Random stuff is what I do when I can't think of a specific blog to do.
Mark this date in your calendar. On April 2nd, 2012, Megaroy, my daughter's stupid cat, threw up for the very first time. He choose a splendid locale. (Center of mass in the middle of the hallway, equidistant from both lights, so to maximize its shadow potential and ensure that the unwary human's foot would make contact with it.) He had just eaten so food was not digested. (The crunchy with wet vomitus mix is ideal for squishing in-between the toes.) He was so proud of himself. He pranced. Or maybe he was relieved. It's hard to tell. Anyhoo, guess who had to clean it up?
Moving onto writing. I'm on the last leg of Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel. I put the cover up on my website to simultaneously taunt and tantalize fans. I even got a letter from someone begging me to narrow down the date. (Sorry, not omniscient. My books have a very odd habit of magically elongating at the end of the writing process. For example. I have four more chapters to write and an outline to follow. But magically these four chapters will likely become six or seven chapters. It's like multiplying bunny rabbits, except with writing. Stephen King called it Literary Elphantitus. So glad I'm not as bad as he is.) I've thought about changing the name. I mean arcanorum is an actual word out of an actual dictionary. It means: mystery of mysteries or the one ultimate secret supposed to lie behind all astrology, alchemy, and magic. (That sounds pretty cool and I checked. There is no other book called Acranorum, much less one called Acranorum: A Lake People Novel. See, I'm breaking out the big guns for the paranormal suspense fans by adding the colon to the title.) I want to take a moment and thank Wendy D'ottavio for the following comment on Facebook: "You could name it Goujon's stinky fish poo and I would still anxiously await the release!" (So you see I could have come up with a MUCH worse title. HIM commented that I was insulting Wendy, but I absolutely love that comment!)
More about writing. I recently got a letter from a fan who likes my writing. I shall copy/paste my favorite part: "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great read." This wonderful person was, of course, referring to the Bubba series. In particular, I think she enjoyed the scene where Brownie shows everyone across America that morning shows are NOT immune to practical applications of electrical physiology. I discussed this with HIM and we decided that I could not use "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great book," as an editorial review on Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Pity. Holy shit, that was a great comment.
Where was I? Oh, yes, randomly attacking subjects in my life.
Now I will malign HIM. HIM is the man to whom I've been married for nearly 3 decades. HIM knows who him is. HIM is also the rat bastard who decided he wanted a new job. Consequently, in the middle of writing a book, HIM decided that he will take a new job. Not in Washington, D.C., mind you, or in Northern Virginia, where we presently reside. No, of course not. No, we're moving back south. (I make it sound like HIM decided everything by himself, but that isn't really true.)
Yes, we will be moving back to the deep south where I will be further inspired to write more of the Bubbaness, because I will acquire loads of ammunition with which to prompt me. But here is the discussion that nearly brought on my 43rd divorce threat. (I average 1.5 threats per year.):
Me: "I'm in the middle of writing a book."
HIM: "I'll do everything."
Me: "Hah. You'll be in Alabama next month while we're finishing the school year here." (Actually, Cressy will be finishing the school year. I will be supervising.)
HIM: "But baby, you'll love it down there."
Me: "It's not the place, it's the $#@@#@% move. @##$%$%@!!!! $%%&##@$%~!!! @#$%^&*@!!!!" (Cressy said, "Ooooooo, Moooooommmmmmy. Potty mouth.")
HIM: "It'll be okay."
Me: "Let me explain my working dilemma. When I'm finished writing this book, I have to self-proof it immediately. Then I fix my mistakes. I ritually sacrifice some Mayan virgins. (No, I don't really do that.) Then it goes to my editor/proofreader. When she's done with it, she returns it to me. I fix it again. Then I send it to the formator, who formats it, whereupon when he returns it in 7-10 working days, I get to publish it and hope Kindle and Smashwords don't have any issues with it."
HIM: "But it'll be-"
Me: "I'm not done yet. As soon as this book goes to the proofreader, I get to start on Brownie and the Dame, a novella. As soon as I'm finished with Brownie and the Dame, the whole process repeats and I don't get to take a break in-between because I...won't...have...time...because...we'll...be...moving. Then when my mind recovers from all the psychological damage inflicted by moving, I'll start the whole process over with Bubba 4, because I'm on a schedule and I want it out by Christmas 2012." More profanity followed. There was a brief respite while I looked up some profanity on the Internet so as not to be boring or repetitive.
Upon the completion of the "conversation," (conversation being a loose euphemism for war of words in-between the moving dissension issue) I maximized my glaring abilities by staring at the back of HIM's head. I'm quite certain some part of HIM's anatomy was burning because of the thoughts in my head. (Probably not the part you think.)
To sum, the cat threw up in the hallway, I like funky comments from fans, and we're moving and somehow I'm going to finish all the stuff I promised if it's the last thing I do.