Good for Her!

I'm a traditionalist when it comes to disciplining children.  Not all children need or respond to the same approach. Some you can talk to, reason with. Some, not so much.

Seven hours after my daughter was born the nurse came into my hospital room and said, 'Did you know that you're daughter has a temper?'  First introduction to my newborn after we were separated. Great. Within hours I discovered that she not only has a temper, she has a mind of her own. Reason has little to do with things - sometimes more direct approach was needed.

My rules were simple and clear: First, I will ask nicely, 'please stop', 'please don't'. Second, I will tell you, firmly, 'I said please stop', 'I said please don't'. The 'I mean it' was implied - clearly. Third, 'pop', once on the backside.

She's smart, she got it. Most of the time the stink-eye and secondary warning was all that it took. But, she still, like all kids do, pushed the envelope. How far can I take this?

Because of the namby-pamby, 'talk to your children' bullshit of the 90's I was afraid to discipline her in public, but I did it anyway, when she needed it.

I rarely pulled the over-the-knee, full-on spanking my parents gave me when I needed it. I never used a weapon against her, like the dog leash my parents employed on my brother and me from time-to-time. But, when she was acting up in the store or in public and just would not quit, there were a couple of times when a 'whack' was in order. Kind of like smacking the television set or appliance that isn't doing what you expect it to do.

Finally, people are on board with the idea that sometimes corporal punishment is a valid tool in a parent's toolbox.

This incident has gone viral over the internet - and it's a good example of the kind of parenting that is sometimes needed to get sense through the thick skulls of our children:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/local/wp/2015/04/28/woman-called-mom-of-the-year-after-beating-a-young-man-out-of-baltimore-riots/

Do I condone hitting kids willy-nilly for every little thing?  Heck no!  Like anything else in parenting, it's a balance and physical discipline is a tool of last resort, but it is sometimes useful and appropriate.

From what I have read about this woman, a single mother of six living in a pretty rough area of a pretty rough city, she is doing her damnedest to raise her children to be upright, law abiding citizens to whom she can point with pride.  Good for her!

That was my goal for my daughter, and I told her, more than once, 'if you reach thirty and I can look at you with respect, I will have done my job as a parent'.  She beat that goal by a solid seven years - and I am proud of her and of the job that I did, but raising a child is never an easy task. There is always second-guessing, wondering 'was that the right thing to do'. This woman has the challenge times six, because every single one of her kids is a different person, with different needs, and she has to juggle all of them.

What I would like to know is where were the other parents in all of this?  I have read various sources on the internet and it sounds as if there are some issues that might play into the entire scenario and change the landscape quite a lot.  They're not being reporting in the mainstream press, yet, and I don't know whether the sources are honest and true, yet, but a little digging brings up some interesting facets to this week.

First, it seems that Freddie Gray's spinal injury might have been pre-existing.  The Baltimore Sun and others are claiming that he received a lawsuit settlement for lead paint exposure, but when he filled out the court documents, he declared 'auto accident' as one of the causes.  Surely a young man, even if he was a minor at the time, knows the difference between lead paint exposure and an auto accident? Yet the Sun and other papers are pointing to the lead paint Gray's sister says was the basis for the suit.

However, at this website:  http://allenbwest.com/2015/04/bombshell-is-this-the-truth-about-freddie-gray-spinal-injury/ there are images that show that a Freddie Gray of Baltimore, MD was in the process of obtaining a structured settlement from Peachtree resulting from a claim against Allstate Insurance.

Could it have been a claim associated with lead paint? Yes. But then why, as the Sun reports, did Gray claim in court filings that it was associated with an auto accident?  It makes no sense.

Whereas the declaration by the mainstream media that Gray's injury that resulted in his death was caused by the police plays into the media's hands.  Just like the 'hands up, don't shoot' story from Ferguson. It sells papers and creates buzz that isn't resolved.

We may never know the truth about what led to Gray's demise - whether it was direct action by the police followed by deliberate inaction (the latter having been clearly shown, since they did not take Gray to the hospital until it was too late), or whether it was the result of a pre-existing condition that was then ignored.

All I can say, with certainty, is that if there were more parents like Toya Grant, willing to take on their children and keep them from behaving stupidly, this world would be a much better, safer and more stable place than it is.

Good for you, Toya!  You go girl!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me at Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Why Does Microsoft Hate 'Me'?

This seems to be my week to question and complain.

Yesterday, I was confused by the bad behavior by 'all' in Baltimore.

I know it's the vast minority that are acting out, behaving badly, but that's what we're seeing on the news, so it's the impression left.

This morning, I'm wondering if Microsoft hates 'me' - the PC user who does not own and has no wish to own a handheld or 'Smartphone'.

Two weeks ago I downloaded Microsoft updates.  Something I have routinely done for years.

It 'broke' my computer. Nothing worked.

I used my iPad to access 'help' so I could figure out how to get into Safe Mode to fix what was broke. After choosing the innocuous 'Refresh' I ended up back at almost ground zero. All that was left were my operating system and personal files. All of my installed programs had been wiped clean.

What!?

I finally managed to get my internet working again. I went to Microsoft's website and got a technician online and, after more than an hour he had a suggestion. I could pay for an online consultation service - to undo the 'damage' their updates had caused. I declined. Firmly.

Three days of struggle later, I had put it behind me. Laptop is functioning. Chosen programs installed and running. I'm still configuring small stuff - like my MS Word styles and a few others things. Nuisance things, but most of it is fixed.

Yesterday morning I went to shut down (shoot me now, please!) and there were updates to install.  Remember 'plug and pray'? Yup. Did the dutiful and downloaded.

Apparently I now have a new version of Windows OS, which is fine. Seems I have some new bells and whistles. Whoop-dee-doo-da-day since I can't see what they are, but I'll trust that they're there.

It took an hour for the bloody thing to download and install, and install and configure and install some more. I let it run while I went to work.

Got home last night, screen was black, power was off. Okay. Pressed the power button. Screen lit up, whirligig appeared as usual... Couldn't connect to the internet to finish configuring. What!??! Crap! Broken again... Turned it off in disgust and went downstairs to watch the Giant's game.

This morning, I tried again. Could not connect to the internet.

Now, before I go farther, let me ask for a general opinion:

If my wifi settings worked and worked well before, why would Microsoft take it upon 'themselves' to change them?

Answers?  Hints, suggestions or anything else? Nope? Yeah - beats all out of me, too.

They did, though.

According to the message I got once I reached a point where I could log in and start fixing what they broke again, my internet connection had been reset so I would have to manually connect.

I beg your pardon?

Just how does one 'manually' connect to the internet through a wifi connection? It's wireless, guys! That's what the 'wi' in 'wifi' stands for! There is no wire to manually connect - it doesn't exist!

Jeez... And they call this an 'improvement' and 'upgrade'.  My left foot...

And, on that note, the rest of my day will be better and I hope yours is lovely with no hiccups at all!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories
Friend me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/philippa.stirling

I Admit to Not Getting 'It'

I don't normally watch the news.  I listen when it impinges, and pay attention to the big stuff, put things together and decide, based on the information available, what's important and what isn't.

My attitude is that news services are almost always nothing better than gossip mongers. They tell us what they want us to hear, parsing it until reality and truth are completely distorted, often to the point of bearing little resemblance to fact. So I ignore it.

Sometimes, though, I have to stop and watch, to try to understand. Baltimore is one of those times.

I don't get it. On many levels, I simply do not understand.

Baltimore police have, according to this article http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/04/nonviolence-as-compliance/391640/ paid significant sums of money to more than 100 people over the course of the past four years as the result of excessive force complaints.  That's a lot of people - 25 per year.  Even one is too many.

We count on the police to protect us, not to harm us.  But they are, first and foremost, fallible human beings. There are times in every life when 'things' sometimes happen. Mistakes are made, and it really is no one's fault.  Unless there is deliberate malice or anger or some other emotion that reduces the rational thinking human being to the level of something less than an animal. At that point, all bets are off and the civilized rational being turns into something else, a Barbarian, perhaps.

Could that have been the case here? An officer, maybe even two, who were angry or frustrated, tired of being verbally abused by the very people whom they are sworn to protect and defend, is it possible they just reached the point of 'too much' and over-reacted? Possibly.

I would say that it's definitely possible because looking at just the first nine weeks of 2015, there have been 5,219 arrests for various crimes. Five-thousand two hundred nineteen arrests in just 9 weeks! That does not include the traffic stops, the routine investigations and interventions that don't result in a ride downtown.

So let's say you're Joe Friday and Harry Morgan, riding around in your patrol car.

For every stop you make, you run the risk of someone at least swearing at you, calling you names, treating you like something found on the bottom of a shoe after a visit to the dog park - and all you are trying to do is your job. Never mind the risk of someone pulling a gun and trying to turn your wife to widow.

How many of us, sitting on the sidelines and watching what's going on in Baltimore this week, and Ferguson not so long ago and Staten Island in between, would strap it on and go out and do what these men and women do? I wouldn't. You couldn't pay me enough to do what these men and women do, but they strap it on and go do it - and get verbally and physically abused for it. For just doing their job each day.

Back to Baltimore. If you're interested, the arrest statistics are here:

https://data.baltimorecity.gov/Public-Safety/Summarized-Crime-Data-By-District-Week-9/4nh3-w6zf?

So, 5,219 arrests from January 1 to February 28 this year, down from 6,792 arrests for the same period last year - nine weeks, more than 5,000 arrests.

Taking the 2015 arrest numbers from January 1 through February 28 - the reporting period - that works out to just under 580 arrests per week. If we extrapolate that through the year, that works out to about 30,154 arrests in the city of Baltimore. Of those, 0.0008%  or 1:8,000 of those arrested were awarded some sort of settlement because the police went overboard and did things they shouldn't have.

That is bad. It might be statistically insignificant, looking at the numbers, but from the human side, there's nothing good about it.

However, looking at it from a non-emotional standpoint, there is a 1:3000 chance that each of us will be struck by lightning in our lifetime.  http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/06/0623_040623_lightningfacts.html

• The odds of becoming a lightning victim in the U.S. in any one year is 1 in 700,000. The odds of being struck in your lifetime is 1 in 3,000. 

So I have a 250% better chance of being struck by lightning in my lifetime than in being awarded punitive damages resulting from an arrest in Baltimore.

But, because people are frightened, fed-up and frustrated, Baltimore burns. People are rioting, destroying private property, burning people from their homes, robbing and looting. Shop owners who have worked hard and scraped and tried to do the right thing have seen their efforts gone - in an hour or less. The market, the liquor store, the dress shop, the nail salon - all of those people who screwed their courage up, opened up their mom-and-pop businesses and tried to make things better for themselves and their neighbors are suddenly left with less than nothing.

If they have insurance, and pray they do, they're going to have to fight their insurance company to get a pay-out of benefits.  Many policies probably have specific exclusions - like riots and acts of God - meaning that the shopkeeper is simply SOL when it comes to seeing a dime against the premiums s/he's paid for however many years.

The city is not going to pay for the clean-up. Nope. That is up to the building owner, the storekeeper.

What about the good, honest people who were gainfully employed yesterday and now, because of deliberate actions by a group of thugs, have no job? What are they going to do? Where are they going to work to pay the bills and make ends meet?

One young man dies because of what appears to be gross negligence on the part of the police and this is the result.

Do the police have a lot of questions to answer?  Hell yes!

Why did they not get the man medical attention as soon as it was clear he wasn't kidding around, that he was in pain?

Why did the officers not restrain the man in the back of the van, to prevent him from being tossed around with his hands tied behind his back?

Why was there not a public investigation into the actions of the police officers involved?

Yes, Baltimore police do have a lot to answer for, but I would say the community has even bigger, more important and, yes, but it's relevant, burning questions to answer:

First and foremost, who benefits from burning down large areas, mostly lower income areas, of the city?

Where are the parents and families teaching their children that destruction of property is wrong, that there are better ways of dealing with anger and inequality than destroying your neighbor's property?


Since it takes two to tango, doesn't at least some of the responsibility for the divide between community and police fall on the community?

If the sewer starts backing up, you don't sit back and talk about the stench. You do something about it - and that is where I think the citizens of Baltimore are almost as much at fault as the police. They have sat back, wrung their hands, and done nothing proactive to try to bridge that gap between us and them - and this is the result.

So, that's my two-cents worth, and I still don't get it.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Silly Side for Monday

I hope for you this is a sparkling happy morning. For me, I didn't sleep well, too hot, I'm tired and... blah. Instead of sitting here whining and moping, I thought I would offer up something a little on the silly side.

Heeere's A. Nonnie Mowse!


The postbox under the hedge clicked shut over the card the postman had bent low to deliver. He had a package to deliver, too, but wasn’t sure where to find the door. His fingers reached to the edge of his cap. When he scratched his thin gray hair, the hat tipped sideways, until it almost fell off.

“Huh,” he grunted. He looked up, scanning the tidy garden behind the fence. The address was clear. 16 Green Garden Lane. He had found the box, even though it was tiny compared to the one at 14 Green Garden Lane, but he could not find the door.

Taking two steps along the path, still peering closely over the hollyhocks, roses and zinnias that poked above the fence, he thought he spotted something. A small door, no bigger than six inches tall, was tucked into a corner of the foundation stones of number 14. From the postbox under the hedge, a narrow path, paved with smooth pebbles, ran to the arch that enclosed the doorway.

Curious, he paced back to the garden gate for number 14. The spring that held it closed creaked when he opened it, and it closed with a smack when he let it go. Gingerly, he scooted between the roses, pushing the thorns away from his spanking new uniform so they wouldn’t snag. He brushed by the zinnias and hyacinths until he reached his goal.

Reaching down into his big deep bag, the brown bits worn white, he found the small, neatly wrapped box with its label. He checked it, for about the sixth time since it had landed on his part of the sorting tables back at the office.

A. Nonnie Mowse
16 Green Garden Lane
Clovington, Kent

It even had the postal code, neatly printed alongside. The postman scratched his head again, his habit when he was befuddled. Then, doing his job, he bent down and scratched at the wood panels that looked like nothing more than popsicle sticks, glued together and painted a cheerful sunny yellow.

After only a moment, the door opened.

“Yes?” Came the high squeaky voice. Bright brown eyes, sharp with their own curiosity, looked up at him above the pointed nose that twitched. From behind the little brown furry creature swathed in a frilly apron came the sounds of laughter and music. The strains of Happy Birthday swirled out through the open door.

Startled, unable to believe what he was seeing, the postman stepped back, stumbling when his foot found a stone hidden under the shrubbery. He fell backward as his cap slipped forward and he landed, bottom first, in the very rose bushes he had tried so hard to avoid. His uniform snagged. He heard the ripping sound from his jacket as his jaw just about hit his chest and his eyes almost popped from his head.

“Oh, dear, dear, dear!” The creature tutted and came out into the bright sunshiney day. “Are you quite all right?” She stood there, peering up at him.

“Yuh … yuh … yuh …” He couldn’t think of a word so he stopped trying.

The mouse’s lips curled in a smile as the lids crinkled down over the eyes. “Yes. My name’s Alice, although I really do prefer Nonnie.” She gestured back at the open door where the singing had stopped. “May I offer you a piece of cake? It’s my nephew’s birthday today and I know he won’t mind, particularly since you brought his gift. You won’t fit into my house but if you don’t mind eating out here, I’ll be happy to fetch a piece.”

So, there sat Alfred B. Pompernice, eating a morsel of chocolate cake in the garden of number 16 Green Garden Lane, listening to the sounds of the party inside and meeting all of A. Nonnie Mowse’s friends and relations as they came to see the curious man who had come to call.

****

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Sunday Morning Drivel

Good morning!  Happy wonderful day!

Sun's coming up (good thing, that). It's looking like it's going to be clear (not so good, considering the drought). We got a little rain on Friday night into Saturday morning - about 0.5 inch if I believe the weather people. The Giants won in Colorado last night. It's shaping up to be a good day!

I have some obligations - my mother-in-law's pill boxes and a few other things, but nothing major. The errands got done yesterday, so today it's all house stuff. The dust is thickening, so I'll take care of that later. Sam, my cat, is feeling needy this morning, so he'll keep me working to settle him down. After that and getting my coffee, I'm looking forward to reading and commenting upon a new book from the Authonomy site.

There's a group of us, the Women's Fiction Critique Group that, every three weeks, does a read of a new book and provides observations, comments and encouragement.  It is the one place on the site where I'm confident that anyone reading my books will not pull any punches whatsoever.

The first time through, I stumbled out the other side, battered, bloodied and bruised, with confidence greatly shaken because the critiques were not soft and fuzzy.  There was one, in particular, that still bothers me more than a year later. "She's a bitch!" and "I hate your MC!" followed by "I can't read any more of this!"  Ouch!  The rest were all mildly to moderately encouraging and all, even the hardest hitting one, had valid points.  It was just a surprise to have my 'masterpiece' so thoroughly trounced. Looking back, not all the points were valid but many were, and it's those I need to take to heart when the time comes to go back to it.

So this is the group to which I will submit my observations on this next book.

I'm torn about the last crit I left.  One of the members came back to me after and said I was too harsh.  Perhaps I was. The deal is, though, that I was dead honest and pulled no punches because, in my view, if someone, anyone is going to put that book up for sale, the purchaser has the right to expect top quality.  This was an early version and, because of gaps in the plot and storyline, there is a lot of work to be done.

There is also the obligation I feel when I do a critique.  I will not say 'this sucks' and leave it at that. That benefits no one - not me, not the writer, not other potential critics. If I'm going to say something bad or negative, I'm going to give chapter and verse on why. It's not fair to anyone to say, 'yeah, this sucks' and leave it at that, so I dont because it's not just the receiver of the crit who sees that there. There are others who follow-on and see the points made. If I'm blunt and decisive, clear and spell things out, perhaps others will benefit.

Do I feel badly? Yes. Obviously since I'm trying to self-justify here. I wasn't happy with my comments before I posted them, and after having my "brutality" confirmed, my comfort level is set squarely at Squirm.

I've been there, had that done to me but, on the other side, for me it was a HUGE wake-up call. What I thought was beautiful and delicate genius was tedious and naive. In the end, despite hurt feelings, a 'why did she say those horrible things?' and a 'why am I doing this?' reaction, my story will be much better and stronger, more real and believable than it was. It will be a better product for a potential reader.

If my critique has the same effect, almost everyone benefits (but I'll still feel uncomfortable when I think of it). Tough love is a good term to use.

I love reading. I love good stories. To me there is nothing worse than picking up a book, paying for it, and realizing partway through that I have wasted my time and money because it's not what I hoped for or expected. To me, that's like the movie that you sit down to watch and discover, 'OMG - what is this!??'.

When I'm done with a story, I want it and the characters to be restlessly pacing at the back of my mind long after the cover is closed for the last time. When a book does that to me, it's a better than average book, and that's what I want to see produced. That's what I want to produce - living characters that catch a reader's mind and imagination, and that is one tough nut to crack but that is what I strive to do in everything I write.

I have received great encouragement from two beta readers whose opinions I value. They are instrumental at the Inca Project site (http://www.incaproject.co.uk/) and both were, from my perspective, wildly encouraging.

'I loved it.' 'I didn't want it to end.' 'Looking for the sequel.' 'A brilliant read.'

Music to a writer's ears! Minor picks - a few typos and editing changes, some repetition, but nothing that little things wouldn't fix. The next step is Create Space where I will enter it into the sweeps and see what happens with it. Probably this summer since I have a few other things to get in order. The cover is done though!  Oh happy day!

Now - I am off to get my coffee, do pills and rid the house of dust dunes.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories
Check out "Lothario & The New Girl" my erotic romance on www.authonomy.com

Procrastinator...

I've been naughty this morning. My promise to myself was that this would be my 'first thing' each day but here it is, just past eleven o'clock in the morning, and I'm just getting started. *Sigh* Best laid plans and all of that...  Of course, it is Saturday and I am entitled to one lazy morning, right?

It hasn't been lazy, though. I have been struggling with book covers.

Book covers are hard.  Like fighting off a full-grown greased anaconda in the dark. No matter where you grab it, it gets away and bites you back.

I used to think writing was hard. That was before I started editing.

Then I decided writing is easy and editing is hard. After all, splatter words over the page and you have 'writing'. It's the whipping into shape, getting it molded and formed so that someone else might take a chance to read it. Now that's hard.

Then I thought pitches were bitches.

How do you capture the whiff of your story in just a few words? How do you put down enough to capture someone's attention long enough for them to pause and look farther? How do you fit the essence of your story into a blurb that doesn't give so much away the potential reader knows beginning, middle, end before gently laying the book back on the shelf?

It's hard, man, really hard. Until I started tackling my book covers in a determined way. This makes everything else seem easy. Three books, two different genres, what I like v. what's edgy and will grab someone's attention.

I did the post the other day, pick my book cover but I'm an impatient old cow and couldn't wait. So I did this:

Panned.

So I tried this (which I really like):

Panned.

So, tongue partially in cheek, trying to catch the elements of family circle - father and three children, dying wife and hovering interloper - I came up with this:

A. I hate the color palette. The ochre yellow looks like something I would find in my daughter's diaper after a bad couple of days. According to the interweb, though, yellow is warm and friendly, comforting. Pink / mauve is feminine, soft. Green is gentle.  Blah, blah, freakin' blah.

B. The overall design squeals SCIENCE FICTION not Women's Fiction.

Meaning, that after several hours of work, I am straight back to square one.  For this.  I did however (oh joyful day!) come up with this for my erotic story:

I think it's light, fun, whimsical and sets the tone well.  Maybe all is not lost...

So, back to A Matter of Friendship and that cover design.

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Friday Flash

Instead of babbling about all and sundry, I thought I would post one of my flash fiction pieces. This is a little something I wrote based on a prompt on the Authonomy blog.

Bad Day Fishing

Around Matthew and his Grandpa, the lake was fading in the early evening light.  Neither spoke as both were lost in thought, the clunk of the oars echoing across the water.

For Matthew, the afternoon at the cabin had begun well enough.

"We'll head across the lake," Grandpa pointed. "There's a cove. Can't see it from here, but it's a good place."

They stepped the heavy mast and rowed away from shore. The wind came up, as if Grandpa had ordered it. The skiff picked up speed, speeding across the water.

Reaching the cove, they dropped anchor first, then their lines.  Disaster struck just ten minutes later.  Grandpa had just pulled a beauty into the boat. Taking firm hold, he worked the hook from the fish's mouth before putting the fish into the canvas creel.

"There's half our dinner." He said, dropping the creel over the side, hooking the strap to a cleat. "Your turn, now."

Matt still didn't know how it happened.  He bumped the cleat. He remembered that and then, disaster.  Maybe the wood was rotten but no matter, the cleat broke free and fell into the lake, taking the creel with it.

"Whaddja do that for?" Grandpa shouted in quick anger. "God dammit!" He joined Matt in looking over the side.

Below, the water was purely clear.  Details highlighted more than if they didn't have the lake between them and the bottom.  Brown algae covered smooth stones, played over by light, shadow, the flicker of waves and, resting in the middle of the picture, the creel.

Matt swallowed, frightened to have angered his Grandpa who was as likely to hit as to hug.  It was his way, how he had been raised.  Matt loved his Grandpa, but not that.

Matt swallowed. "I'll dive down and get it. I can do it."

"It's too deep, bout thirty feet or so I'd guess, and cold. That water is freezing cold."

"It doesn't look that deep."

"'tis. Been fishing here since I was a kid, used to swim here, too." Grandpa raised a hand and Matt cowered. The hand turned away and rubbed its owner's neck.

Relief brought an idea with it. "I know!"

"What?"

Mat snatched up the tackle box, got the spool of extra line and set to work. When he was done, the braided line with its weight went over the side. He moved that line back and forth, up and down. A few times, the hook caught on the canvas, but it always broke away.

"That was a stupid idea, anyway." Grandpa muttered, turning his back on his grandson.

Matt did feel stupid and, suddenly, reckless.  He pulled up the line, stripped off his shirt, pants and shoes, and launched himself over the side.

Grandpa was right - the water was cold, freezing - but Matt didn't care. He was going to get that creel if it was the last thing he ever did. Flipping over, he dug down through the water. Ice slid around him, clenching his muscles into almost cramps. He reached out, caught the strap, turned and fled toward the sunlight, his legs churning.

Grandpa was staring over the side when Matt's head breached the surface. "You stupid kid! You wanna die?"

"I got it Grandpa." Matt pushed the creel up. It was hard, but he lifted it above the surface, felt fingers snatch it as he began to sink back, too cold to raise himself up.

"Matthew!" Grandpa's voice was muffled, but the fingers came back, grabbed, held and pulled. "Help me, Matt. Come on."

Used to obeying his Grandpa's orders, Matt did.  He helped and, after a mighty struggle, slithered over the side into the shelter of the boat.

"Stupid kid," hands found the old smelly blanket kept under the front seat, tucked it around his shaking body. "Whatdya do that for? Scared me to death, and for what? A canvas pouch and a dead fish? Stupid kid."

Grandpa pulled up the anchor while Matt shivered. "Get your clothes on, they'll help warm you up, then you can help me row, get your blood moving."

By the time they rowed back across the lake, Matt was warmer, his clothes dry and he looked up, glad to be there, alive.

Around the lake the mist was rising, pale green and white and Matthew grew up a little.

His Grandpa wasn't mean, not really. He got mad because he worried too much. He lashed out when he thought things were escaping and he got scared.  The truth fit into place with a quiet surety. Matt looked into the soft evening, and smiled.

******

Have a lovely Friday!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

The hardest part about writing is...

Writing is hard work. Editing is hard work. Writing pitches is hard work. Making a good cover is hard work.

Why am I doing this?! I don't know, but I am - and I'm loving it!

Once the story is written it's not finished, not by a long shot.  That is, actually, the easy part.  Getting it down on paper can be a stream of consciousness with no rhyme, no reason, no logic.  From there, though...  That's where the hard work begins.


Editing is tough.  Killing your 'darlings' - those bits and pieces of prose that you love best for their sheer genius but that really don't add a thing to your story - is painful.  When they're taken out and the ends are mended into a seamless transition, the only person who will miss them is you - and sometimes you miss them so much it hurts.

I have one chapter from an early work that I adore.  I don't love it - I adore it.  When I read it I can picture the scene so easily, yet it added nothing to the story.  Here's a bit of it:

We passed into the stand of birches at the top of the meadow where the rain took on a soft spattering, pattering tone as the drops struck the leaves and branches overhead.  Heavy drops fell, smacking onto our heads and shoulders, plashing into the puddles that were forming on the ground.  The fragrance of the forest rose up, adding to the pleasure of our journey.  From between the trunks of the trees appeared an old small square stone building.  It stood in the very center of the thick copse.

I still love that.  I can see it, smell it, but it doesn't add a single thing to the story.  It's a 'darling', pure and simple and I took it out.

Now I'm struggling with a cover.  I have one I like. One of the best helpers over on Authonomy said, 'no, not right', so I'm back to the drawing board.

How about you help me decide?  I'll post four - the one I like and three alternatives I've developed and you can tell me which one would make you stop in the bookstore for a closer look:

Just tell me one, two, three or four - you don't even have to say why.  Just let me know which would stop you long enough to pick it up off the stacks if you were looking for something to read.

Thanks and have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Writers are Funny Critters...

Writers are funny critters.  Over on Authonomy (www.authonomy.com) the drama sometimes makes a girl's boarding school seem staid and dignified.  Other times, it gets as stuffy as the book room in White's Club (as I imagine it would be since women - ladies or not - are prohibited from its hallowed halls).

There was a fabulous kerfuffle over on Authonomy recently.  One member accused another member of various nefarious deeds and, for a few days, it was like a cockfight across the internet.  Feathers flew and it isn't hard for me to imagine one or both leaping to their feet at some gross post by the opponent, shrieking like a banshee and rending their garments.

Hmm.  I wonder if face paint was used...  Kind of like Mel Gibson in 'Braveheart'.  Now there is a smokin' hot man!  But I digress...

To the best of my knowledge (which is none since I wasn't actually in the room with either of them), no blood was drawn.

It can make things interesting for the observers who enjoy cage fighting, but horribly uncomfortable for everyone else, so I'm glad the tempest died down and the cover is back on the teapot.  Now, though, there are warnings rampant across the site - which is unfortunate because they really shouldn't be needed.  Civility and decorum should be assumed, but they're not.  They can't be when one person gets heated and starts tossing fire bombs and hand grenades at another who then retaliates in kind.

It's like that in so many places anymore.  Although there are still areas where good manners are inherent, most of the time when you're out and about you can be certain of rude or intrusive behavior if / when you interact with a stranger.  It's so sad and unnecessary.  How hard is it, after all, to say 'you first', 'pardon me', 'sorry' or just a toss-off apology for the sake of good manners?  When you do that around here you're either gawked at like you sprouted a second head or ignored.

In California if someone bumps into you when you're in the grocery or on the sidewalk, neither party will say a word.  Heck, they won't even look at you.  It's been that way for years - since I can remember.

Great true story:  Maybe fifteen years ago I was up in Eugene, Oregon, visiting my parents. I had gone shopping with my extended family who had gathered for a family-reunion.  In one of the stores I was passing behind a young man - probably in his early twenties - who looked like a refugee from a homeless shelter.  Just as I got behind him, he stepped back, bumping into me.  His head came up, whipped around with a look of surprise, and an immediate, automatic, "Excuse me" was murmured.  I was so shocked I stared for a moment before murmuring, 'no problem' or something similar.

Okay, okay, stop laughing you Brits and/or Brit expats!  It's a linguistic difference.  'Excuse me' here is not cover for a rude bodily expulsion.  It is the American equivalent of 'Sorry' or 'Pardon me'.  Like pissed there is drunk while here it means anything between irritated and angry.

The good news over at Autho is that with the lid back on it, folks can now get back to what they should be doing: writing, reading, reviewing, commenting - or just perusing and participating in some of the threads where there is friendly competition.

Like the Flash Fiction thread where people post flash stories (like 'Chet' that I put up here the other day) based on a prompt and then, after entries are closed on Saturday, anyone who wants to - whether they posted a story or not, can vote.  No prizes, except that little ego boost when someone votes for your story.  Just a bit of peer recognition and a chance to flex the wings a bit.

Speaking of which, I just peeked.  This week's prompt is "Good / Bad Day in the City".  Sorry, I've got to run because my Muse is whispering...

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Check out Authonomy (It's Free!  It never sends you e-mails about junk you don't want!):
www.authonomy.com

Follow me on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Before dawn, it's still dark outside without much hint of light (it's the fog).

For the past week I've had insomnia but last night I slept - six solid hours.  Seven would have been better but I'm thrilled to have gotten six.

Normally, in the sleepless times, I struggle for the first day or two.  Then I accept it.  Depending on how awake I feel, I'll either lie in bed with my iPad and check my e-mail, play a game or go to Authonomy.  If I feel awake and energized enough, I'll get up and write.  This time through I never felt energized, going back to my post yesterday about exercise.

Confession:  I didn't take my walk at lunch.  Instead, I decided to look for a yard full of flowers behind a picket fence.  It's for a book cover - A Matter of Friendship - in which the MC is recently divorced and can now do the things she's wanted to do.  Like have a garden full of flowers.  Because my office is not in a place where there are scads of gardens with or without picket fences, I got in my car and drove to a residential area.  Then I drove around and around.

Do you have any idea how few yards with flowers and picket fences there are? Isn't that the old ideal (or idyll), the country cottage with the picket fence?  Maybe it's California, or maybe it's the north end of the Napa Valley.  Whichever.  The closest I found was:

Which is pretty, but not what I was looking forward to finding.  At the same place, I also got this which has promise:

I'll play with this; crop it and manipulate it some.  Then, for insurance, I'll get to work a bit early today, so I can leave a bit early.  There are a couple of older sections of Santa Rosa where I might have some luck - and then I can go back on Saturday to get better light since I think the fog is going to be here for a few more days.


I also took pictures of a couple of other things, an old barn that I've admired on my drive home most days for one.  Those pictures are too washed out to be any good.  I do miss my old SLR with the manual F-stops, film selections and so on.  It was more challenging to take 'good' pictures but much easier to take 'better-than-good' pictures.

Now I guess I'd best be getting on to fiddling with my cover.

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me at:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories
Check out:  A Matter of Friendship at:  https://www.authonomy.com/book/294687/

Ahhh... Monday. A sweeping plain of a week through which we'll wander. It's always interesting to me to look ahead. What do I have to do? What do I need to do? What should I do? What surprises are in store?

I count down the days by my mother-in-law's pill boxes.  She has three, seven-day holders that I fill up every Sunday.  Supplements and prescriptions; one here, two there, three over there, all to keep her going for another week. Saturday comes and the week is done.  Sunday arrives and I start again.

Sad as it is to see her in the state she's in, I realize that at least some of it comes down to choices.  Much of it is the crap shoot of genetics, granted, but some is directly tied to what we do.

My parents were both active for as long as they could manage.

My mom drove until her late 80's.  The idea of that scared the crap out of me, but she did it. Then, when she was ready, she turned the keys over, herself.

My dad was busy and active his entire life.  When he developed the lung cancer that ultimately killed him, he hauled his oxygen tank around until he couldn't any more.  Somewhere I have a picture of him, up on Skinner Butte in Eugene, Oregon.  They wanted to show me the views and despite it being hard to breathe, he walked the loop trail around the summit.  The picture shows him with his oxygen line and a big smile.  That was in June.  He didn't run marathons or climb mountains, but he walked and he drove and he did as much as he could of living before the end came in late August 2002 - two months after the picture was taken.

They lived in the house in which I grew up until dad couldn't negotiate the front steps any longer.  Then they moved into an over-55 community where they lived on their own terms in a small house with fewer steps.

They were happy and, after dad died, mom stayed there, living on her own and being checked on daily by my older brother and his wife, until she was ninety-two.

At ninety she decided to move a one-hundred pound glass-topped patio table from the back of the house into the garage.  Did she raise her hand and ask for help?  Heck no!  She got that baby turned onto its metal rim and rolled it to where she wanted it.  Once there, she wrestled it back upright and (probably, knowing her, dusted off her hands with a grin of satisfaction). When we heard about it, my bothers, sister and I just shook our heads but, hey, that's Mom.

Then, in 2012, she decided it was time and moved into an assisted living facility, where she died six months later, at ninety-three.

Three words that best describe my parents are:  Stoic, Determined, Self-Reliant.

I want to be like them. To get out and live life and do the things I like to do.


Comparing the two women isn't fair, really.

My mom never gave up, never, ever complained. She exercised, smoked until she was in her fifties, liked her Martinis and Manhattans - one, maybe two per night, but no more - and always watched her diet. Into her eighties she took vitamins and two medications - insulin and warfarin - that was it.

My mother-in-law...  Well, we could open a pharmacy and much of it is right down to the choices made.  Over-eating, never exercising, sitting and watching instead of out and doing.

I think I'm going to go out for a long walk at lunch today.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me at:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Happy Sunday morning!

It's foggy here, again, and a bit on the dreary side because of it - no blue skies or sun yet.  Instead of doing same-old-same-old, I thought I would post one of my Flash Fiction pieces.  It's a personal favorite:

Chet

The man came to Barton County in June.  Chet didn't know he was there, but the man knew Chet was.  He had heard of him, even back in New York.

A friend had talked to him about the man who lived outside Great Bend.  The friend had heard about Chet from another friend who had a cousin.  Naturally, the friend of the cousin laughed off the idea that a 'discovery' was waiting inside a combine in the dusty fields of Kansas.

"No, really." She flipped on the CD player.

The voice, deep and rich, perfectly pitched and full soared into the room, effortlessly lifting Nessun Dorma to the ceiling.

The CD passed hand-to-hand until it reached the very skeptical man with the New York Metropolitan Opera.

"He's untrained!  He's probably got all sorts of problems, and he's too old to work with to solve them, Mel."

"Just listen, huh?  Whaddaya got ta lose if ya just listen." Mel didn't plead, but this was close.

Lloyd relented. Shaking his head, with doubt creating an aura around him, he slid the CD into the machine. Chills danced through him. The hairs on his wrists and neck stood to sharp attention and the ripples in the nerves across his back denied his doubt.

Reverent silence spread to seconds after the last note faded into the dull gray light that filled the room. Still he stood there, staring at the machine as if to bring the owner of the voice from inside.

"See?"

A week later he landed in Topeka, rented a car and drove southwest through the open spaces that made him nervous. The sky was too big. The sun too bright and nothing but an ocean of gold and brown punctuated by silos, water towers, houses, barns and windmills swept away on all sides after he left the last of dubious civilization behind.

He arrived in Hoisington late in the afternoon when the sun was sliding down toward the horizon.  The light was pink and lavender, glinting and slashing off the windows when he drove down Main Street.

After the hustle, bustle and urgency of New York, this was foreign.  Almost as if he was a castaway in the middle of the ocean with only a village of natives for company.  He was uncomfortable among the tiny cluster of buildings.  They were too small, too far apart.

On Sunday, he sidled into the clapboard Church of Christ, paying no attention to the smiles, nods and whispered 'hellos' and 'welcomes'.  He tried to pick Chet out of the crowd but all the men with the self-consciously slicked back hair, the awkward set of the shoulders under their Sunday-best jackets, looked the same.

The congregation settled into their seats, leaving the anxious stranger almost alone in the back pew.  The service began and Lloyd waiting anxiously for the singing.  Almost more than ever he was convinced he was on a fool's errand.

"Please rise for the singing of 'How Great Our God'."

Rustles, thumps and shuffles filled the space when the crowd rose to its feet.  Fingers came down on the unseen organ and a hundred or more voices, some on key and pitch, most not, some strong, most uncertain, lifted above the serrated sea of heads. And then, through it all, came the voice.

It was stronger, deeper and more powerful than the CD had made him believe.  The prickling sensation of a moment swept through him, as it had in New York.  Lloyd held his breath, waiting for ... something.  A flaw, a stumble or uncertain note, but none came.

The song ended, leaving an aching pit in Lloyd's chest.  He didn't want it to end.  Leaning over, he asked the elderly lady with the carefully curled silver white hair and eyes the color of the sky outside, "Who was that?" 

"Why that was Chet Matthews. Doesn't he have a lovely voice? Like an angel, he sings." She nodded and smiled as if there could be no dispute.

"Er... uh... yes, yes he does."

After the service, Lloyd didn't wait.  He wouldn't talk to the 'angel' there, among his peers.  He wanted Chet to be comfortable, at home, where he would be relaxed and more open.

Two hours later, amid a rooster tail of dust that followed him up the long road to the Matthews farmhouse, Lloyd was deciding on how to approach the next star performer who would grace the New York stage.  The brakes squealed in protest when he stopped on the gravel and grass next to the battered looking house.

Lloyd stepped out into the heat inside the shade of the tree that stroked high over his head, topping the porch roof and stroking the siding with its branches.  The paint was faded and peeling.  Lloyd shook his head, strode to the steps and paused in front of the ratty screen door where he knocked.

Disbelief still raged inside him as he drove northeast toward Topeka.  Chet had sat across the faded plastic red and white checkered tablecloth, looking calmly at the man from the City.

"No, sir." He had said quietly with only the barest hint of his great gift in his words. He lifted a callused hand, ingrained with the dirt and grease of hard work to point to the flowing ocean of gold beyond the windows. "That’s my world, where I’m happy."

The next morning, under indigo sky, Chet threw a prayer to Heaven as he always did before beginning his work, climbed into his combine and started the engine.  Sailing across the golden sea of wheat, he offered his voice to the swallows and blackbirds that followed his ship as he answered the symphony of their song with a complementary refrain of his own.

 ******

Have a wonderful day!

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter.com:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Check out my other writings on www.authonomy.com (it's free and spam-free!)

Good morning!

Ahh...  Saturday morning.  My favorite morning of the week.  Quiet, a nice cup of coffee by my side along with my cat, Sam.  I still have the errands and shopping to do, but it's restful anyway.

Yesterday was glorious here, warm with highs near 80 and clear skies.  This morning we have fog which is starting to burn off.

As beautiful as the weather is, I do wish it would rain - for days.  We are desperate for rain because we haven't had any in what feels like forever.  The lakes and reservoirs are drying up, as are the aquifers.  Not-quite-draconian rationing is in place and the water rates will go up because people aren't using as much water so the water districts aren't receiving the money they need to operate.  Sounds like a bit of a Catch 22 but we're like flies on pins out here.  We're stuck with no options but not to use water at all.

On my way home yesterday I got the idea that I should start a little travelogue about Sonoma County.  Out of the way places to go and see, oddball things to do that are a bit off the beaten track.  Thinking about it further, I'll start with one of my favorite places to go: the Sonoma Coast.

It's rugged and beautiful.  South of us is Pt. Reyes and the Golden Gate National Seashore, but they might well have included all of the Sonoma coastline, too.

At the south end of the county is Bodega Bay.  That and the little inland town of Bodega, were where Alfred Hitchcock filmed 'The Birds'.  The school and the house next door where the crows landed and attacked the children are actually in the town of Bodega.  The waterside scenes were filmed in Bodega Bay.  The villages have changed a lot in the past 40 years, but the school is still there.

About 10 miles or so north of Bodega Bay is Goat Rock.  It's an interesting place - an upthrust of rock right at the mouth of the Russian River, which is one of the major rivers north of the Golden Gate.
In the spring and fall, when the killer whale pods migrate between Alaska and Mexico you can sometimes see them from the highway that runs along the hillside above the beach.

I have never seen it, or heard about it directly from someone I know personally, but through the local grapevine I have heard that it's really not a good idea to be on the northerly end of the beach during the whale migration.  Harbor seals use the beach for pupping and I rumor has it that the whales will chase the seals into the shallows in attempt to collect dinner.  Now if you're wading, or your dog is frolicking the whale might get confused.

Here's a link that includes information about the Sonoma Coast and the various beaches.

http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=451

In the above link, there are also links to photographs of the area.  It's rugged and beautiful and great for hiking or exploring.

If you ever come to Sonoma County, it's definitely worth a day trip.

First Blog

Good morning!

Admission:  this is my first try at blogging and it's a bit intimidating.  What do I say?  Will anyone care?  Probably not, but we're all doing it anyway, so why not me, too?

I don't know what this will be - ramblings, little tit bits of information about me, about my place in the world (Sonoma County, California), grumblings.  Maybe a flash fiction piece or something longer.

You see, I want to be an author.  A friend of mine and I are currently writers.  We put things down on the modern paper of a computer screen - stories and so on - but we haven't yet been discovered.  So we're writers.  Once we're discovered and get published, or publish ourselves, we'll become authors.  It's kind of like caterpillars to butterflies.

Eighteen months ago I decided to stop writing in a vacuum and see what was available to budding writers for honing skills and gaining some visibility.

I discovered Harper Collins's writer's site, Authonomy - https://www.authonomy.com/ - which is a place where writers of all stripes and abilities get together.  We post books, we talk, we fight, we laugh, we joke.  It's kind of like Christmas in a big dysfunctional family at times, but it's my second life.  When I'm online, I'm almost always there, laughing and fighting, writing and posting. 

Right now I'm on the cusp of moving from writer to author.

A few months ago, one of the published and highly successful Authonomy members posted a link to the Inca Project - http://www.incaproject.co.uk/.  It is a website for new, recently discovered or undiscovered authors.

I submitted a bit of my writing based on their requirements.  They accepted me as a member.  A couple of months later, after gathering my courage, I offered the person who runs the site my MS.  He read it, wrote back that he loves it and wants to see it set loose on the world.

Largely because of his wonderful and much needed pushiness, my chrysalis is splitting.  In another couple of months my first book will be out on Amazon and I will emerge into the world with a brand new shiny set of wings.

In the meantime, I'm working on other things.  It's my passion.  It's what I love doing more than anything else, which is another reason I created this blog.  It's an extension of my desire to write, to write well and to provide entertainment and a little escape from the stuff 'out there'.

So - that's my first blog under my belt.  I'll be back and, hopefully, I'll have something more interesting to offer.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me at:  Philippastories@twitter.com