An Alien Christmas

One of the problems with being a Christian and a SF/F movie fan is that occasionally the two concepts juxtapose and your perceptions become a little off from the mainstream. I found out that my dh, definitely a SF and horror fan as well as a conservative Christian (Ah, ah! Watch those stereotypes!) does not care for the Mel Torme Christmas song that begins "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire." We hear the version sung by Nat King Cole the most.

"All right, what's bugging you about that song?" I asked the next time I saw him shudder.

He looked at me solemnly. "Tiny tots with their eyes all a-glow," he said. "It makes me think of the 1960's horror film, Village of the Damned."

I thought back for a minute on all the SF and horror movies we'd watched together. "You mean the one where these blond haired kids start taking over a village?"

"Right," he said. "They were tiny tots. And their eyes glowed."

"And their stares could 'paralyze the will of the world'," I said. "They were alien beings, mysteriously concieved in the wombs of the village women. A sort of virgin birth."

"That's right," he said, and his voice lowered with dark portent. "Jesus was the first...but There Will Be Others! Mwahahahahaha!"

"I don't think Jesus did the eye-glow thing," I said. "Or the mwahahaha."

"No, he probably had a benign laugh, but he did glow."

"Yeah," I said. "But it was an overall glow. I think the eye-glows are signs that they're bad guys. Like the Goa'ulds on Stargate. Note that the Ancients, who are generally good guys, glow all over."

"True," he said, his faith evidently restored. Tell you the truth, the idea of Jesus as an alien felt just a teeny bit...weird to me, too. Intriguing, but weird.

He shook his head, sighing. "Village of the Damned. In a Christmas song. Makes you wonder whose chestnuts were roasting. Must have been after they took over the village, doing it out in the open like that."

"And they didn't sleep," I said. "Waiting for Santa Claus. Ominous, that's what I think."

"Damned straight."

We sat in silence, contemplating the fate of Santa in the hands of glowy-eyed alien tots.

"We are so not getting that movie on DVD," I said.

"Right," he said, and grinning, went off to do some Christmas shopping with our son.

I got the Serenity DVD for Christmas instead, thank God. Even so, I am never going to think of that Christmas song in the way I used to.

--Karen H.

Freddie Kruger sweater

Never try to knit a sweater for someone and ask them via e-mail what they would like. You will not do it exactly the way they want it.

I so very kindly decided to knit my son a sweater, and so asked him via e-mail what he would like. He said he'd like a Freddie Kruger type of sweater, with black and red stripes. I was not comfortable with this idea at first, because why Freddie Kruger? Was there a darker side to my loving son that is only now creeping out due to some horrible influence he encountered at college?

But I have faith in the boy's good nature, and surely something made lovingly by his mother, even a sweater that might evoke thoughts of psychopathic killers on Elm Street, would counteract all evil. Yea, it would be as a shield against all wrong-doing and iniquity, because each stitch is made with love--a mother's love, which has deep and spiritual properties, as we all know.

Also, I happened to have the right amount of Brown Sheep Yarn's Cotton Fleece in Cavern black color for a medium men's size sweater. All I needed was red, and since he specifically mentioned Freddie Kruger, the red has to be blood red. Cotton Fleece does not come in Blood Red, however, which I suppose is wise of the Brown Sheep company, since the idea of Blood Red in Cotton Fleece would probably evoke thoughts in potential buyers of poor slaughtered lambs. I had to find something close to blood color for it to work, and then I had to consider whether it would it be blood red as in fresh blood, or would it be blood that has been sitting around for a bit and thus oxidized?

I asked some folks on the JennyCherries fan list (many of whom are also knitters, and Who Know All about knitting and other various and esoteric things. Do check out Jennifer Crusie's web site, by the way. Jenny's one of the best writers I know, and a danged fine person to boot), and they kindly pointed me toward a web site featuring a picture of Freddie. Unfortunately, his sweater (or shirt) seems to be made of more than one shade of blood red color--both the fresh kind and the sitting-around-for-a-bit kind, except the two reds are mashed around and splotched amongst each other within each evenly-spaced stripe. It's hard to tell which is the true color of his sweater, since the folds are highlighted and such.

The closest I could come to the color is Candy Apple and Barn Red, so of course I bought both, just in case. I started out with Barn Red, which is closer to the fresh blood color, while Candy Apple is closer to the sitting-around-a-bit color. Fresh blood is better, I thought.

I should mention that I have been writing my vampire historical romance every day, so it might be that some of it has been seeping into, so to speak, my choice of colors. I assure you, however, that this is as far as my "method writing" goes, even if my good friend and critique partner Gerri Russell gave me a "Vampire in a Box" kit for Christmas. I also received a God-and-Jesus mini-calendar that another critique partner, Pamela Bradburn Ochs (who is in seminary) bought as a souvenir when she went on a cruise to Mexico. So, if I ever feel overwhelmed by the forces of darkness, I will be able to work it out by having the vampire-in-a-box battle it out with the God-and-Jesus mini-calendar, and we all know who will win that contest. I mean, two against one, you know?

But I digress...

I decided to knit the sweater in pieces, since it's been over 20 years since I've knitted one that way. I usually knit raglan sweaters top-down using circular needles, because I didn't want to bother with sewing seams, but this time...eh, I really should learn to do sweaters in pieces. Besides, it's easier to carry around. I started out knitting the bottom ribbing with the Cavern Black, and then knitted with the Barn Red, and then with the Cavern Black again, same number of rows each. Not too bad, actually, although the Barn Red did look quite bright against the black.

Problem is...boredom set in. Black, red, black, red. Same old, same old.

But I persisted, because this is for my son, and it's the first time he has asked me to knit anything for him. It positively warmed my yarn-aholic heart, even though I know it's because for the first time, he's experienced a few weeks of persistent sub-freezing weather. By the time the boy came home, I had knitted the front piece almost to the armholes. Proudly, I showed him the progress I had made on it.

"That's a really bright red," he said. "And the stripes are all the same width."

Foreboding descended upon me. "You said you wanted a Freddie Kruger sweater. It's the closest red I could find to the red on his sweater."

He looked over the sweater-in-progress thoughtfully. "I said I wanted one with stripes like his, not exactly his. I was thinking of two kinds of red, and then varying the stripe widths in a random way." He spied the Candy Apple skein. "Like that color. If you put that color in also, it'll be good." Apparently he caught the consternation on my face, because he patted me on the shoulder kindly and said, "but you don't have to undo it, you can just add that color in the rest of the way."

Which I took to mean, he probably will only wear the sweater around me and not around anyone else if it has those wide red stripes in it. I've seen him do this, wear something just to please me, and then take it off when he thinks he'll be seen by one of his friends. And really, I don't think it'll work if I just "add that color in" as I go along. I was suspended between despair and...

An intriguing vision of what the sweater could look like if I did unravel it and knit it up with the stripes in random widths, and with both kinds of red.

I unraveled it. And began knitting the stripes in a random way.

I have to say, it's not so boring. The combination of the two reds and then the black in different stripes has a sort of Japanese black-and-red lacquer box look to it. Also, I get to change colors at whim, and not have to count each row of color to make sure they are the same every time. It will, at least, look interesting.

So, it will not be a Freddie Kruger sweater after all, which is just as well. I was having less than charitable thoughts when I unraveled the work, no doubt reducing the effectiveness of the sweater's power against wrongdoing and iniquity, but since it won't look exactly like Kruger's sweater, it probably all evens out.

--Karen H.

Home at last

Derek came home from college about 1 am, and of course I stayed up, not able to sleep because it's winter, we've had unusually cold weather, and the streets are icy, not to mention that he was traveling over a mountain pass. I'm a mom, and my job is to worry. He came with two college friends also on their way home, and we let them "crash" overnight. It would have been ridiculous to have them keep driving on frozen streets in the dead of night, after they'd been travelling for over 5 hours already.

Got up the next morning, and I thought I should make some breakfast for the boys, so cooked up some pancakes, bacon, and eggs, plus some coffee.

And it felt pretty good.

I rather like being a mom, and not only did I have my son to nurture this morning, but I had two other guys his age to feed, and there was something very satisfying about that. Which sounds very retro and Betty Crockerish and so stereotypically un-feminist.

I've been out in the corporate world, held well-paying traditionally male jobs as well as traditionally female jobs, and I don't have any problem doing all that, and am pretty good at both, too. But there's a certain authority in cooking up a good meal and serving it out, especially when I know I do a good job of it. In that time, I'm the source of their continued survival, the source of plenty and abundance. I have in that time the ability to help them thrive and in that way spread a bit of good will.

Which is a powerful thing, really. It's said that the universe is going toward entropy, a state in which everything becomes more or less an indistiguishable soup of disorganized whatever. It takes energy--power--to put things in order; in other words, it's easier to destroy than to create, easier to make things disorderly than orderly. Easier to kill, than to support life. A maker of icons has to use up more energy than an iconoclast. :-)

I remember when I decided to be a mom, work from home when I could. I got a few raised brows about that--wasn't I betraying the femnist cause? Wasn't I chosing enslavement--and by the way, wasn't it a sign that I was still under the thumb of the patriarchy?

Nahh. The whole thing from the beginning of the feminist movement was about choice. About going where your talents lie, whether it's being the CEO of a company or an engineer, artist, or writer, whatever you're called to do.

And I figure, you're called to do and be more than one thing in your life. One calling of mine is to be a mom, another is to be a writer. Those are things that call to my heart, and I won't be hamstrung by any ideology that says I must do something other than my calling for some "cause," especially when that ideology sprang up because women were being forced to do something other than their calling in the first place. I'm an old-school feminist precisely because I like having a lot of choices.

I'm pretty sure I'll find other callings as my life progresses. I think I have a good head for entrepreneurial ideas, for example. And, I'm getting a hankering to do more with homeless teens. Hey, maybe I'll go down to the homeless teen shelter and start making breakfasts. That might be a fun thing to do, and I have to wonder how many of those homeless teens have moms who make them breakfast? Maybe not all that many.

I was almost going to say that I wish I were the type of person who loves climbing the corporate ladder....but nahh. I'm good with being what I am, and I've seen that ladder. I know I could probably climb it if I wanted to, but--eh. I am so not interested. :-)

Fact is, I'm a homebody, and like creating meals and dishes in the kitchen, like writing books and stories, like spinning on my spinning wheel, and knitting. I'll paint watercolors every once in a while, maybe do some other creative thing.

Oh, and by the way, I did spin up the Paris-Hilton-in-camo-gear merino wool roving at the Puyallup Fair, and this is what it looks like:

It's not bad, if say so myself. Spun it up into a three-ply yarn, Navaho-style, so it ended up being very soft and elastic. I also knitted up a swatch in stockinette stitch, and I think the color changes look interesting as well:


I ended up calling it Briar Rose when I put it up for auction on eBay (turns out my mom didn't want it after all!!!). No, I didn't save it for myself to knit. I have more spinning fiber right now than Rumplestiltskin can shake a stick at, and I need to finish spinning it up, because right now I don't want to give up my firstborn to have it spun up for me. It felt too good cooking up breakfast for him and his friends this morning for that. :-D


--Karen H.

You Knit What??:

You Knit What??: I hate you so much.

Okay, I've bookmarked this blog. As a knitter and a creative person, I want to celebrate creativity in needlwork. But there are some people who go too far. Especially when it comes to torturing kitties with their knitting.

On the other hand, if the particular kitty was very bad about messing with the knitter's stash of yarn, it might be revenge.

--Karen H.

Reverence

Reverence: n, A feeling or attitude of deep respect, tinged with awe; veneration.

For some reason this morning, I don't know why, Mr. Rogers came to mind. Maybe because I was thinking of my son, now at Washington State University, going through finals week. When Derek was a toddler, he was a big fan of Mr. Rogers. He'd watch the show every day, and when he'd hear the beginning music, he'd run to his room and grab his little red cardigan, and put it on just like Mr. Rogers would, then watch with deep attention and be absolutely still and quiet the whole time. God bless Mr. Fred Rogers for that quiet time! He was good at making kids feel secure, and I think that feeling persisted. In fact, when Derek went to high school, he wore a tan cardigan that his friends would teasingly say was his Mr. Rogers sweater. He'd wear it anyway, because he still thinks Mr. Rogers was a cool guy, and there's nothing wrong with remembering someone who is cool. He still wears his Mr. Rogers cardigan even today, though I'll need to repair it since it's getting a bit tattered.

There's a certain self-assurance in persisting in something you like simply because you like it, never mind anyone else's opinion. It grows out of a feeling that you're liked just the way you are, which of course was what Mr. Rogers always said, believed, and acted upon. It came from his belief that the space between him in his television show and his audience was holy ground.

When I first heard that, it profoundly affected me. It's an amazing attitude. It meant that he thought of each child out there, each parent, with reverence. What he'd say was carefully considered, not with himself in mind, but with that whole person out there in mind. He thought of them with consideration, respect, and even awe. There's every indication from other people's reports that Mr. Rogers genuinely had that attitude and acted on it. He studied child psychology and had advisors to ensure that his show was geared toward the child in a gentle, reassuring manner. Where children were coming from was of great importance, and it seemed he had that attitude toward adults, too. Mr. Rogers had always with him an attitude of reverence. He cared about where people were coming from.

It's the winter holiday season right now, and whatever anyone might think of it religiously, politically, or socially, it's archetypally a holiday that symbolizes light in the midst of darkness, plenty in the midst of famine, love in the midst of fear, forgiveness in the midst of hurt. I don't want to get into what this season "should" be called. Right now, for a long time now, people have been fighting over words and things that offend them. I'm seeing people being offended right and left. They're not looking into where other people are coming from or where they are. All that matters is that they're offended, and what the other person intended, felt, or have in their hearts doesn't matter. A lot of people are getting into that and fighting about it, and I am barely keeping hold of the reverence idea because I want to say a pox on both your houses, but this is not what this holiday is about.

This holiday is about being Pollyannas, and even better, being Mr. Rogerses, because he was a real guy who did his best to live a life of reverence with respect to his neighbors, and his Neighborhood was really big. It's about knowing there is dark all around you, and it's getting darker, but there is light to be found anyway. It's about acknowledging there's anger in you, but finding the love and giving it to others. It's about not wanting to forgive, but forgiving. And it's about thinking you don't have much, but giving anyway.

Because if you can do any of that, you know you haven't hit bottom. And even if you have hit bottom, guess what? There's only one way left to go after you've hit bottom, especially if you've got yourself in a small, dark hole, and that direction is up. There's a lot of hope in that.

I'd like to suggest that we do the Mr. Rogers thing and think about the space between ourselves and other people as holy ground. Whatever tradition you were raised in, there are certain things you do when you encounter that space. Some people take their shoes off and let the goodness flow up from their feet and into their spirits; they connect themselves with it physically. Some take their hats off to let the divine pour down on their heads. Some dance. Some sing. Some hold out a helping hand. Some mix and match the above. But whatever it is they do, it comes from that reverent place within, that respectful place that has the ability to wonder and perceive the world--and the world includes people!--with awe and joy.

It's what's at the core of love. "Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

So when someone says "Merry Christmas," "Happy Holidays," "Happy Hannukah," "Happy Kwanzaa" or a "Serene Buddha Enlightenment Day," let's get past the words to where they're at, which is that they're giving you a greeting and a blessing and wishing you well in the best way they understand, and from their heart. It's from who they are as unique individuals. And if you're doing the Mr. Rogers holy ground attitude, you'll know they're doing it, too.

In a world where there's a lot of pain, want, and worry, I don't think we should be so picky. Blessings and good wishes are to be cherished, in whatever form they might take. In my personal tradition, if it's good, it comes from God, and I notice that God likes to surprise us by disguising the good stuff so we can discover them, like Belgian chocolates tucked in the toes of Christmas stockings. It may take a bit of digging, but it's there to find. It may not look like something we'd like, but we never know until we try it. 

After all, if chocolate didn't have pretty wrappers on them with the words "chocolate" printed on them, those little brown lumps would make you think they're something else, especially if you kept your distance when you look at them. Luckily, someone overcame their initial impression, and got up close and personal with chocolate, so now we can have them in stockings and wrapped up as presents, or mixed in Godiva ice cream.

So from where I'm at, standing right here on holy ground and from my heart, I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays, and a Wonderful New Year.

--Karen H.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is most definitely a Pollyanna kind of day. Let's look at how it began.

1) The Pilgrims left England because not too many people liked their brand of religion. Countries were pretty big on religious intolerance in the 1600s.

2) They came over on a very small ship, were very crowded on that ship, went through some nasty storms, and were generally cursed at by the seafarers, which couldn't have been all that great, considering they were religious sorts. Also, nobody took baths, sanitation was abysmal, so the place stank for the months they were traveling to the new world.

3) A lot of them died, including children. See #2 above.

4) When they landed in the New World, it was cold, nasty, and the place looked desolate. It was so forbidding and hopeless-looking that it's said one woman committed suicide by jumping off the ship and drowning.

5) They settled at a bad time of year, when few crops could grow. A lot more died during the winter of disease and malnutrition.

It was nothing like Merrie Old England. No green pastures, forbidding dark forests, and natives that were probably not all that friendly. So, why Thanksgiving? Why have a party that thanked God for all they had? Why not think about how awful it'd been and give up in despair? Go back to England? Sure, nobody liked them there, but it wasn't as if they'd die unless they got too out of hand for the government.

Well, some of them were still alive. Some children had been born. And, a nice Native came out of the woods and asked if they had some beer--in English--and though he had to settle for whiskey, he was friendly enough and showed them how to survive better. A miracle, they thought, that they'd meet up with such a guy.

And it wasn't as if Squanto had it all nice and cozy either. Fact: he'd been captured by white men and sold as a slave. After years of work, and finally attaining his freedom, he came back to his land and found...that his family and whole tribe was dead. He was the last of his people. A lot of people would have given up at that point.

So, why did he help out these white folks, and why did these Pilgrims help him in return? It's not like either of them had great experiences with each others' people.

It just took a few white men who cared for Squanto when he was young and healed him of his wounds and illness to make him see that not all white men were bad. And it took a few friendly words in English from Squanto to show the Pilgrims that not all natives were bad. Each helped each other, and soon, each were friends and celebrated survival and increased abundance by sharing and thanking God for making their lives better than they had been. The first Thanksgiving feast was all about sharing: the Pilgrims pulled out all the stops and put what they had on the table. The Natives were invited to feast, but when they found there wasn't quite enough on the table, they went out, hunted up some deer, cooked it up, and put that on the table. A potluck!

Yeah, it'd been bad for all of them, but they could think of things to be thankful for. Things to be glad about.

Survival is good. Increased abundance is good. And looking back at the bad times and knowing that it's not that way any more is surely something to be happy about. The Pilgrims and Squanto had things to share; because of that, they could tell each other that they still possessed something worthwhile. They may not have been rich, but they had things to share and give each other. If they had not things, they had friendships to share. In their hearts, they were rich.

So maybe life hasn't been great, and maybe it still isn't so hot. But seasons change, hands are held out to help, and friends can be made. And, what you have, you can share. Regardless of how little you think you have, if you have something to share, in my humble opinion, you're not heart-poor, but rich indeed.

Have a warm, abundant, and happy Thanksgiving!

--Karen H.

International Scarf Exchange

Since I love to knit, plus tend to stick to scarves a lot since I don't need to think much about them and can watch TV while knitting them, I thought I'd post this URL (click on the title "International Scarf Exchange" above to get to the blog, or click here). I can't find an introduction, but from what I can discern, you sign up (well ahead of time!) to knit a scarf for a "scarf pal" somewhere in the world, make and finish a scarf, then send it to that pal, which has to reach him or her by February.

I've not joined but I might next year.

Also, there are links to free scarf patterns. Very cool!

--Karen H.

Unbalanced

The Alien Child came home today from college for Thanksgiving, thinner, more confident, and hasn't stopped eating since he came home. Perhaps not coincidentally, he arrived just as the hubby and I sat down for dinner. Good thing I made extra.

I commented that he seemed to be more at ease with himself, and he said that he finally understands that being different is okay, and he has figured that not being the most popular person on campus is probably a good sign, since when you look at all the geniuses and high-achieving people in history, they didn't particularly get along all that great with others, and in fact were unbalanced. Look at authors, for instance. They weren't balanced people.

An image came to me of various captains of industry, walking along, ever so tilted, pounding tables and drinking strong black coffee that spilled out one side of their cup.

I righted my cup andI eyed him sternly. "I'm balanced. I have a family, people like me, I do normal things, like go to church, knit, and do bake-sale stuff. Except, of course, I'm tough, kind of like a female Clint Eastwood."

He said, "No, you're unbalanced, too. You just have friends who are as unbalanced as you are, which is why they like you. "

Luckily for him, he mentioned Johann Sebastian Bach and Isaac Newton before I gave in to the impulse to whack him. Newton was man passionate for mathematics. Was he a people person? No. He was not a well-rounded sort. Did Bach work out every day? Or did he sit around writing music all day? Not a balanced life.

I did protest that Bach was married and had children, which was pretty normal, and he also invented the blueprint. The Boy pointed out having 20 children--all musical, for that matter--was not normal, and neither was writing 20 manuscript pages a day of music. Plus, his blueprint invention was done in the course of pursuing music and making a musical instrument. Bach, in essence was obsessed by music, and obsessions by definition make for unbalanced people. I had to concede that writing 20 pages a day was not normal, particularly as how I could never make it past 15 myself without courting ill health, and I consider myself doing extremely well if I manage 8. He rattled off other people of note who led unbalanced lives: Jane Austen, Albert Einstein, Beethoven.

Unbalanced. Well, I suppose being so is not so bad, considering the rest of the folk he considers unbalanced.

He, of course, considers himself unbalanced. I'm looking at him, thinking, okay. No lack of self-esteem there, and maybe more than a little of ego talking. And maybe, just a bit of compensation for the normal rocky adjustments in one's Freshman year of college. He's changed, discovered a few things about himself. He's less judgemental about others than most of his peers, and though he knows he's different, it doesn't seem to bother him as much as it used to.

Changed or not, it's good to have him home again. His hugs are just as huggy, and his face brightened up when he saw us. "I'm glad to see you, Mom and Dad," he said. "I really missed you."

I'm sure he'll change more as he goes through college. But our Boy is still there, and he's as loving as ever. If that's unbalanced, we'll tilt along with him.

--Karen H.

Nice to know I can remember a few things

Like the Japanese language. I was born in Japan, stayed there until I was almost three years old, so that was my original language, until coming to the US. Switched to English within six months, my mother says. I didn't speak it much or take any lessons except for one semester in 8th grade, and one semester or so in college.

But here I am writing this novella set in Japan, and I'm surprised at how much I remember. Such as the difference between a simple "honto," and "honto ni." It's the difference between saying "honestly!" and (in a sympathetic tone) "really?"

I can still construct a simple sentence ("Kore wa nan desu ka?" "What is that?"), and every once in a while other words come to me, and when I call my mother and ask her for verification, most of the time, I'm right.

I'm tickled pink that I can still remember some words and simple sentences. Which makes the process of writing this novella even more delicious. I can hardly wait to be done with it, so I can go through and make some tasteful (hope!) edits, and color it up some, adding bits here and there to make it sound good. I hope the bits of Japanese here and there adds some authenticity.

Gotta get back to writing.....

--Karen H.

I'm baaaack! Kind of.

It's been a good six weeks since the surgery, a bit of a long recovery, but I'm fine now, and THANK YOU GOD I CAN DRIVE THE CAR AT LAST.

I didn't think it'd be such a big deal, but five weeks without driving a car in a place where you have to walk a good mile to the bus stop, which only comes around every half an hour, and doesn't come around but once every couple of hours in the evening....well, it's hell. That's what it is. Bad enough I was walking around crouched over like a primate ancestor, holdiing my stomach so as to keep my innards from sloshing about too much inside. I couldn't walk much except maybe to the mailbox across the street, and I broke out in a sweat doing that.

The doctor wanted me to wait until six weeks went by for me to drive, but I think I did a good convincing act of cheerful, perky patient, and strong--yes, exceedingly strong and full of vim and vigor, that's me!--despite continuing (but improving!) anemia, so she said yes at 5 weeks. Was a bit tricky getting into the car and out again, but it was worth the freedom to go about as I pleased.

Meanwhile, I have been busy writing, writing, writing when I didn't go brain-dead from fatigue, and spinning and knitting when it did. Luckily, I can knit and spin yarn with a less than fully-functioning brain, so produced some nice items for my church's holiday fair. I am boasting, and have even displayed some of the items here:

http://homepage.mac.com/karenharbaugh/Craftitems/PhotoAlbum2.html

And then the writing. I hope to finish the novella ("Dragon Lord" to be in the Dragon Magic anthology, along with stories by Mary Jo Putney, Jo Beverley, and Barbara Samuel) by the end of this week, and the novel for Bantam--now called Midnight Surrender by, please God, December 15th. Wish me luck on that.

I am enjoying the writing when I'm not dead tired. The dragon story is something different: set in 1660's Japan, the hero Japanese, the heroine Dutch. There is a dragon, or ryu-kami, which is a sort of...hmm...animal spirit/god/totem. A dragon-kami. It's SO nice writing something different and in a different time and setting than what I have been writing. I think I have some nice anime and Kurosawa moments in it, if I do say so myself. Looks like I can write much faster if I'm not stuck writing on the same theme, subject, or era all the time.

The other is a vampire romance, set in about 1796, England. The hero is a spymaster and an official in Britain's Home Office, and the heroine is a vampire, an erstwhile missionary and now prostitute. It's a bit complicated to explain...so I don't think I will. :-)

So...back to the treadmill, nose to the grindstone, and all that kind of cliche. I'll be gone for a bit because of all this work, and I don't even want to think of Thanksgiving preparations right now. But once I finish the novella, I'll put an excerpt on my web site. I promise! Ditto the novel.

Meanwhile, if you want to procrastinate by looking at things on the internet, go view my August trip out to Pullman Washington, when my husband and I took the Alien Child out to Washiington State University and abandoned him there. Or, at least that's what it felt like to me, especially after the ungrateful boy said, "okay Mom, Dad, you can GO now!" It's not as if we were dawdling THAT long.

http://homepage.mac.com/karenharbaugh/PhotoAlbum1.html

If you look carefully, you can see the face of an ape in two of the pictures of the Columbia River cliffs. My hubby was peering at them, and exclaimed, "Look, an ape!" Since I doubted apes were native to Washington state, I had to suppose he was looking at something that seemed like one, and sure enough, there it was. So, I took a picture of it.

--Karen H.

Hopeful hug

Today, I was given a lot of hugs at church, because I will be going in for surgery tomorrow--a routine procedure these days. But I received one hug that was not for this reason, but for another entirely.

There is a family in our church, whose children's birth mother is a drug addict. When this family adopted them, these babies were hooked on crack. This morning at church, the little 4 year old girl came up to give me a hug during service. She's a tiny thing, with wise eyes, and wispy light brown hair, and a sweet, often solemn face. She noticed that my son was not with me at church. She's fond of Derek, I know, because her face lights up whenever she sees him, and he's always willing to lift her up and give her a bit of a swing in the air. When her adoptive mother told her that he was far away living at a grown-up school, the girl came over to give me a hug because she concluded I might be lonely without him.

There was a lot that came into that hug. This is a little girl who came into the world with some serious problems, born to a drug-addicted mother who almost killed her with neglect. But this child could look at me, a grown-up, and think about what I must be feeling, not having my own child with me. That's a lot of thinking, and empathy, for a child this age.

I think she will do all right: she's a loving child who dances in the aisles to hymns because the music makes her happy. No one stops her, and our pastor and people in the congregation have taken her hand and danced with her.

I think there is hope in the world when a child born in such a condition can think about the consequences of family, be empathetic, dance for joy, and inspire others to dance with her. And I'm thankful for adoptive parents like hers.

--Karen H.

Puyallup Fair

Went to the Puyallup Fair a few days ago with my mother, and I am (not so) sorry to say that we aid and abet each other in our fiber addiction. It's a bonding experience, or so I tell myself. My mother is a superb seamstress, trained in Japan to do English tailoring by a man who learned his trade in London. She can look at any picture in Vogue, make up a pattern from it, and duplicate it exactly. She probably has more fine cloth stored up in her house than a New York textiles warehouse. Well, okay not that much, but if gauged in percentage space occupied by textiles, I bet she has 'em beat.

I had gone to the Fair some days ago by myself, and I resisted temptation, despite the bounty of sheep fleece, roving, and batts there.

But then there is my mother, who is a sturdy, 4' 11" Japanese force of nature. She seems to pull people into her wake, and there is no escaping the path of her influence.

We stop first at the 4H and crafts exhibits, which are safe because you can't buy any of them. These competitors for the best dress, woven cloth, tatting, pie, cake, cookies, etc., are all very nicely arranged in rows according to category, although you may see a knitted sweater next to a woven basket, or a hand-spun skein of yarn.

My mother examines all that have won a prize and will give a thorough critique of each one. If she could, she'd reach into the display cases and look at each seam and lining, like she does every time we go into Nordstroms. She'll critique clothes from Nordstroms, too.

Peering through her bifocals, she narrows her eyes at a 11th grader's 4H contribution that consists of a tasteful plaid wool jacket with matching skirt and purse.

"Look!" she says, her face brightening with utter glee. "This girl has made a placket buttonhole! This is better than the adults' work upstairs!" She frowns for a moment. "Huh. This should be upstairs with the adults, it is that good." People turn to look at the display. "And look at this--the darts, very nicely made, very even. Perfect. See, Karen, this fringe along the seam--very original. " People begin to crowd around us. "Ahh, see the shoulder? It is even all around, smooth, no creases, no waves. Very excellent. It is good to see a young girl has learned so well."

She moves to the next display, and I notice the people who have gathered at the last follow us. "Hmph. I would not have given this one second place. It is not as good as the honorable mention over here. Look at the lining--it is cheap rayon, I am sure. Much better to have good lining like this one. The design is not original." She waves her hand at it with queenly dismissal, and goes onto the next. More people have joined us. She seems not to notice them at all, and I wouldn't be surprised if this were so, because she has a single-minded focus when examining textiles and the sewing art. By the fourth display, I notice those who are listening nod and also examine the items closely, and the crowd is larger than ever by the time we get to the woven goods.

By the time we are finished, I notice there are people who have pieces of paper out and making notes, and discussing amongst themselves. The 4H information ladies look at once alarmed and pleased, mostly pleased I hope, at the attention the 4H displays have received. One of the more alarmed looking ones approach, and I tap my mom on her shoulder. "Mom, I think we should go see the Artists in Action."

She beams at me. "Yes, yes, we have spent enough time here," she says, and we leave before the alarmed 4H lady is able to work her way through the crowd.

I high-tail it out of the building and into the square, glad that my mother has followed me quickly. I slow down so that she can catch up, and then we head out to the back of the Exhibition Hall, where the "Artists in Action" are.

It's disappointingly small, smaller it seems than it was last year, but one of the spinners explain that they'd been moved away from the Hobby House into their own area, which I think is inconvenient, because it's nice to go from the fiber arts to the pottery to the painters all at once. Still, there is much to delight in; there are nice, mundane pieces of hand-thrown pottery amongst some very superb pieces, all for sale. I resist, mostly because there is no where at home to store them. I mentally pat myself on the back for that, but then we move to the yarn....

My palms itch. My mother is smiling beatifically as she peers at the yarn and examines the texture and quality. I think, it can't hurt to touch. So, I do, and the itch in my palms subsides somewhat, but not totally. Then I see some skeins of yarn, and I recognize them by their ply and color as products of a spinner I had met earlier in the year at the Spring Fair and Shepherds' Extravaganza. (Later note: this spinner is Heike Utsch, and you can find her rovings and yarn at Handspun On the Web.) I turn to my mom and say, "I think I know who spun this yarn," when the lady herself appears. "Ah!" I say. "I knew it was your yarn by the ply. It's superb spinning." The lady beams, and we begin to talk of spinning, of the qualities of Targhee wool versus Merino, and what would work for certain knitting projects. My palms cease to itch--they ache.

I am doomed.

For she directs me to the different rovings she has hand-dyed, and discusses the process through which she chose the colors and the techniques of steam-dyeing versus a bath, and shows the results of the roving as plied yarn. My eyes roam lustily over the colors of purple, black, pink, green, blue--more colors than the rainbow. I will resist, I tell myself, and pick up what seems to me to be the ugliest combination of colors--camouflage, with a few touches of hot pink. It looks like the sort of colors Paris Hilton would wear if she went to Iraq.

A mental picture flashes before me of Paris in camo-duds liberally splashed with hot pink and matching tinkling earrings, colors that scream, Shoot Me Now!

Nope, not going to buy that roving.

My mom hovers at my shoulder, listening with much interest to the talk of dyeing. "That is a good color," she says. "You should buy it."

I look at her with doubt. Usually, she has superb color sense.

The spinner nods. "It's a strange combination, but once it's spun up, it looks very different." She points to two spun skeins of yarn. "See that one? Same colors."

I am not going to look, I am not going to look....but my eyes are drawn inexorably to the skeins, because my mother has already gone to them and taken them down off the display hooks. The skeins are beautiful. She holds them up to the roving I have in my hand and beams with glee. "Look, yes, it is the same! You should buy it, Karen."

Argh. I have probably at least 100 lbs of various types of fiber stored in my office, and more down in the basement. It would take Rumplestiltskin to spin all of what I have in any reasonable amount of time, and I'm not that fiber-crazy to give up my first born, especially since we've already sunk a lot of money in his college education. She KNOWS this. I shouldn't buy this roving, I shouldn't.

But I can't even say the words. "Well...." I say instead. "It's an interesting color." I force myself to put down the roving--yes! Will power!--and turn to the hand-dyed Targhee roving in deep hues of violet, purple, and lapis, which would make some stunning socks because of the bounce and elasticity of the wool of this particular breed. I'm not going to buy this Targhee; I have quite a lot of Targhee cross wool already in this color.

My mother shrugs. "Okay," she says. "Your choice. Maybe I will buy it."

I swivel around to look at her. "But you don't have a spinning wheel. You don't even spin on a hand spindle."

She shrugs. "Eh, maybe I will learn."

I gaze at her skeptically. Yeah, right. Like she doesn't have over 100 lbs of fabric stored in two rooms of her house, and at her age, I'm not so sure even a sewing-inclined Rumplestiltskin could go through it all by the tiime she goes to the Great Textile House In the Sky.

She lets out a large sigh. "It has very nice colors. It would make a very interesting vest. It is worth the money."

Money. She's on a fixed income, and though she's very thrifty, it's still a fixed income. I begin to feel just a twinge of guilt. "No, no," I say. "Don't buy it." A pressure underneath my breastbone begins to build. My palms itch again, and become warm. "I'll buy it!" The words burst from my lips before I can stop them.

My mother beams. The spinner smiles happily. I sigh and bring out my wallet. I buy two bound packs of the camouflage and hot pink rovings, enough to spin the yarn for a vest. I think to myself that I'll get my revenge, especially after she goes over her finances for me, and I see that she has indeed been very, very, very thrifty. (Sigh)

The roving is interesting-looking, that's for sure. Once I spin them up, I'll take pictures and put them up on my web site.

--Karen H.

Performance enhancing hormones

Get your mind out of the gutter! I'm not talking about that kind of performance. I'm talking about stuff to get the creativity going.

Now, I am pretty much against performance enhancing anything. Sorry, but Hemingway and Faulkner were not into anything good thinking that alcohol would give them some kind of creative boost. Steroids, no, unless you're going to die or a close facimile thereof without 'em. Illegal drugs, no. Bad stuff, IMHO. Caffiene is as bad as I will allow, and I have indulged mightily, but I do suffer afterwards, so no more of that kind of abuse.

Butt in the chair, hands on the keyboard. Every day. Breaks when you need them, and then making sure to fill the creative well. That is the recipe for productive creativity.

However, for a long while, I had thought dragging one's feet toward one's work was normal, that you had to put up with life and illness and trials and tribulations. My creativity was slow in building up to anything substantial. But I kept on going out of sheer stubborn will. For the most part, that approach works, but then there are the slumps. Recently, my doc gave me some progesterone--result of going toward cronehood, plus some unfortunate effects of PCOS.

And life became beautiful. So, it didn't fix my physical problems, but wow, wow, wow. Anxieties, gone. Overwhelmed feelings, gone. Being on a diet? Cool. Exercise? I'm there. Energy? Zippin'. The dear hubby? Most wonderful guy in the world (but I knew that, even in my slumps). Creativity, bursting at the seams. I WANT to write and write and write and that's what I'm doing. You can tell by the number of recent blogs, and then there is the book I'm writing. Tons of pages, every day. I can hardly wait to get to the computer.

So I'm going to turn this into a public service message. If you're feeling dragged down, tired, depressed, your creativity gone, and especially if you are a woman, get yourself to a doctor--a GYN and/or an endocrinologist. Make sure your endocrine system, your hormones are balanced, that the tests are extensive. Do not settle for the usual simple blood test. Get your thyroid checked (TSH, T3, T4), your glucose tested. I had PCOS--Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and insulin resistance--for years, and my family doctor didn't do a thing for it. I don't think she knew what to look for, so it took going to an endocrinologist to find out the problem. If you're depressed or anxious, don't just settle for anti-depressants--first, look to see if there might be a problem with your thyroid, or maybe you have PCOS and insulin resistance. Check out the internet sites for PCOS and hyper- and hypothyroidism. There is plenty of information out there. Not looking deeper and trying to fix that down, dragging feeling with antidepressants may just be covering up some serious physical problems. I'm not saying that antidepressants don't work--I know they do for a lot of people, and that's fine. I'm saying, look to see if there's a deeper problem.

Alcohol, caffiene, all that stuff isn't going to help your creativity. Getting your health back in order just might.

--Karen H.

International Talk Like a Pirate Day

Arr! Avast ye mateys! 'Tis the International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Get ye hence and study up on the lingo, and be quick about it, or I'll swab the decks wit' yer carcass!

Okay enough of that. There's just so much I can do of pirate talk, and it's about the end of the day anyway. Still, I was once told by a psychic that I had a past life as a Renaissance sea captain, and so I thought I should give a nod to the day. And, intrigued by the thought of having an inner pirate, I went to the following site and tried out the quiz, coming up with:

My pirate name is:

Iron Mary Read

A pirate's life isn't easy; it takes a tough person. That's okay with you, though, since you're a tough person. Even though many pirates have a reputation for not being the brightest souls on earth, you defy the sterotypes. You've got taste and education. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

Yes, yes, that is me. Tough. Kick-ass and Clint Eastwood-like, except female, as mentioned in a previous blog entry, not that Clint Eastwood ever played a pirate, but I suppose he could have pulled it off.....

All right, I just tried picturing Clint Eastwood as a pirate with a patch over one eye, a parrot on one shoulder, and saying "Arr!" and "Shiver me timbers!" and it is SO not working. The patch, sure, but not with the parrot. I don't think ol' Clint is a parrot kind of guy.

So, never mind.

--Karen H.

Writing fish guts

One thing I notice amongst the very dedicated, nose-to-the-grindstone writers is that there is always a point during the writing that they think what they've written is complete crap. There are some people who think their writing is perfect from the first word they lay down to the last and will not bear any edits, but these are not REAL writers. Sorry, but they're not. Real writers try to perfect their work, try to learn new techniques, try to push their creative envelopes. Sometimes they fail, sometimes don't, but they keep an eye out for what works and what doesn't.

I'm no exception to the "I think it's crap" phenomenon. There is ALWAYS a point where I mutter as I write, "this is crap, this is crap, this is crap," and much of the time I'm holding my nose as I'm stuffing that manuscript into the envelope and sending it to the publisher after multiple drafts. Trust me, if I turned in in a manuscript at the point where I though it was perfect, I'd never turn in another manuscript. Ever.

But, writing is an organic process, and when you're going organic, crap is good. Crap is fertilizer. Horse, cow, and chicken manure, also bunny poop. So are fish guts, which might be a step up from crap, but not a big step. A lot of good growing things come out of fertilizer. Think about all the beautiful flowers and vegetables that grow in a garden because of a liberal use of crap and fish guts.

Now, we writers--the story farmers--see the dirt, crap, and fish guts. We're in there with our fingers in it and it's on our clothes and shoes and maybe even our faces. It's there as we hoe and plant the seeds, prune the branches, tie back the vines, and it's there when we pull the weeds. We know what goes in it, even as the sprouts start to push up through the dirt and the flowers form. Farmers see the crap all over the place. They know what crap to use and when and how much, and then keep an eye on the weather as they work. They are crap artists. They create lovely luscious living things out of crap.

But everyone else, the city folk, they're seeing the gorgeous flowers and the crunchy cool cucumbers and sweet ripe red and yellow tomatoes and nothing else. Hell, they don't even get the good stuff. The good stuff is home grown, nurtured out of the black earth with our own hands and hard work. You think not? Get thee hence and try a home-grown, ripe, red Sweet 100 cherry tomato and tell me what you think. Every good book you read is like that, home grown and so sweet and tart it hurts your teeth when you bite into it, and thirst-quenching when the juices run down your throat. It's so good you eat it like candy, I swear to God, and thank God for it. A home-grown tomato might not be perfectly formed like those ones in the grocery store, but they go down so much better. I'll choose a weird looking ripe, home grown tomato over a perfectly formed store-bought every time.

So the next time you panic over your writing and think it's crap, think, "fish guts." I personally use "bunny poop," since that's what goes in my compost. Anything that makes you think of the growing properties of fertilizer will work. Just get your hands in that good black earth and make it fruitful.

--Karen H.

Yarn madness

Not only do I spin yarns, I spin yarn...with a spinning wheel.

It all started because I'm also a knitter If you're addicted to fiber and textiles, though, you will know that one is not just a craftsperson regarding these items, one is a collector. You wouldn't belive my yarn stash--well, maybe you would, if you were also a knitter or crocheter. It really isn't about the knitting per se, it's about the potential for knitting nifty little projects, as well as the sheer sensuality of running your hands through the different textures and gazing in sybaritic pleasure at the colors.

However, there is a line that one crosses from abundance into guilt when looking at the piles and piles of neatly and not-so-neatly stacked yarn in the closet, the drawers, the shelves...you get the picture. So, I told my husband I was through buying yarn. If I wanted some yarn, I would spin it by hand. This would reduce my yarn stash.

He, poor man, thought this was a good idea.

Well, my bought yarn stash went down all right...to be replaced by bags and bags of raw wool fleece, hand-dyed silk roving, hand dyed wool roving, Merino wool (both raw and processed), Corriedale wool (ditto), Columbia wool, Shetland fleece, shredded sari silk to put in my carding drum, my hand cards, my wool combs, my spindles and bobbins...well, you get the picture.

Thank God for eBay. At least I can sell the yarn I make and claim that I at least support my addiction, and wow, look at all that nifty roving and silk and fleece also sold on eBay---!

I'm a hopeless fiber addict. My dear hubby has learned just to close the door of my office and pretend he doesn't see the bags of wool. He has learned that it's worth it to ignore such things, especially since it's relatively harmless and it does keep me sane and happy.

Did I mention I have a very kind and understanding husband? He surely is. :-)

--Karen H.

Romance writers are smarter than you think

Smarter than me, and I'm no dummy, despite my prior posts. :-)

Here's evidence: the Romance Novelists Association, England's version of the North America's Romance Writers of America, beat out the team representing the Wisden Cricketer's Almanac on BBC's University Challenge, their version of the College Bowl quiz game. See reports of it at:

Wisden Fails to Keep Scoreboard Ticking

and

http://grumpyoldbookman.blogspot.com/2005/07/never-let-it-be-said.html

(For some reason, that I can't make the above URL link--you'll have to cut and paste into your browser)

But, you may say, cricket? Isn't that just a tad narrow? (Not that I'm disparaging cricket experts, mind you. The Grumpy Old Bookman blog points out how smart those folks are.) How about people who have wider knowledge of the world? The way whole nations work, the ins and outs of, say, international commerce?

How about...economists?

Sorry. I understand from a fellow writer that the romance novelists have just beat out a team from the staff of The Economist in the semi-finals as well.

My, my.

--Karen H

Hurricane Help

All right. The last time I posted was about the London bombings, and now I'm here again to talk about another disaster...but part of being a Pollyanna is helping others out, if you remember the movie correctly. Pollyanna, after all, was the daughter of missionaries, and a HUGE part of mission work is making sure people are cared for.

So here's the straight skinny:

Came back from church today, and the United Methodists are already on the stick with giving aid. You want to send money, the Red Cross (http://www.redcross.org/) is a good one, and so is UMCOR (United Methodist Committee on Relief - see links below). I'm going to get together with some church folks and make up health kits, which are in short supply. UMCOR usually has a supply on hand, but they're running out, and hygiene is one of the biggest things that has to be kept up to prevent people from dying in a situation like this. We're talking diseases like dysentery and cholera. UMCOR has a major distribution center in Louisiana that survived the hurricane, so supplies will get to folks in the region all right.

Want to help put together or contribute to health kits, or want to know what other supplies are needed? Go to:

http://gbgm-umc.org/umcor/print/kits/

Or for top ten bulk items needed:

http://gbgm-umc.org/umcor/print/kits/toptenbulk.stm

Money is good, supplies are good. Be a Pollyanna and help out.

--Karen H.

London

My condolences and prayers to those who have suffered in the terrorist attacks in London.

The British are tough customers, however. I have every confidence that they'll keep plugging on in defiance of whoever tries to put them down. History shows they don't stay down for long, thank God.

--Karen H.

Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde

The last post should prove to all and sundry that one should never disrupt a writer who has achieved and is operating in the Writing Zone. She, normally a nice even cute mom-type who bakes cookies or at least provides cookie dough for her son, will turn nasty and mean and inflict bodily harm on innocent and not-so-innocent fictional characters alike.

Beware.

--Karen H.

Writing

I have to say it's rather nice writing this blog from time to time. I don't edit much here at all, whereas I edit a LOT when I write my manuscripts. Sometimes I don't edit the blog at all, it's all just off the top of my head, spontaneous. There's something very freeing about that. I don't have to answer to a publisher or an agent here. In fact, I don't have to answer to anyone except my own conscience, and as for pure and simple readers--well, you're welcome to read here, but you're not paying for it, so I get to please myself as I write this blog. :-) I figure that's what most people are doing when they're writing their web logs anyway. My books I write partly to please myself, but very much to please my readers. Here, I write as I please.

That said, there's something satisfying about editing. Once the story's down on paper in raw form, editing shapes it. It's almost a sensual thing, molding a paragraph here, tweaking a sentence there, pulling off pieces that don't quite fit, and adding others that make it more rounded, defining the form. I tend to spend much to much time on it, tell you the truth. I'll even edit while I write, which is probably not a good thing. Best to get it all down first, or so I'm told.

And yet...editing as I write is even more satisfying.

For me, writing's an organic process, one that grows from the first sentence, to the first paragraph, to the first scene and onwards. Everything else that comes after that first sentence sprouts from it, grows from it. I suppose I sort of think of it as training a bush or tree to become a bonsai, or maybe in the art of espalier.

Now, I haven't ever espaliered a rose bush or any other kind of plant, nor have I ever tried to do bonsai. But I can't help thinking that it's best if you espalier or bonsai according to the natural tendency of the plant. Let's say the small tree develops a left-leaning knob in it; it just doesn't seem right to me to force that puppy to the right as soon as it moves that way. What does seem right is to let it lean left, and when it starts to go straight or curve again, gently train it to the right--if that's what you want to do. Maybe that left lean looks be more interesting--why not go with what's developing naturally? It may well be a better development than what you had originally planned....

- - - -

Dagnabit!!! I just finished writing some nifty paragraphs--lots of paragraphs--about how I discover my characters as I wrote about them, lovely luscious paragraphs, exciting paragraphs that related that discovery to mountain road racing, and then to my horror suddenly there was nothing in this frame but blankness!!! Utter, utter blankness!!!! Argh!!!! I HATE THAT! It broke my flow of writing!!!!! I was in the ZONE!!!! THE DOGGONE WRITING ZONE!!!! I cherish the Writing Zone! I live for the Zone!

I managed to recover this post up to the word "planned." and that's it. (Stomping feet in big-time tantrum.)

Well. Talk about unplanned happenings. This one not particularly a better development either, in fact it sucks the big moose is what I'm saying. Now I know what it's like to be one of my characters when I put a nasty obstacle in his or her path. Not that I'm going to stop with the obstacles. Oh, no. My temper's up now. This means more obstacles than ever.

Still, I'm a working writer. What a working writer does is pick herself up, dust herself off, and get her butt back in the chair and write.

I'm not going to try to recreate the doggone paragraphs. Dammit. I'm going off in a huff to write my novel and take out my temper on some characters, that's what.

Merciless, that's me. Nasty, mean writer. Going to put my characters through hell now. Better yet, put a villain through a dreadful death.

Mwaahahahahahaha.

--Karen H.

Randomness

Looking over the last few posts, I realize that my family has a way of conversing with each other that occasionally goes off into flights of fancy. A comment will be commented upon, and once again, until it reaches into obscure territory that has nothing to do with the originating comment, or often, reality. Sometimes we'll say things just out of the blue.

My son has a word for it: random.

For instance, quite a while ago, I was sitting at my chair spinning yarn (I have a spinning wheel), when I looked over at him sitting on couch watching TV and said, "Derek, are you taking drugs?"

He looked at me, his attention slowly weaning itself from the tube to me. "What?"

"Are you taking drugs?"

His brow furrowed. "No."

"Oh, okay." I returned to my spinning.

A commercial came on and he switched his attention to me again. "Why do you ask? Do you think I am?"

"No," I said, and it's true; he finds the smell of alcohol disgusting, and is probably as squeaky-clean about drugs and cigarettes as any kid could be. "I'm asking because I'm a Mom, and Moms have to ask things like that on a routine basis, just in case. It's their job."

"That's really random, Mom," he said.

"I know," I said. "But it has to be done."

"What, the randomness or asking about drugs?"

"Both," I said. "Parents should keep their kids on their toes. It's good for them. It keeps them alert."

"Alert? About what?"

"About things like that blue shirt you're wearing," I said after frantically casting about in my mind for something he should be alert to right now, but failing.

He looked at his shirt. "It's not blue, it's yellow."

"Precisely," I said. "It's good that you're alert about what color shirt you're wearing."

He gave me a long look. "You're weird, Mom."

Now that I think of it, his whole riff about fulfilling a wish to jam with Eric Clapton via the Make A Wish Foundation was probably revenge.

--Karen H.

Drastic ambition

"Mom, how old do you have to be to qualify for a wish from the Make A Wish Foundation?" my son asked, emerging from the bathroom, guitar in hand. He has a habit of enclosing himself in the bathroom and playing his guitar, sometimes with the amp, sometimes not. I don't know why, maybe it's the acoustics. He'll spend hours in there practicing.

Immediately, I froze, wondering if somehow he had contracted a death-dealing disease but hadn't told me yet...but no, that couldn't be, because otherwise I would have been notified when he had his last physical. But then I thought, wait, maybe it's one of his friends, or a child he knows about.

"Mom?"

"Uh, I don't know," I said. Much moved by his apparent kind-heartedness and wanting to help, I opened my browser and Googled "Make a Wish Foundation." "It looks like between the ages of 2 1/2 and 18."

"Dang."

"What's wrong?" I asked, my concern rising.

"I only have a year to get leukemia, make a wish to jam on the guitar with Eric Clapton, have that fulfilled, and then somehow get better."

I groaned. Yet another example of an adolescent's sense of immortality. "No. You do not want to get leukemia, trust me on this."

He sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. With my luck I'll get it when I'm 40, when it's too late."

"With any luck, you won't get it at all! You'll have to think of a better way to someday jam with Eric Clapton."

"What if I got run over by a truck? Would that get me a wish?"

"No. Besides, you might get your hands crushed and then you couldn't jam with anyone."

"Huh, yeah. Don't want that." A thoughtful look came over his face. "Lyme disease?"

"NO!" I said.

He looked offended. "I'm just wondering!"

"No diseases!" I said firmly. "No accidents, and I don't care how much you want to play music with Eric Clapton. You'll just have to practice and practice until you get so ridiculously good at playing any kind of music that just one riff played by your incredibly nimble fingers will astonish everyone for miles around, to the point where they will follow you around like the Pied Piper, including--"

"Eric Clapton! And then he will want to jam with me because my guitar playing is so awesome as to defy description, and I'll say, okay, dude, if you can keep up, and meanwhile I'm thinking, 'eat my dust' because I will be SO better than Clapton."

"Exactly," I said, heartlessly sacrificing Eric Clapton to ignominy for the sake of my son's health and welfare.

"Cool!" he said, and returned to the bathroom.

"While you're at it, you might clean the toilet if you're going to spend some time in there," I said, hoping against hope that he might remember to do that.

"Sure," he said, but his voice was already sounding absent.

I wonder if there's a way to attach a toilet brush to an electric guitar, so that he could clean the toilet while he played? Probably the only way to get him to do it on a regular basis. (sigh)

--Karen H.

Soft as Cookie Dough. But NOT cute!

My son came home one day and told me that his friends at school AND from church choir think I'm cute.

I said, "what do you MEAN cute?" Cute does not sit well with me. Hey, old-school feminist here, and a feminist can be anything she wants, but not cute.

He said, "You know, sweet and kindly cute. The sort that bakes cookies and wouldn't hurt a fly."

"You of course told them that they were wrong, that I'm really a nasty mean mom who bullies you daily, and who never appreciates you enough," I said, trying to maintain a position of strength. "Teenagers are supposed to say things like that about their parents, because of their adolescent rebellion and all. And by the way, the cookie dough is in the fridge, second shelf."

"No," he said, grinning and patting me on the head from his ridiculously tall height, "I said they were right. My friends are pretty smart."

"You realize this totally destroys the image I was trying to portray of someone totally kick-ass and, you know, sort of Clint Eastwood-like, except female."

"Sorry, Mom, you're just going to have to live with the image of cuteness."

"I'm not baking those cookies this time," I said, putting on a stern look.

"That's fine, I'll bake 'em. Did you get my favorite, the chocolate chip kind with macadamia nuts?"

"Yeah, I got 'em."

"Thanks, Mom." He kissed me on the forehead. "You're a sweet, kindly, cute mom."

Argh. Either I'm going to have to put on a tougher image, or I'm going to have to stop buying cookie dough.

--Karen H.

School Bus

We sat down to dinner yesterday, when my husband John looked quickly from me to our son and then back again. He said, "I realized this morning that it's the last day I'll ever see Derek get on a school bus."

"Oh my God," I said, and put my hand over my heart, where I felt a sudden empty-nest ache. "You're right! It's the last time he'll ever be on a school bus. It's been...years. Ever since..."

"I was in 7th grade," Derek said with a look of disgust on his face. "You drove me to school all during elementary school. It's only been five years on the bus, Mom. No big deal, and in fact, thank God it's over."

"Five years is a lot in developmental terms," I said firmly. "A lot." I sighed, thinking of those five years. "Five whole years getting on a school bus, and now it's over, because it's the last day of school. The last day of high school."

"No, it's not," Derek said. He glanced at his father, who was paying deep attention to his dinner. "Tomorrow is the last day of school, and you have to drive me there because I won't be going until about 10 o'clock."

"I'll have to drive you," I said. "I remember when I used to drive you to elementary school, how we'd rush like crazy to make it out the door, how you dawdled over your clothes, forgetting your homework--"

"Right," Derek interrupted. "That was a long time ago. And now I'm done with high school."

"And done with riding on the school bus," I said, sighing. "It's the end of an era."

He groaned, and looked as if he wanted to bang his head on his plate. "NO. It's the BEGINNING of one. The BEGINNING of an era." He looked at his dad. "May I be excused?" He rose and put away his plate before his dad nodded his agreement.

John looked at me. "We have to get our licks in before he goes, right?"

"That's right," I said. "As many as we can."

We smiled at each other and bent once more to our dinner.

--Karen H.

A little less of the empty nest syndrome

I'm looking at my kid's messy room, the kind that is akin to the Augean stables, and know that once again, he will forget to buy the tickets to the graduation ceremony, like I asked him a million times already, or at least it feels like that. He's left his wallet on the floor again. Actually, considering all the things parents have to go through to raise a child right, I think we are owed that "asked him a million times already" feeling, especially through the teenaged years. And I know I'm going to ask him this afternoon, where are the tickets? And he's going to say, oh, yeah, yeah, I forgot. And I'm going to feel this little burny sensation, and go through all the reasons I love him and why he's really a good kid, and then I'm going to open my mouth and give him what for.

Because I worry. I think, he's a procrastinator, he's messy, he doesn't know how to handle money like he should, he has putrid phone manners, and soon he's going to go to college. Without me to nag him, he'll leave his dorm room so messy, he'll trip over his backpack and slice his hand on the bounced check he left on the floor, it'll get infected, and he'll die of blood poisoning, or at least be hounded the rest of his life by Bad Credit (which figures in my mind as this huge hairy beast with Really Big Claws and one eye fixed on your pocketbook). And then, with this picture in mind, I yell at him as soon as I see a snitty teenaged eye-roll--which may happen within the the first few minutes of him walking into the house from school--because I have to get my licks in to set him straight on the narrow road to redemption in the few months I have left as mom-in-residence.

The few months I have left to get it right.

Yeah. That's what it's all about. Me getting it right in the last few months with this kid. Just in case I didn't get it right the last 18 years.

Taking a deep breath.

There's a Bible on my desk--I left it there from Sunday, so you can guess where my son gets his messy nature (hey, so I don't want him to be like me in this!). I distractedly open it up, and it falls to the story about Jesus when he got in trouble with his parents. I breathe another deep breath--of relief.

You know the story. The one where the Holy Family goes to Jerusalem when Jesus is an adolescent, along with friends and relatives, in a nice big happy party. They do the Passover gig, and then they start off to go home to Nazareth. They're a day away from the Big City, and then Mary turns to Joseph:

Mary: Dear, have you seen Jesus lately?
Joseph: No. I thought he was with you.
Mary, beginning to feel anxious: No, I thought he was with you!
Joseph: He's not with his cousins? Or his friends?
Mary: No, I just looked!
Mary and Joseph, looking at each other in panic: "Oh my God, we left him in Jerusalem!"

So they go rushing back amongst the teeming population of Jerusalem, having nightmares about their boy amongst hostile Romans who'd as soon stick you with a sword as look at you, and greedy acquisitive slave traders who would be all too happy to get their hands on a nice healthy boy, and who knows what other sickos he might encounter that exist in places that a boy might just wander into, especially a friendly sort of boy like Jesus. And then there is this little added tidbit that he is also the Son of God entrusted to their care, and probably the Most High would at least be a little bit ticked off at their oversight.

But they do find him, being all smart and having fun with his new friends at the Temple. And I'm sure the elders there are patting his back and nodding approvingly at Mary and Joseph and saying, "fine, smart boy you've got there, you should be proud, because he's amazing, you know that?"

They are proud, but as soon as they get Jesus on the road, all hell--er, so to speak--breaks loose. "What the Gehenna were you thinking? Didn't you know your mother was crying her eyes out?" "Don't you know you could have been hurt? Why didn't you TELL US WHERE YOU WERE?"

And what do they get from Jesus? Backtalk, that's what, and I bet it was with that adolescent snitty eye-roll, too. "Mom, Dad, I was just FINE. I was with my FRIENDS, and--" he lifts his nose in the air, "Doing my Father's work." As if Joseph's carpentry was just one up on shoveling pig slop.

It says in the Bible that they didn't understand, and yeah, they probably didn't understand how he could be the Son of God and still be a bratty adolescent. But you have to figure, if he was flesh and bone and went from being a little baby to a man, there was all sorts of things like dirty diapers to be changed and skinned knees to be cleaned up, and I bet adolescent hormones and snitty eye-rolls were part of the package. In fact, I bet the phrase "and he was subject unto them," was a nice way of saying that Joseph then and there took Jesus by the ear and said, "you are sticking to us like GLUE until we get home to Nazareth." And Mary added, "you are SO grounded, kiddo."

I'm not sure Mary and Joseph cured Jesus of his back-talk, though. He still was doing a lot of verbal sniping at the Pharisees as an adult. And we know how much trouble that got him into.

But it did make me feel a little better, and let go just a bit more. If the Holy Family left behind their son when he was 12 years old for more than a day in the Big City and got back talk from him, my husband and I, we're not doing too bad. (Hey, WE didn't leave our kid behind in the Big City!) I guess there's only so much you can do with a kid before you have to let him be what he has to be.

--Karen H.

Learning through joy

Most of us believe that we have to suffer to learn life's lessons, bear some kind of pain to achieve growth, and all that.

I''m going to suggest something different: it's possible to learn through joy.

I'm not putting down anyone who has traveled the rocky road (and I'm not talking about ice cream here, although if someone has grown emotionally or spiritually by ingesting chocolate ice cream, I want to hear about it), because hey, been there done that, and it's been valuable. But when I look back on that road, most of those rocks were ones I put there myself out of stubbornness or impatience or whatever other one of the seven deadlies you want to name, including the worst--despair. Sometimes it was out of ignorance or inexperience. It happens.

But there are times of great and little joys, and for some reason we tend to discount them, as if they were trivial or fleeting and thus not worth consideration. The times of laughter can't mean as much as the times of grief or anger. Those depressing ideas are pervasive. Think about it: how many times have comedies won the Academy Award compared to dramas? Not a whole lot.

However, it is in those times of laughter that our defenses are down, and we let the truth in. What makes us laugh is not something that threatens us, even though it may be something that's presented to us in a surprising or unusual way. Even when it's something as simple as a pun, there is a connection established nevertheless, the twinkling eyes of the punster meeting the rolling ones of the audience because there is an understanding that yes, they are on the same page, they "get it." Right there, you know that the presentation of a surprise, of some change in your understanding is fine, is good, is at least not going to hurt you or anyone else in any real way. An intellectual or emotional connection with your fellow human beings is a generally good thing.

And yes, I have know punsters who have committed very egregious puns, and I still maintain it's a good thing.

Then there are the other times of laughter or joy--the birth of a much desired child (would that all births of children were welcomed!), the touch of a tender hand, words of praise sincerely given, the joy of giving and watching another's face light with pleasure. These are not just mindless instances, but opportunities to learn, to grow. Dwell in the knowledge that you are worth a tender touch, the praise, that you have the power to bring joy. These are empowering things, and if you don't have a certain amount of power, how will you grow?

It takes power--energy--to grow. If a flower refuses the touch of the sun, shrinks from taking in water, it will most certainly not grow. And yet, people will shrink from the warmth of love, from the joy of acknowledging the gifts of others, and their own gifts. That's not growing, or I should say, it's the hard road to growth, because first you feel the hurt and the darkness before you get the idea, oh, wait, that love and joy stuff was all right after all. It'd be a lot easier to acknowledge the joy right from the start.

So if you're given a moment of joy, dwell in it. Sink yourself in it and revel in it. You may learn a lot more than you think.

--Karen H.

Another thought

The simplest beliefs are the hardest to live by.

--Karen H.

About that last post of mine

A little grouchy were we? Why I persist in posting in the dead of night, I don't know. I was tired when I wrote it.

The title of that post, I should mention, is from Shakespeare's sonnet #116, which goes like this:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

- - - -

I should have just posted that poem, because it really says it all. It doesn't say that life will be smooth and wonderful and great, or that nobody will grow old and die. It does say that love is always there, steady, a guide to who and where you are, even when you think you're lost. Love brings peace, and points of joy. If it doesn't, my question to you is, what are you afraid of? What are you avoiding? What conditions are you putting on love that you don't have the peace and the joy? And if your emotions are in upheaval, if you're troubled, if you're lost...is that love's fault, or is it your own?

The funny thing about people is that when their love life goes wrong, when they feel lonely, they blame it on love, rather like the way they'll blame things on God when life in general doesn't go right, or when people start fighting and killing each other, or natural disasters--"acts of God" as if the only acts of God are disasterous. Which actually is all right where love and God is concerned because they can take a lot of hits and still will be around after the dust settles. They're probably the only scapegoats that can take that much punishment. So go ahead and blame love, blame God, they can take it.

The thing is, can you? That's the sad thing; you point fingers at love as the ultimate in stupidity, and you know, you may get a sense of superiority, you may get a feeling of sophistication and even righteousness, but your home is still pretty lonely at night, even if you had all the money in the world to buy willing bodies to fill that home...well, that's all you've got, bodies and not hearts.

It can be a scary thing, this love. But I don't think you can afford to be without it.

Go where love is.

--Karen H.

An Ever-Fixed Mark

We romance writers write a lot about love, which of course most everyone scorns as romantic sap, pap, sentimentality, all that.

As if all of that was bad. Puhleeze. It's a hell of a lot better than violence, evil, hatred, and despair. Give me sentimental pap any day over the next betrayal, the next drive-by shooting, the next drug overdose. We romance writers know about that stuff. We read all about it. Many of us have had to deal with it.

But we still hold onto hope, and of course love. Especially love. Because the truth is, love is the strongest thing there is.

Ooh, oooh, Karen, you are SUCH a Pollyanna!

Damn straight I am, and me and Pollyanna are right, too. We're backed up by such greats as Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and many, many others of such ilk. I remember Jesus was really big on the love issue, and not so hot on the violence and hatred thing. People who are really connected to God tend to be that way, and frankly I think the way people tend to take the "Reverend" title off the name of Martin Luther King is not a good thing, because it diminishes his roots, where he came from. It's good to remember where people come from, because there's a lot to be learned from the path they walk, where they left traces of the love they had to give.

Let me tell you something I know about. Let's say you have someone who is in great pain, someone who is dying of a slow, terrible disease. As his loved ones gather around him, the nurses administer the pain medication so that his passing will be "comfortable"--and believe you me, it's never comfortable, it only takes the edge off the ever-present pain. And yet, through the drug, through the terrible pain, this person manages to look at those he loves and says, "I love you." Those are the words he says, over and over again, and you know it's true. My dad said this before he died, and I'm sure some of you know of others who said it before they died.

Now why is it that this person says these words? We're talking major pain here. We're talking impending death. What most of us would think are the Big Ticket Items of Life. But this person chooses to talk of love.

This is because to this person, love is more important than pain. It's more important than impending death. There are times you can't do anything about the pain you have or the pain someone else has. You sure as hell can't do anything about death. We all die. We don't have a choice about these things. Pain and death are a fact of life.

But you can do a lot about love. You can choose to love, you can choose to tell those you love that you love them. The will to love is so strong, that once you have given it, you want to give it again, even through pain, even through impending death. Getting love is a pretty grand thing, too.

Many years ago, I met a woman who told me she didn't want to be in a relationship with anyone, because it would be too painful when that person died or left her. It would be painful for the person who loved her if she died or left. Best not to love at all. This woman didn't even have a pet, no dog, no cat, not even a plastic one, I'm sure. I think I told her that I was sorry she felt like that. I felt really sad that she wouldn't experience love, that she'd be lonely all her life, but wow, she had a point, to love and to lose is very painful.

More than a decade later, I thought of that woman again and I thought, what a chickenshit. I tell you, the older I get, the less patience I seem to have for people, it's terrible. (Not.) A few more years later--today, in fact--I thought about her again, and I still think she's chickenshit.

Let's look at this logically. (1) We all die. (2) We all feel pain, both physically and emotionally. (3) Both 1 and 2 are unavoidable. Proof? Name one person who has never experienced either physical or emotional pain of any kind. I dare ya.

Given the above, we still have choices about (1) how we die--and I don't really mean what we die of, but rather how we conduct ourselves, and (2) the some of the kinds of pain we will feel and how we'll respond to it.

So I have to ask you: given that you will die, and that you will feel pain of some kind, would you prefer to go through pain and death never having experienced the joy of love even for a moment, or experienced it even for the space of a day?

Think carefully. Two choices, both of which have pain and most certainly death at the end. One has experienced the joy of love. The other has not.

I'm sad to say that there will be more than a few people who will choose Door Number Two, like that chickenshit woman. She was too afraid to reach out for love, to reach out for the joy. I won't deny it takes courage--or naivete!--to love. It's never anger or hatred that keeps us from love, it's always fear. And I have to say, those who claim that only the naive dare love and love often, are probably in the fear camp. I'd rather be naive than a chickenshit, and frankly at the age of 40-something, I think I have got over most of my naivete, and hopefully most of my fear, thought that Fear-Girl, she is a sneaky thing and can think of all sorts of reasons why I Can't, and Shouldn't, and Won't.

However, I'm in on the Pollyanna deal, so I choose the life with love in it, fear or no fear. I'm all over the love thang, I'm seizing life with both hands and wrapping the bow-ties of love over that whole big package. And on my deathbed, I'm going to look at my loved ones--or what the heck, anyone who happens to be nearby--and say, "I love you."

At the very least, it'll freak someone out, and I'll have a good chuckle before I go. :-)

--Karen H.

A thought

Love is the highest truth, and kindness the best virtue.

--Karen H.

Empty nest syndrome

Yeah, I've got it. Bad. And no, this is not something that will send me into a dark enough mood to write a DARK DARK DARK story. My boy is going off to college in a little more than three months.

Being a mom is the one occupation where, if you've done a good job, you're essentially fired. Okay, not exactly, because as my son says, I'll always be his mom. But it sure feels that way.

Thing is, I believe the hubby and I have done a good job. Our son is a good kid...young man...well, as he puts it, "dude." He says that while he is not a kid any more, he doesn't quite feel like a man yet either, even though at 18, he is legally an adult. He says there should be an in-between man-and-boy state, and he figures "dude"is about right, because he thinks a man is a guy who is ready to take on a full time job and a family, and he's not there yet.

So, my son is a good dude. And while I would tend toward the term "kid," I suspect he's closer to the right term than I am. For a young male who is just about ready to go to college, he's a laid-back, highly intelligent, artistically and musically talented, reasonably mature, cheerful sort who has never been in any bad trouble, no more more trouble than a couple of months' worth of grounding didn't cure. He's kind, generous, and hard working once he gets himself going, and an ironic and quirky sense of humor. He has a few faults of course: procrastination, impatience, and a lack of...diplomacy. In other words, he does not hesitate to speak the blunt truth, which has got him into trouble in his early teen years. Nothing like a smart-aleck to upset the authorities, especially if he's got all of his facts to back him up. He has learned some diplomacy--that is, to shut up when it's wise to do so.

I remember broken ankles from skateboarding, bloodied knees from falling off his bicycle, a couple of fights defending smaller kids from bullies (yes, that did get him in trouble at school, but that is the one thing that will throw him into a towering rage, seeing others being bullied). But other than that--knock on wood--no other trouble.

I'm glad he's the way he is. It's been a joy to watch him grow up to what he is. He's active in church, is an Eagle Scout, all that, without being a prig. He's not even embarrassed to tell me or my husband that he loves us--in public. He has, most of all, a loving heart.

Knowing all of this still doesn't eliminate the hole that's beginning to form in my heart. I'm going to miss that boy something terrible when he goes to college.

But he's turning out all right. And yeah, I'm counting my blessings. Along with my dear husband, he's a big blessing in my life, and I'm thankful. I hope some day he'll bring as much joy to others as he has to us.

Sure, I'm biased. I love that boy to pieces. But I'm betting you all know of teenagers who are good kids, too. The media and TV shows and all show us all the problems with teenagers, all the awful things about them. The media makes us think that there are ravaging hordes of teenagers out there about to maul, kill, vandalize, get pregnant, you name it. But I'm betting those are in the minority. In fact, according to the most recent US Census Bureau and the Center for Disease control, teenage violence and teen pregnancies are at an all-time low.

I remember when my boy was about three years old, we went trick-or-treating. There were kids of all sizes out there running around in their costumes. But all of a sudden, he cried out and clutched my leg. I said, "Derek, it's just kids in costumes!" But he shook his head. "No, Mommy, I'm afraid of the teenagers."

That shocked me. "Did any of those kids ever hurt you?" I asked, ready to do battle if need be. He shook his head again. "No. But teenagers do bad things, I see it on TV all the time. They never do anything good." It wasn't until I told him that every grown-up was once a teenager, and that his mom and dad weren't bad when we were teenagers that he finally was comforted.

Wow. If that's the impression a pretty smart three year old child picked up, the "bad teen" image must be pretty prevalent. I heard somewhere that even though the crime rate has fallen fairly steadily in the last 20 years, the reporting of crime and violence has increased 720 percent. In other words, we're hearing about the same violence over and over and over again. What's really sad is that it has a definite effect: people are pretty willing to give up on teenagers if they do get into trouble. They're not even willing to donate used clothes for homeless or impoverished teenagers. Plenty of new and used clothes are donated for elementary school kids, but middle-school or high school kids? Forget it. And yet, I know of homeless teens who nevertheless try so very hard to stay in school, despite the lack of food, clothes, and a safe place to stay. Teens who'll do their homework by the light of a streetlamp, or if they're lucky to find a spot, an outside table at a Starbucks, or in the public library if it's open. If there are homeless teenagers who are still trying to do the right thing, there are no doubt a lot more teens who have homes and families who are also trying to do the right thing as well.

So I'm thinking the reality is, things aren't as bad as the media makes it out to be. I'm not saying that there isn't violence and that we don't need to try to improve our society. There is, and we do.

But chances are good that it's not nearly as bad as we think it is. I'm willing to bet you know of at least a couple of teenagers who are good kids, who maybe mess up, but who get back on track, do their best, and most of all, have good hearts. If you know of any, chime in! And if they're your own, feel free to boast away. :-)

--Karen H.

The Pollyanna Files, the raison d'etre

I tried blogging under another blog name, but got tired of my own whining. But that's not the real reason I deleted that blog and started this one. The reason is...

I need to get all the glad out of me. Get the happy out of my system.

This is the thing: I'm a writer of romance novels. Don't get me wrong, I love writing them, and I know they serve a good purpose; I've had women with cancer, depression, or other life stress write to me and tell me they've gained relief from their pains and stresses by reading them. God knows any respite from life traumas is a good thing, and in my opinion, women get hit with a lot of them especially. But....

My publisher wants me to write dark and moody books.

Now I can do that. I've done it before, liked writing them, and they've sold very, very well, which is why my publisher wants me to write more. Problem is, the times I've done it, I've had some major stresses in my life. First time, my dad was dying of cancer. Wrote two dark and gothicky books, both in quick succession. The second time, my husband's union was on strike, we were sinking into debt, and I hadn't been in the work force for 7 years and was trying to find a job. Wrote two dark and tragic books then, too.

See, the thing is, I'm a happy person. I have a good life. My husband is a darling man, devoted to me, loves me dearly. My son is a VERY smart teenager, with a kind heart and good nature. We have a house in the suburbs, we're solidly middle-class, and maybe we don't go on vacation nearly enough (once in the last 14 years!) but all in all, we're doing all right, and I KNOW how to count my blessings.

But see, that's the problem. Right now, I know for sure my writing's going to the light side. What's not to be happy about? And the happy is coming out in my writing. My characters joke a lot. They're nice to each other. The heroes especially want to be kind and gentle, not dark and dangerous and edgy. They have no emotional problems, do not need therapy. In other words, they are entirely too much like my very nice, loving husband.

Now perhaps I should do something, like volunteer to help the less fortunate. Their plight surely would get me down, and I'll end up considering the depressing realities of life.

Fact is, I DO volunteer, and have done so at homeless shelters, and believe you me, these people are down and out, sometimes with little help in sight. I know about people so desperate they prostitute themselves, dig in garbages for food, are so sick with pneumonia they're barely crawling. People who aren't even adults yet. Teens who should be thinking about the prom, but who are so beaten up by life already that they cringe whenever anyone approaches them, sure they're going to get hit once again.

The problem is, I'm a realist. I know I can't cure these problems all by myself, but I can do my part, and I'm doing it, and it makes me happy that I'm doing something that helps others. I like seeing good happen for them, and it does happen. I also look at those people, and--gee, go figure--I look at my life and think, hey, whatever problems crop up in my life are TINY compared to what these folks have, and boy am I grateful for everything I've got.

Gas prices going up? Hey, the reason I think about that is because I've GOT a car. These people don't even have bus fare.

I've gained a few pounds? Lucky me! I've got food to eat, more than enough.

My clothes have rips in them? Thank God I have clothes to rip.

And so on. What's not to be happy about?

Shoot, even when my dad died, I felt deep grief at his passing, but after a few years, reflected that he was a truly contented man, had no regrets, and had accomplished everythiing he had set out to do in his life. Everything. He died with no regrets, with family around him. He loved and was loved back. Is that riches or what? Not even Howard Hughes had that. The reality is that we all die. The good thing is that my dad lived and died well. I learned something from that.

See what I mean?

But this does not work for writing dark and moody books, because I am not feeling dark and moody. No dark and moody things are going on in my life. And frankly, I am not willing to have bad things happen just so I can satisfy my publisher's wishes. I am totally good, in cahoots, am hand-in-hand with having a happy life.

There has got to be another way to get into the dark and dangerous mood.

Hence the Pollyanna Files.

I have always thought that sneer that accompanied the phrase "Pollyanna" was unjustified. Truth is, you accomplish a lot more looking for the positive than stewing in the juices of negative thinking. I'm not talking about ignoring reality. Unless you're really delusional (and actually, being in blissful delusion might just have a good side to it), you can't ignore the horrors around you, because the news media is all too happy to have you shell out your bucks to buy bad news. The same bad news over and over again, and I have the statistics to back it up.

Besides, it's hard to think positive without seeing the negative in the first place. Think about it.

So, this is where I'll be doing my positive writing. I'm going to channel the happy into this blog, and leave the dark and moody to the novels. What will be here will be the hopeful stuff, the funny stuff, the "aw, how cute" stuff. I hope the Pollyanna Files are going to be so danged positive and happy that diabetics will have to take their meds before they encounter the sweetness herein. I might grouse, but the grousing will have the happy ending.

With hope, that'll get all the happy out of my system so that I can write DARK and make my publisher happy.

Wish me luck.

--Karen H.