Change is the butterfly that flaps its wings in Brazil and causes a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s the smallest act, that will create chaos along it’s path. We tend to be the people in the path of the hurricane. We don’t know where the butterfly was, what color its wings were, or when it precisely brought its wings together. We just know the hurricane that hits because of the creature. This is because humans don’t live in an isolated world where only one variable changes at a time. Humans overload their plates when they feel like they ‘need to change’. Every year, on New Years, people make a laundry list of resolutions that they fully intend to follow through with. However, trying to change so many things at once only results in us resolving never to make resolutions again.

My resolution was to stop attending cons. I forgot that humans don’t make drastic changes very well.

However, we do make changes subtly, as people. We discover that we feel better if we do eat something, or don’t eat something, or drink less, or stop smoking. Our entire youth seems to be centered on deliberately damaging ourselves. Testing our endurance to our limits, to see what our limits are. With maturity comes the rolling back on what we can keep doing, and recognizing what we must abandon for our health.

So, with this in mind, I started going to cons when I was 17 years old. That is a lot of learned behavior that I can’t indulge in anymore.

Con was definitely the place to test my endurance. Not eating enough, not sleeping enough, dancing all night long, smoking cloves, and joining my friends for drinks. I had heard about these strange things called panels, but that was where the day-walkers tread. I was contented to stand in the halls and talk with my friends. Or to wander into rooms and socialize. Try to find food and meander the dealer’s room, absorbing the things that I couldn’t buy myself.

Obviously, the behaviors of an older teen/young twenty-something aren’t behaviors I can really keep anymore. My life has changed. I’m a wife and a mother, not a free-wheeling kid. I wish I had the same kind of endurance that I did when I was twenty-one, but I don’t. Then again, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I can’t do what I’ve always done, and that’s all there is to it. So my obvious solution was to not attend con this year. Cut myself off, cold turkey.

It’s been brought to my attention that I’m pursuing a career that I wasn’t pursuing in my late teens and early twenties. A career that happens to dovetail nicely into going to cons, attending panels, doing what day-walkers do. If it means being at the con when night falls and the party animals emerge – well, I’m still able to say hello to them in the halls, just like normal.

I don’t want to say I’m getting old, because I don’t feel old. I just had a problem presented to me over the weekend. My husband wanted to go be social with his friends, and I didn’t want to go. Being without him for four days, on the other hand, was awful. Not because the days were awful; I had fun. I spent time with family and friends and my adorable son, and we had a great time. I just don’t like being without my husband for that long. We were at an impasse. My options, seemed to be to go back to con, or to plan on spending Easter without him for the rest of our lives.

This is how change comes in. Necessity. The collapse of viable options to one single point, the leaf the butterfly lands on to flap its wings. I have to essentially deconstruct all of my old expectations and understandings of con, and reconstruct them to include my career aspirations. It will be odd to walk the halls, looking to make new friends, with so many old friends wandering the halls. I think this year was the year of the hard look; of the conscious decision, and of the remodeling of thought. But the answer was always obvious, now that I think about it. Compromise. Go for part of the con, not the whole of it. Cut back, relax, and enjoy what is there before me.

Guess you can’t stay a caterpillar forever.

Writer’s Block


It is not often that I deal with writer’s block. My problem is frequently the opposite. I want to write this story and that story and this other thing. My reach and my grasp are not friends. I kinda doubt they’re acquainted.

Now, this is different from having good ideas, but I’ve begun to realize that many a passage in a book is merely, “good,” and then there are the funny parts, the highlights. It sounds terrible, but everything is like that. Movies, jokes, there’s a rhythm, a building of energy and then a release. You can’t have a movie that is nothing but explosions for an hour and a half. My husband got tired of the ten minutes of explosions at the end of Superman. And there’s a man with serious action movie endurance.

The truth is, writers slog. They trudge through the non-clever bits, and while they may not seem clever while writing, they are the building blocks that move your material forward in an inexorable wave, to action after action, until the inevitable conclusion. It’s not glamorous. It’s not particularly fun, half the time. But when you build towards those beautiful, dramatic moments, it makes the slog all worth while. And heck, even Neil Gaiman says he can’t remember which bits were hard once the book is published.

However, now that I’ve taken up the blogging mantel, I’m finding myself experiencing the dreaded problem of writer’s block. I don’t have any defenses for it, or ways around it. I’ve written 3 pieces in the last few days (okay, so not really writer’s block) but they all suck. I’ve never felt so badly towards my blogging pieces in my life. It might as well be writer’s block, because I can’t seem to compose thoughts that are worthy of the page.

I guess the best way around writer’s block is through it. No one wants to write a piece that will never see the light of day, but think of it this way – you have to leave something for your heirs to publish after your death, which is when all of your work will achieve its height of fame.

Not to mention,the act of writing generates ideas! For every two lines you delete, there could be one line that is worth keeping. It’s frustrating but as humans, we are all vulnerable to thinking that everything we do should be perfect the first time. It’s simply not feasible, but time after time I find people who get frustrated because they didn’t write a concerto the first time they took a music class. As though that much understanding could be crammed into two hours! The more I practice, the more I learn that the crumpled paper in the wastebasket wasn’t a waste; it was just practice, to make my next writing more better better prose.

My other cure for writer’s block tends to be a glass of red wine. I’m not a better writer after that, I’m simply a more prolific one. Although it does help cure the knee jerk editing reactions I have acquired.

So, stay loose, don’t panic, and write more, not less.

The Farmer’s Internet


Last Thursday I called home to talk to Mom, and her sister, my Aunt Theresa was there visiting. I don’t know how to paint an appropriate picture of Aunt Theresa. She was that mythical creature that all the cousins my age talked about in whispers, hoping that she would bestow her time and attention on. She was the crazy aunt. The fun aunt. The aunt both my sister and I want to be for each other’s children. She’s an amazing woman, full of contradictions and possessing no fear.

(My mom kicks ass too, but she is my Mom and therefore, not mythical.)

Anyway, I got to have a talk with the two of them, which was awesome, but I noticed something in the way they talked that I hadn’t noticed before. When I mentioned a place, Aunt Theresa brightened and told me that a (cousin I don’t know) was currently there, and then proceeded to list her accomplishments. Then, they were telling a story about another girl, and they worked together to remember her name, and who her children were, taking time out of the story to confer with one another. Then they talked about Uncle Ed and his cancer treatments. They weren’t just telling me the news, they were composing pieces of our oral history.

There was something stylized when they spoke, detailing these events. Something different than when we were talking about Aunt Theresa’s son Von, or where she would be for the weekend. These women were trained to know who each of their family members ere, even extended family. Their memories were primed for it. I remember being at family reunions and getting the same training. “That’s Jennifer, she’s Connie and Jack’s daughter, Connie’s from the Dobrenz family, they live over there..”

These days, we have social media to tell us people’s connections. It’s not something we socially need to dedicate to our memories. And one thing I’ve noticed about things we don’t need to dedicate to our memory. We don’t. We simply don’t have time to remember the name of our third cousin, even if your dad and his second cousin were really close.

The impact of the Internet on society is incalculable. I have a friend who lives in Snohomish and a friend that lives near Tucson, and in my head they’re the same distance away, because I talk to them every day. They’re just down the street, right?

I wonder what will happen when the Internet turns us all into little islands of data. I don’t see anyone wanting to go back to the pre-Internet world, where finding information was not just a “pick up the smartphone” action. I remember running a game in 1997, where I gave a character unlimited access to the Internet (as it was in that time.)  Then, because she abused the power and unbalanced the game, I cut her off. Her next action was to go insane.

I think we’d find a way to cope. After all, the Farmer’s Internet evolved as a way to keep track of each other as families. I just wonder if we’ll manage to develop Internet Empathy, and start caring about the other islands of data around us.


It’s pronounced, “Frank-en-shteen”


A few months ago, I had a falling out with a friend. It was a long time in coming, but it was inevitable. Our opinions on the world were simply too disparate to ignore. Now, this friend of mine, he’d done me some very good turns in the past. We were roommates, at a time where I had thought I would have to pack it up and move back to Wyoming. Later, he offered to publish my work, The Corsican.

I owe Early a lot for his selflessness. I was content to leave my book moldering on my hard drive, and he made me pull it out, dust it off, and put it out there for the world to see.

We learned a lot together, mostly about formatting a book after it’s been written. Eventually we pushed it out, and it was successful for a time. It’s a first work, no one knew me, and quite frankly, I priced it too high for a first work. I thought I was being reasonable at the time, but I also didn’t know as much about the publishing world as I do now.

Foresight and a good friend’s advice made certain that I got a contract with my publisher, one that explicitly gave my book rights back to me after a year. In that year, I found that every time Early said something on my Facebook, it started a fight, and I was left dreading his next bout of opinion-sharing. There were other factors too, most of them involving disrespect to my friends. Finally, I had to part ways, lest I be forever tarred with his brush.

After we parted ways, I’ll admit, I didn’t want to deal with my book. Too much was wrapped up in it, for me, and I wanted to just let it go. However, I’d learned so much from the experience, and it seemed a shame not to put my knowledge to good use.

First, I redesigned the cover slightly. I didn’t like the chosen color or font of the title and author slots, so I went in and added a font that better suited a science fiction book. Next, I went in and reformatted my book so I could upload it to Amazon.

And reformatted.

And reformatted.

For days and nights, reformatted.

I now know how Dr. Frankenstein must have felt, working in his lab. Making minute corrections in his creature to see if somehow this particular setting would bring it to life. Trying, failing, trying, failing, until each step forward feels like Sisyphus pushing his rock up the hill. Each time, getting a little further, a fingernails width, just enough to give you enough hope to rise again when the boulder crushes you and rolls back to the beginning point.

I’m not a patient person, but I am a determined person. Turns out you can substitute one for the other. The results, however, are not pretty.

They’re not pretty, but they are effective. I have just released The Corsican to Amazon under my own steam, for a much better price point, with an improved cover.

I hope that it takes off, like the Frankenstein’s Monster that terrorizes the unsuspecting villagers. Regardless, I want to announce that my work is now online, at Amazon. It’s my first book, so I’m very proud of it. I can’t wait to push Bento Box on the shelf next to it.