye due to a cataract (I’m too young for those, so go figure). But first, a trip to the Public Health Department with a dead bat.

Why a dead bat? Because Richard accidentally handled it, which is a bad thing if, say, the bat had rabies. We’ll play it on the safe side, but it’s time to bring the bat in for testing. Poor bat.

Limericks

Fifth Grade:

A lion lived in a zoo

along with a hog and a gnu

“I could eat three or more,”

said the lion with a roar.

The gnu said, “shame, shame on you!”

Yesterday (47 years later)

A cannery worker named Stan

concocted a devious plan —

he threw the town mayor

onto a conveyor,

and that’s how the mayor got canned.

The Longest Day

Back when I was a pagan

Yesterday was Summer Solstice, and I didn’t celebrate it because I thought it would be on Tuesday. I should have checked the Internet.

I sometimes miss being a pagan, because I always knew when the turns of the year (the solstices and equinoxes) were, and pagans throw a great party. I had a friend who wanted to have an all-night drumming session around a bonfire, and me and my bodhran (Irish frame drum) would have had a lovely time with that. Except for the fact that lack of sleep tended to (and still does) make me a bit unmanageable — weepy and moody. And drumming all night is more suitable for the Winter Solstice, where one would drum to make the sun come back after the longest night.

I gave up being a pagan because I always felt like an impostor — I didn’t believe we were doing any magic, and I felt the symbolism was borrowed from cultures not my own. I am very personal in my mysticism, so I want the symbolism to speak to me. Nothing, alas, has spoken to me in a while.

How would I celebrate Summer Solstice?

I wish I would have pitched a tent in my yard, and stayed awake till sunset and then slept in the tent with plenty of mosquito repellent and on a camp cot, because I’m well over 40. I would have kept the lonely night company. (In actuality, I would have climbed out about 10:30 and gone inside because of lack of sleep. I know myself by now.)

I celebrate by what speaks to me, what makes for the best poetry. Maybe I have lost my poetry, maybe it was all invested in the crushes I had before my age finally caught up with me.

Maybe I need to celebrate the turns of the year again.