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.