Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Fantastic Friday: To Thine Own Self Be True

October 6, 2017 No comments

This summer, I taught an online class about the archetypal journey and personality archetypes and how they can be used to help make narrative writing stronger.

In doing so, I found dozens of online “quizzes” to help users get to know themselves better. While there are many, some are decidedly more reliable than others, and I want to share two of those today.

I was reading an article about how people from the Middle Ages would dislike certain elements of our modern society, mainly our reliance on technology to help us remember things and how we share miniscule details of our lives to keep the sense of being always connected.

The article made me reflect on my own behaviors. At the tail end of “Generation X,” I was born without technology, compounded by the fact that my parents were slightly technology-resistant. Yes, I had a record player. Yes, I used a rotary phone. And I do think there are differences between how I act and think now versus how I acted and thought when I was younger. Some of that is age, of course, and different responsibilities. But much of that is the sense of “over-connectedness” I have now. It’s hard to slow down and be bored nowadays.

And boredom is a good thing because it can lead to inquiry and insight, rather than careless distraction.

Whereas in the past, I would stare at a wall and find faces and patterns in the tiny imperfections caused by the paint roller, now when I’m bored I surf Facebook or Twitter. Although social media opens me up to new ideas and opinions, it limits my reliance on my own imagination.

In that sense, I am always on the lookout for ways of using (the inevitable presence of) technology to help me (and my daughter, when she’s older) keep that sense of self reflection and imagination I once had. To that end, some of these quizzes actually do help us slow down and reflect.

The first quiz is based on the Meyers-Briggs personality indicators. Although it’s not an official test, it is accurate to the test I took in college, and it’s one of the more flexible tests I’ve taken in terms of it allowing variation in responses. When you finish the quiz, it provides some discussion about your personality type.

Screenshot_2017-06-27-05-29-05-1The second is a quiz created to be a valid way for users to determine which Harry Potter house they would belong to if they were a wizard in the Harry Potter universe.

(To be fair, I will share my result for this one: I’m actually a Slytherin. I attribute it to my extreme work ethic and my analytical nature).

Both should be taken as “fun,” but the knowledge that comes from each test may help us slow down and reflect.

By reading up on the tendencies associated with our personalities, we are forced to self-reflect and consider ways that our preconceptions and preferences might influence our understanding and our interactions with others. When every member of a family takes the quizzes, they can discuss results and contemplate how their differences might influence interactions, and perhaps this would allow misunderstandings to be explained—and even allow people to adjust their behavior when interacting with others.

Do you have ways of using technology to slow down and reflect? If so, I’d love to hear them—feel free to leave a comment!

Otherwise, happy reflection, and happy Friday!

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: Consumed by Dorothy Colinco

October 5, 2017 No comments

This month’s theme is “monster,” to be interpreted any way. This week’s story comes from Dorothy Colinco.

Consumed

by Dorothy Colinco

He had plucked a woman from her tribe, reaching back into time and space to place her here and now, wherever that was. Wherever this sterile room with the chrome table and white walls was. The organization’s work required some unpleasantness, which was not made easier by the fact that the subjects were unsuspecting of the inevitable and irreversible damage. Of course, the damage was never physical. They were not so cruel as to inflict physical pain. But the pain was real nonetheless, and sacrifices had to be made for the advancement of the greater good.

The woman was now seated awkwardly on the chair. He felt stupid for making her sit there; of course she didn’t know how to sit in a chair. Had he expected her to lean back with her feet flat against the floor, arms crossed in front of her chest? He should’ve known she would sit – more accurately, squat – with her feet on the seat of the chair and her bottom hanging between her heels, knees up to her armpits as though she were squatting over a makeshift toilet in the ground.

He was able to communicate with her in the language and gestures she used with her tribe. She, of course, was a gatherer, her fingers stained the color of wild berries and covered with tough skin that long ago resisted the lacerations of the thorns.

“Are you scared?” He asked. She only looked at him, but in her eyes he saw that universal expression of understanding. She had understood him, and she was scared, but she was not about to admit it to this hunter, though his garments, she noticed, were not stained with the blood and fat of prey. Her son of only 50 moons had surely hunted more prey than him.

“Don’t be,” he said, and he was not unkind, which surprised her.

“I only mean to show you something. To ask questions. I won’t harm you.” Still she remained silent. He gestured, and food was brought into her room by two other women. They didn’t speak to or look at her. “Eat,” he urged. She could not resist the smells emanating from the pile before her, and she ate, gingerly at first, and eventually without restraint. She had none.

“How many are in your tribe?” He began with the questions. She saw no harm in answering him. He did not seem to want to harm her or her people. If he was planning an attack, they would be ready. Or long gone.

“We are 50 in number. Strong enough to keep other tribes away. Small enough to feed each other.”

“How many other tribes are there?”

She bit into something she was sure was venison, but it was more flavorful than any venison the hunters ever brought back. She chewed while she thought about his question.

“We know there are four other tribes. But we have heard tales of even more. Perhaps there are 10, but that is only legend. We have seen only four.”

She saw a look pass over his face. It was the look of a hunter who was about to kill a small, defenseless rabbit. There was no viciousness in that look. Only pity, and that was even more confusing.

He asked more questions, questions about their rituals. About losses they have suffered. About violence within their tribe and with others. She has endured three great losses in her life – her mother’s son when he fell off a cliff during a hunt, an elder when he grew ill and never awoke, and her own child, her second, only 12 moons, not even old enough to name.

He asked how big the other tribes were. How far they traveled. He asked her to paint the world on the wall using her fingers and paste from the brightest berries. She drew their pack, then the trails she remembered, then the locations where they met other tribes or found evidence they left behind. On the wall, her tribe was the size of her palm, and the world she could cover with her torso.

Again, that look from the hunter.

Next, he showed her a painting of an orb, the color of deep water and grass mixed with swirls of a rabbit’s fur. “Do you know what this is?”

Her silence answered for her.

He knew what the protocol asked him to do. To delay it would only be cruel. So he began.

He told her she was wrong. That there were more tribes than she thought.

“So the legends are true? There are 10?” When he was silent, she pressed, “15? 30? How many?” She wanted to know. His silence meant he thought the numbers low, but she could not begin to comprehend 10 tribes the size of hers. Where were they all? Who were they all? What were their names?

He told her. Painstakingly, he told her of the numbers. And then he told her worst parts. What they had done to each other. What happens to the equivalent of 10 of her tribes every day. That there are children without tribes. That there are children with tribes who still let them starve. That in some very large tribes, some dine on what the hunter brings and some dine not at all. That just recently, one hunter hurt a group bigger than her tribe, killed them, and still no one knows why.

They do not deal in physical pain. But that does not stop the subjects from weeping and crying out. From clutching their stomachs with revulsion.

Finally, he hands her the monster. It fits in her palm and it glows brightly. Here she finally sees the other tribes. Here, she sees the suffering over and over, in its myriad forms, and she cannot comprehend it. She was not made to. And still she clutches the monster because she cannot look away. She cannot unknow the truths and untruths she now possesses. Like so many before her, she is consumed.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco: www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/

 

Dorothy Colinco none

Book Review: Girl in Pieces by Kathleen Glasgow

October 2, 2017 No comments

I read this book as part of my young adult professional development reading group. The book follows a 17-year old girl named Charlie who has been through more in her young life than most of us experience in all of ours. She has been homeless, had a rough family life, battled an unstable and abusive mother, and been forced to live with a man who turned out to be part of a sex ring. To gain some sense of control over her life, she turns to cutting—literally slicing her skin.

Examining the book for classroom use: there are profanities. A lot of profanities. While the language keeps the book “real,” it might be a concern for some teachers or school districts. The content is also a bit rough. While there is no explicit description of sex or drug use, both are certainly mentioned more than once. As I was reading, I thought that teachers might benefit from reading this book, since many students do come from disrupted lives. Hearing Charlie’s voice as she recounts her tale makes it difficult to fault a student for not doing their homework. As teachers, we are never aware of all the demons students are battling, but this novel helped open my eyes to some very grim possibilities.

The novel was a fast read, but the first-person narration made it feel just a bit long for me, since the reader is there learning and growing along with Charlie. In the first section of the novel, she is in an institution and known as “Silent Sue” because she refuses to / cannot speak as a result of the trauma she has experienced. I was strongly reminded of the movie Girl, Interrupted. While it was interesting, I felt claustrophobic as I experienced all that Charlie did—and I believe this was the author’s intent, to really throw us into her perspective. I couldn’t wait for her to get out.

When she did, she traveled from her frigid home to Arizona to live with a friend, since her mother couldn’t handle her (not much is said about her mother, but it’s clear she’s battling her own demons). Most of the story follows her struggles to find herself and her life, despite her past and old tendencies. For instance, she carries her tender kit with her, which includes all the implements she used to cut herself: while she’s making her best effort to stop cutting, she needs to know it’s there and an option. She also has extreme self-esteem issues, causing her to wear long sleeves in the oppressive heat and remain relatively quiet, causing her to be ostracized. Still, she finds her niche in the music scene and eventually befriends her coworkers.

I thought things were picking up for Charlie, but it seems that vicious cycles are a cliché for a reason. Disappointed that her friend is getting married, Charlie becomes attracted to a bad boy who takes her down the wrong path. I enjoyed the author’s talent at putting us in Charlie’s perspective as we understand exactly why she does what she does. In her note to the reader, Glasgow hints at her own experiences in self-mutilation (cutting) and expressed her desire to write this novel as a way of sharing that struggle. She certainly succeeded. I watched as Charlie sabotaged her chances at being an artist and at having a stable life by making decisions based on a past that was in no way her fault nor within her control.

I found the ending satisfying. It was neither a depressing ending nor a Hollywood happy ending, but a glimpse of hope for any young reader in this situation. Despite the “school inappropriate” content, I can think of many students I’ve had over the years—and even peers I attended high school with—who could have benefitted from reading the book to realize they are not alone in their suffering and their struggle.

For those who never found themselves in a situation like Charlie’s, the book could be an eye-opener. What struck me was the impact that “helpers” had on Charlie. From time to time, characters would take small steps to help her, from offering her some food to offering her the chance to sit in on an art class, or even buying her clothes or helping her move into a one-room apartment, every little thing meant something to her. When we constantly hear negative stories in the news, it’s easy to fall into the beliefs that our kind actions don’t matter; but as the book demonstrates, kindness spreads easily and is necessary to help everyone reach their full potential.

Other books reviewed in this YA book club:

Book Review: 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Wolves Don’t Knock by Cathy MacKenzie

September 28, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s theme is “monster,” to be interpreted in any way. Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who is hard at work finishing her first (and only) novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK. The following is an unedited excerpt from Chapter 3 of the book.

WOLVES DON’T KNOCK: Expected publication date: November 1, 2017.

***

Miranda carefully shut the door behind her. She must not disturb Paul.

Despite wanting to flee far away from the cabin as quickly as possible, she paused to inhale great gulps of crisp woodland smells. The fresh scent of pinecones brought forth memories of Christmas. She exhaled, watching her breath spiral like smoke from a chimney and then vanish.

The wood pile, overflowing with logs for the stove, looked smaller surrounded by clusters of snow that remained after the milder temperature the previous day. Trees around the property, taller and thinner, appeared eerie in the dim light. Paul’s battered pickup truck sat by the cabin. Why hadn’t she snatched the keys?

Paul allowed her outdoors every few days, when he freed her from the chains, but she knew better than do anything foolish. She couldn’t jeopardize the little freedom he gave her. She relished those times—and others in the cabin—when she felt free, for her captivity could have been much worse.

Had it been that long since she had been outdoors, or had the chill changed the surroundings? Everything once green looked dried-up dead. Most of the snow had melted or Paul would be able to track her footprints.

The moon hovered, illuminating her path to freedom—if she could find the path.

The shed! She must investigate the shed.

Owooooo!

She froze. Had he woken? Was he after her? The wolf? More than one?

The shed forgotten, she raced through the woods until she couldn’t run any longer. Gasping, she leaned against a tree in a vain attempt to fade into the blackness and ignore sets of eyes that watched from behind every object.

Shivering, she jerked the threadbare sweater around her chest, her hands resting across her stomach. Her baby. Kevin would be—what? Five? Six? Seven? She shook her head. She could ponder later.

Where was the road?

She glanced around. Too many paths. Which way? And where would they lead?

She shuddered and swiped her hand under her runny nose. She didn’t know the time when she escaped, but it had been closer to morning than midnight. How long had she been outside? Three hours? Four? Frostbite worried her. The night had grown colder. The nubby wool sweater with its overstretched sleeves hanging below her hands didn’t afford much protection, but she had seized the chance when it arrived, not wasting time searching for proper clothing. Thankfully, despite wearing sneakers, her feet were dry. Nothing was more uncomfortable than wet feet. Not that comfort concerned her. She was elated to be out. To be free.

Ahhh wooo!

She jumped at the sudden sound. An animal? Wolves?

Not Paul. Paul the animal would have pounced long ago.

The cold, dank night seemed never ending. Eyes tailed her, glowing in the dark. Lights, white and yellow.

Inch by inch, the moon disappeared, allowing the sun to rise. Cousins trading places. Light overtaking dark. Monsters soon to be revealed for what they were.

Tree limbs lay on the crusty snow. A miracle she hadn’t tripped over them. She discovered a strength she thought lost and sprinted from one tree to the next like a rabid rabbit running from a wicked wolf. She would run for a few minutes, take shelter behind a tree, peer around to ensure the coast was clear, and flee to another tree.

Eventually, she would reach a road and find people. She had to believe that; she had believed that for the previous few hours.

While she mumbled prayers, Paul’s words rattled in her mind. “I’m Paul Wolf. That’s all you need to know.” She would never forget those first words out of his mouth and ones that followed about death to loved ones if she tried to escape. She hadn’t wanted to endure more death. The death of her father had been horrid enough, but selfishly she was relieved he was gone—if one believed, to a better place—because he would be ashamed of her.

Paul had moulded her the way he wanted, but she kept enough of herself intact. She endured pain at his hands but learned to co-exist, and thoughts of escape faded while endless days merged into endless weeks and weeks into nameless months. How long had it been? How many years?

When she had been home, before being taken, the odd news reports broadcasted abductions, and rarely had results been good. Paul ensured she had food and allowed her input into the grocery list. At the beginning, he regularly forced himself on her but those incidents gradually lessened. The more he ignored her, the nuttier and crazier he became. Had she turned into a nutcase as well?

Days had been so foggy she wondered if she would ever see clearly. And nights were worse when wolves surrounded her, chased her, howled. Ahhhh woooooooo!

She patted her pocket, which gave her comfort. The photograph she kept hidden. Paul had never found it.

When she glimpsed a road between the trees, she stopped to catch her breath. At the sound of a vehicle, she slipped behind a pockmarked pine and watched the car zoom by. Her stomach sunk.

No, all was okay. She would wait for the next car. The sun had fully risen, and she would see a vehicle in the distance and discern if it was Paul. If not, she would chance that, if he followed, he would be on foot, but she prayed he remained passed out on the floor. Time was running out. The cold would kill her if he didn’t. She must flag down the next vehicle. If he wasn’t already after her, he would soon be waking, and she had to be far away before then.

Minutes passed. Or was it hours? Snowflakes swirled. She stopped, sticking out her tongue to catch them. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth was.

A vehicle! She dashed into the road, flailing her arms like a crazy person. The driver might run her down, thinking she was a crazed individual, or the driver could be Paul. Either way, she would be dead, but she had to chance it.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco. http://www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/

 

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none

Fantastic Friday: Capsuling Hope

September 22, 2017 No comments

Last year, I read an article in National Geographic magazine about Emily Briere, an aerospace engineering student who started a student-run project to send a small time capsule to Mars. Her goal in orchestrating the project is for future generations of humans who live on Mars to see what we are like here on Earth, today. (You can learn about the project at http://www.timecapsuletomars.com/)

In many ways, this reminds me of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, a vault located close to the North Pole, the purpose of which is to store seeds to ensure a diversity of species in case of a human or natural disaster. (Learn more at https://www.croptrust.org/our-work/svalbard-global-seed-vault. ) When I first saw a picture of the vault’s magnificent entrance, I felt waves of emotion.

IMG_9524In both these instances, I see the same hope that we have when planting a tree: in many cases, when we plant a tree, we know we won’t be living in that area—or living at all—once the tree reaches its full height. But we plant the tree anyway, hoping to improve that particular yard, lot, property, or planet, knowing deep down that there will be others there to enjoy it.

When the news often likes to show all that is negative about our world and our politics, it’s easy to forget that most of what individuals do is done with great optimism. The reason we save money or make home improvements or plant a garden or a tree or a flowerbed is because we have hope for the future. Emily Briere is working on her time capsule because she has hope and faith that one day, humankind will arrive on Mars. The seed vault is more of an insurance policy, but it works with hope as its underlying driver: even if there is a natural or human-made disaster, it presumes that there will be humans left to rebuild the planet the way it needs to be, with plenty of plant diversity.

When life gets me down, I try to think about the reasons I don’t eat an entire pizza at once or spend all my money or fail to water my plants. It’s not habit or routine or fear: it’s a driving sense of hope that the actions I’m taking now will have positive repercussions in the future.

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: Monster by Val Muller

September 21, 2017 No comments

This month’s theme is “monster,” to be interpreted in any way. This week’s story comes to us from Val Muller, YA author of The Scarred Letter and The Girl Who Flew Away, both discounted to $2.99 for the rest of the month.

Monster by Val Muller

The end of the fiscal year coincided with the chill in the air, even in the streets of Washington. It was almost like the decaying leaves piling in the country out west sent their ghostly miasma in with the commuters. That chill, that scent of decay spoke of the thinning line between living and dead, that boundary that would continue to thin as department stores threw up Jack-o-Lantern decorations and trees threw off the last of their leaves.

Something about that thinning line sent a chill into Daniella’s spine, and it froze and hardened a piece of her soul. On September 1, she’d been all smiles when Timothy asked to telework because his daughter had a sudden case of strep. On September 2, she let Marie go an hour early to check on a sick puppy. That Friday, the one before Labor Day, she told everyone to go home an hour early.

“Happy Labor Day,” coworkers chanted as they hurried down the hallway toward weekend plans.

“Happy closeout month,” she responded, her fingers tapping behind her back. “The fun begins Tuesday.”

At barbeques that weekend, employees joked with family and friends about Daniella’s demands for year-end closeout.

“At our staff meetings, she said we may have to work twelve-hour days.”

“She’s threatening to make us come in on Saturdays.”

“And Sundays.”

It was met with laughter, then forgotten as fathers played catch with sons and mothers went with daughters for a last dip in the pool.

But in a lone apartment, not a mile from the office, sat a husbandless, childless soul. Her fingers folded in a tent in front of her as she thought about the month ahead. Everyone would be working late. In her mind, there were already parades of memos, lists of funding documents, and hourly meetings. They would all have to check in with her before they left, and only at quitting time would she tell them that they had to work late.

They’d have to arrange last-minute babysitters. They’d have to miss soccer games and youth football. Mommies would have to explain to children that there were just some things more important than storytime with daddy. And daddies would have to explain to neglected children why mommy wouldn’t be there for birthday parties.

In the corner of Daniella’s darkened apartment, a blue screen glowed. It was still open from the atrocity she saw this morning on Facebook.

Jerry.

They’d had a brief fling in college, but he left her to seek “more fun, less serious.” Somehow, she always thought he’d be back. How could he choose some floozy over her rigidly-straight GPA, her list of extracurriculars, her reputation as drill sergeant of the women’s cross country team? He had made a terrible mistake. In every country music song—like the one playing on repeat from the computer, the one preventing the screen from dimming—she heard the hope and sorrow of their relationship. She knew he’d be back for her one day. His breakup had been a mistake he’d yet to realize. His marriage was something he’d been coerced into. It had always been only a matter of time. She’d waited years already and was prepared to wait more.

But now, this.

Jerry was a father.

His baby’s newborn eyes plastered all over her Facebook feed. The infant’s smile was a punch in the gut. Why, he hadn’t even posted that his wife had been pregnant! So smug, keeping that their private little secret like they were in some kind of exclusive club. And there went that. With an infant’s smile, there went her excuse, her reason to ignore the dating scene. There went her nightly fantasies, her frequent hopes that his status would turn to “single” and she’d be welcomed back into his life.

Gone.

The cold front seeped into her soul. She thought of the office, of Brittany’s baby shower and Harold’s office bachelor party. They were smug too, weren’t they? Making their plans. Having their weddings. Prioritizing their families. Not even thinking of the office, were they? Of the cold, beautiful symmetry of it all. The same 72 degrees all year. The same lighting. The same sterility. She’d bet none of them were even giving the office a second thought.

Let them all enjoy their weekend.

On Tuesday she would have them.

That Saturday she tried three new hairstyles. She went jogging and shot disgusted looks at the family of five taking up the entire sidewalk with training wheels and strollers. On Sunday she went to the salon for an impromptu haircut, but a wailing toddler and his obnoxious brother ruined the mood, and she went home with her outdated coif. On Monday she tried a new makeup regime and went shopping, but a gaggle of mothers was standing near the clearance rack, comparing toddler bedtime routines and little league scores.

With each foiled attempt, the monster grew in her soul. Her heart hardened and chilled, and she couldn’t wait for the memos that would come. She couldn’t wait to tell them about their mandatory one-hour lunches. That way, they’d be able to stay for the daily 5:00 meeting and still have half an hour to spend at her command. She’d string them along like fish, luring them with the hope of an on-time departure from the office. And she’d come in for the kill. She’d already planned the dates they’d stay late: she’d know, from the very second they set foot in the office. She couldn’t wait to walk through the cubicles, her monster feeding the anticipation that would be nearly tangible in the air. They would have no idea until her evening meeting, no idea whether they’d be dining with their families or eating out of the vending machine again. Their suffering fed her monster.

The monster’s claws emerged that week, and each memory of Jerry grew into a hardened bone, a serrated tooth, a beastly horn. During the third week, John shuffled into her office, a folded note in his hand. It was a letter from his wife, one he promised her he’d deliver. It stank of desperation, and she chewed her smile as John watched her read the list of complaints. He was like a sheepish child delivering a note to a teacher. What, did his wife own him? It was written in bubbly handwriting: Couldn’t John please come home on time? The children missed him and she was losing her mind, living like a single mother of three. Couldn’t Daniella see her way to letting him telework, from home, after the kids were in bed?

“We’re all in this together,” she said to John, her lips pouting for him. “And I’m afraid tonight is going to be a late one.”

* * *

The second Saturday in October, Daniella walked to the base of the Washington Monument. Fiscal close-out was done, and with all the free time afforded by the on-time departures from the office, she had joined an online dating service. Jerry would have to be replaced. And she had so much to offer. If only she were given the chance, she could run a household with the iron fist with which she ruled her office.

The man waiting there looked every bit as good as he did in his picture. He smiled at her, but when she smiled back something faded on his face. She knew in an instant he wouldn’t contact her for a second date.

What was it that chilled him to the prospect of a life with Daniella? Perhaps he feared her ramrod-straight work ethic, or her love of her job. Perhaps her role as Boss intimidated him. As she walked home alone and scowled at two kids screaming in a pile of leaves at the edge of a park, the chill of autumn bit under her jacket, and she shuddered. She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he feared the monster, the one that had taken residence in her soul.

* * *

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Dorothy Colinco: www.dorothycolinco.com

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/

autumn, flash fiction none

Writer Wednesday: My Reading Nook

September 20, 2017 No comments

Hearing about the terrific destruction of the recent hurricanes has made me think more carefully about my house. What I took for granted only a few weeks ago now seems palatial. I recently read a post by Nick Maley, the talent behind the “That Yoda Guy” exhibit in St. Maarten. In the brief post—there is no electricity to charge devices there—he wrote about the extensive destruction of the hurricane and about the grocery stores now essentially under martial law to prevent looting. It made me really appreciate the safety of my own home and the resources of my pantry.

In fact, as a result, I’ve been having dreams about my house and simply appreciating how safe and comforting it is. In one dream, we somehow decided to sell the house, and I was running around looking at all I would miss. I think all the news about the hurricane has made me consider what it would be like to lose my home. I woke up with a new appreciation of my space. That made me think about a room I’ve been imagining for a while now.

In my current reality, my toddler has made my ideal reading space the bathroom floor as I monitor her during bathtime (I have to limit myself to books that can be read while keeping half an eye on her at all times). However, I often fantasize about when she gets a little older and allows me more time to read. I wonder about the furniture we might buy once she is finished coloring on everything.

I have often fantasized about having a “Halloween room.” Halloween has always been my favorite holiday, and while I don’t imagine the room being completely black and orange, I want it to have that Gothic, Halloween feel to it. Something about autumn and a bit of creepiness puts me in the mood to read and write.

I’d want the lighting to be low, so I’d choose a decorative wall sconce like this:

Since I’m a writer, my ideal space would have a writing desk. Something not too big or distracting, but something with a little umph. And of course, keeping with the Halloween theme of my ideal nook:

While I’m a big fan of sectionals, I would prefer an individual chair of some sort, something to tell other family members that reading/writing time is not to be interrupted. I’m thinking something like, only in black (and the dog in the picture would be replaced by my corgis):

But I would put it in a corner, and I would enclose it in a gossamer curtain of fairy lighting. Something like this:

Speaking of mirrors, I think I’d add one. Mirrors are always a little creepy, and a Gothic frame would help give my reading room the creepy edge that helps spark my creativity. Maybe something like:

Not too big, of course. Just something to put in the corner to catch the twinkling fairy lights and add a bit of adrenaline-inspired creativity.

And perhaps out of practicality, I might have to build a custom shelf myself, but I would love if the entire back of the room were filled with shelves because I literally never have enough space for my books: they end up double- and triple-stacked. But a girl can dream of being able to afford something like this:

I do think my Halloween nook will one day come to fruition, but that day is measured in decades, not hours. For now, I enjoy the soft plushness of a Peppa Pig towel and the ambient background noise of toddler, ducks, and boats splashing in the tub while the occasional splash of water dots the pages of my book, and pages turn against the gleeful giggles of a child.

Barking Rain Press is featuring all books and ebooks at a 50% discount for the rest of the month. The sale The Girl Who Flew Away covereven extends to Overdrive, the system that allows schools and libraries to purchase ebooks for patrons. If you haven’t already checked out The Scarred Letter or The Girl Who Flew Away, now is the chance to do so for the price of a pumpkin spice coffee 🙂

inspiration none

Fantastic Friday: Swimming in Kindness

September 15, 2017 1 comment

As the end of summer draws near, I wanted to share one of my favorite news stories from the season.

It seems that hatred is so contagious, and the media seems to ignite the worst feelings we have. For several days this summer, I avoided social media: after the violence in Virginia in August, it seemed even friends were attacking each other online, saying things that shocked me and things they would likely not say in person. It’s one of the reasons I post this Fantastic Friday feature. Kindness is contagious, too—it’s just not as virulent as its opposite. My hope is that by sharing positive stories and observations, I can do my small part to make this world just a bit better.

So it brings happiness to me when I read a story like this one. In Minnesota, a 94-year old man named Keith Davison recently lost his wife of 66 years. After suffering the terrible loneliness that followed, he decided to reach out to others. He built an expansive in-ground pool and allows the neighborhood kids to swim in it all summer long (under their parents’ supervision, of course). Though he doesn’t have grandchildren of his own, the kids of the neighborhood have become like family.

While we’re not all lucky enough to have a neighbor who can build us a pool for the summer, the spirit of what he did is one I like to keep in the back of my mind. Mr. Davison solved a personal problem by reaching out to do something for others. Whether it’s holding the door for someone, letting someone merge into the lane without aggression, “paying it forward” at a drive-thru, or leaving a kindness rock for a complete stranger to find, small acts of kindness can be the thing that makes someone’s day, the thing they think about with a smile before falling asleep.

 

Fantastic Friday none

Writer Wednesday: Fall for Reading

September 13, 2017 1 comment

One of my favorite things about autumn is the “back to school” feel. Something about cooler temperatures, sweatshirts, blankets, and warm beverages makes me think of cuddling up and reading.

In fact, one of my friends recently posted on Facebook, asking for recommendation for good books. I was heartened by the number of responses. It’s heartening to hear people so passionate about books they enjoyed.

I am finishing two book club reads this month and a few books of my own choosing–September seems to be the month to load your ebook, with many publishers having sales on ebooks. I recently purchased Starting Over by Sheri S. Levy and The Spirit Tree by Kathryn M. Hearst, both discounted. I look forward to reading them.

(One of my publishers, Barking Rain Press, is featuring all books and ebooks at a 50% discount. The sale The Girl Who Flew Away covereven extends to Overdrive, the system that allows schools and libraries to purchase ebooks for patrons).

I’m excited for a local festival: the Eat Local, Read Local festival and book sale. I’ll be there reading excerpts from Corgi Capers, and of course I’ll have all my young adult favorites for sale, too: The Scarred Letter, The Man with the Crystal Ankh, and The Girl Who Flew Away.  

Hopefully, everyone is staying safe from fires, floods, and wind. Please feel free to share in the comments: regardless of genre, what is a good book you would recommend to a friend?

autumn, books none

Fantastic Friday: Flash Fiction–Toddler’s New Friend

September 8, 2017 No comments

This post comes when some parents will be glad that school is back in session–and teachers will remember just how hard their jobs are.

Earlier this year, I attended a writing workshop, and we were asked to respond to several prompts in a compressed amount of time—around five minutes.

One of the prompts was a picture, featuring a toddler freaked out by a bird sitting on her head:

http://twentytwowords.com/toddler-freaked-out-by-a-bird-on-her-head/

Photo from: http://twentytwowords.com/toddler-freaked-out-by-a-bird-on-her-head/

http://twentytwowords.com/toddler-freaked-out-by-a-bird-on-her-head/. We had five minutes to write.

Naturally, my mind turned to my own toddler. In trying to describe what it’s like to watch a toddler all day, I often compare it to watching a drunk person: They are often entertaining. Indeed, I find myself laughing out loud at her sometimes. They make bad decisions and don’t think through consequences. They leave a lot of messes, including losing control of bodily functions. After a while, they get annoying and need a bit of a sleep.

I’ve read many articles insisting that none of the toddler behavior is intentional—that toddler brains are simply still developing, and what we see as belligerence is just their way of interacting with the world and learning/understanding rules and boundaries. But when my toddler holds a shovelful of sand up to her mouth and looks me in the eye—and then shoves it in her mouth when I say “no”—I can’t help but think there’s at least a bit of intentionality about it.

To entertain myself, I often think about the voice that would emerge if toddlers were articulate. Sort of like Stewie Griffin (but less evil). So here, as part of that entertainment, is the voice that emerged from the picture.

It was bad enough when Mommy took away the cheese grater I snatched from the dishwasher. So shiny and textured. Why would she put it in there if she didn’t want me to have it?

Why would she have anything that she didn’t want me to have?

Then came lunch. Baked beans. Baked beans? What was she thinking? Three boxes of fruit punch Go-Gurt, and she tries to give me baked beans! You know those were headed straight for the floor. She might have saved time by flinging them there herself.

I won’t even get into the indignities of naptime that followed. What does she think, she runs this place? And this phrase “You need sleep, I need a break,” what is that?

Meh, naptime just gives me time to plot.

I’d seen the birdie for a while now. It kept coming to the back door and pecking at the piece of doggie food I stuck in the doggie door. Mommy said not to touch it, that it had to stay lockie-locked. And that birdies are dirty and dangerous.

Well, I’ll show her. The lockie-lock is easy to unhook. Even a baby could do it.

Mommy, mommy, look at my new friend!

Fantastic Friday none
Powered by WordPress Web Design by SRS Solutions © 2025 Val Muller Design by SRS Solutions