The doggie cage

In the course of skinnying down our supply of crapola around the manse, we’ve been ever alert for news that some friend’s need for new crapola corresponds with some of the crapola we have available for donation. With this in mind, Mary heard that a friend was in need of a dog crate, one of those cage-like things you use to help new, incontinent little doggies transition to house-friendly pets. In the spirit of moving crapola we haven’t used in some time in the direction of gone, she offered him our old one.

It’s a nice-size crate suitable for a large dog or a small bear and it’s served several occupants, having served our own canine buddy and then loaned out twice.  And for years now, it’s been stored disassembled in the garage, against the wall behind two unused sheets of drywall and one of tile backer, several partial sheets of plywood, a couple of windows that I can’t quite recall why I decided to keep when we had them replaced, my old painting frame, and sundry other items.

Before I could even begin unleaning stuff to get at the crate, I had to move the truck rack frames, two ladders, a dozen bags of donation stuff waiting for pickup by Services for the Blind, and then roll the kayak rack out of the way. And of course, once I started pulling it out and with a few hundred pounds of the afore-mentioned stuff leaning against my hip, the various sections of the wire-mesh crate decided to interlock, meaning I had quite a time getting it to where I could actually – you know – shift the damned thing.

 I finally got it stacked in the back of Mary’s car and the various other stuff back in the garage. By the time I was finished, I was sweaty and annoyed and not fit for human company.

BUT!!!!!!!!

The dog crate is gone. One more unused thing out the door.

Only about a gazillion more to go…

P.S. To Shawn, if you should read this – no tags back! Gone stuff stays gone. Get it?

Be careful what you ask for

I have a number of friends who are really good writers and even more who are thoughtful readers. So naturally, as I write my book, I selfishly consider how to put this resource to good use - which of them might be helpful, editorially speaking.

There are a few I’ve asked to accept my submission set (Prologue plus five) as readers and to give me their thoughts as to whether this thing is AKC-ready or just a dog. Another group I will ask to read the full manuscript when it’s finished (April? May? Twelfth of Never?) and provide me with any feedback they consider appropriate.

One might think that letting folks see the initial chapters would be scary but actually, not so much. These are old friends who know me and my writing and I trust them to be gentle but firm and besides, I’ve been at this exposed writing thing long enough to have reasonably thick skin. ‘Reasonably’ being a key word here.

Then there’s the group I will invite to read the manuscript through once it’s finished. That will be a scary time for me since at that point, I’ll have the work essentially ‘done’ in my own mind and it will be disappointing if one or more of them is less than impressed. Still, I think I’ll be okay with whatever they say because acceptance or rejection is a part of the gig with which I’ve had long experience, including previous book length disasters.

No, I don’t think my stable of test readers will crush my soul even if they do ultimately express something other than breathless admiration at my work.

The one that scares me most is the friend who is serving as my live reviewer/mentor/editor during the actual writing process. I was afraid to ask her, afraid to submit to her, afraid to open her first responses. She is a longtime friend and a truly gifted writer and thoughtful and gentle. Also, direct and honest and intelligent, which I suppose are the parts I feared.

I was being silly, I guess. Frightened of shadows.

So far, I’ve found the experience of allowing a trusted someone to peer over my shoulder to be liberating. In the process of opening up my writer’s soul, I’ve found validation and truth and acceptance.

She has already caught me out on a couple of really rookie errors and exposed some of my conceits and now she says she’s going to re-read and dig deeper. Deeper? That wasn’t deep?!?

Oh, (expletive deleted)!

I have a feeling the ride will get bumpier before it gets smoother. Especially because I failed to heed the thinly veiled warning when I asked her for this great favor and she sent me an email that said, paraphrasing here, Be. Careful. What. You. Ask. For.

I asked for it.

And she’s delivering.

And between us, I’m eating it up (but please don’t tell her).

Slow down, calm down, put it over

These are the words I would breathe to myself when Daughter Two came up to serve during her high school volleyball games.

“Slow down, calm down, put it over.” It became a mantra for me as Volleyball Dad, so much so that when I was officiating as a line judge, I had to remind myself NOT to offer her any aid, even of the mind meld variety. I mean, even if you don’t believe in the power of positive thinking we can accept that if I’m in ‘supportive dad’ mode I might fail to notice a foot fault. (Not to worry, the first foot fault I ever called was against – you guessed it – Two.) So I was careful to leave the mantra behind when I picked up the flags.

When I wasn’t line judging, I would chant this simple phrase just as she addressed the ball and lined up, every time she served. Can’t say it helped but it would be difficult to prove that it hurt. Her record of successful serves offers no clue to the validity of my method. But as I say, what could it hurt?

As I write this, Daughter One is going through a job interview, one that she really wants to have go well and concerning which Mary reports she was a bundle of nerves when they chatted this a.m. And just before I started typing this, I found myself facing east-southeast and silently exhorting her to – you guessed it – slow, down, calm down, and put it over. From 2,600 miles away.

I don’t believe in a supreme being of any description, the idea of poltergeists fails to faze me and I consider psychics, mediums and channelers to be charlatans, one and all. Penn and Teller are among my favorite entertainers but as they themselves will tell you, even their act is all flim flam. Really, really good flim flam, entertaining flim flam but flim flam, nonetheless.

So, being a guy who does not go in for ethereal imponderables, why on earth do I find myself earnestly offering long-distance thought coaching to Daughter One?

Because I can. And at the moment, it’s the only ‘can’ open to me.

You go, girl! Slow down, calm down, put it over.

Bubba’s thinking of you.

Nicholas Sparks

Nicholas Sparks is really not good at suspense.

And that’s okay by me.

I thoroughly enjoy reading books by this guy. Just now I’m reading The Rescue and I’m enjoying every page, sentence, stanza and turn of phrase. Even though I’ve known since about page fifteen what’s going to happen and the twist with the title revealed itself early on.

There is something satisfying about starting a book in the sure and certain knowledge that good will out and the protagonist will ultimately be okay. It’s relaxing and reassuring and, I don’t know… homey, I suppose.

It also helps that I like characterization and this cat is a past master at creating characters I can come to know quickly and understand entirely. I hope the characters in my fiction are just as clearly their own selves.

His settings aren’t bad either.

I really like Sparks, even if he doesn’t do suspense.