Hindsight

Why are the Irish such stubborn asses?

Don't get your dander up, lads, I'm including myself in that generalization. Perhaps you'd feel better if I labeled the behavior as tenacious. That has a more pleasant ring, aye?

According to an online dictionary:
To be tenacious is to be persistent, determined, unyielding, steadfast.

To be stubborn is to be obstinate pigheaded, difficult, contrary.

(Interesting to note that the online resource uses tenacious to describe stubborn, but not the other way around.)

I suspect most of us would prefer to be labeled steadfast rather than pigheaded. In practice, I suppose they are pretty much the same, stubborn and tenacious. The next time I am tempted to be obstinate and contrary, I'll make a concerted effort to be unyielding and persistent instead. I wonder if anyone will notice a change in my demeanor. I'll keep you posted on that.

Anyway, back to me countrymen. Why so stubborn, I mean tenacious? Could it be the result of hundreds of years of English oppression? (Sorry, blokes. I know you get tired of hearing that, but you brought it upon yourselves.) Perhaps it stems from years of famine, poverty, slavery, and war. Surviving such dreadfully abominable circumstances no doubt cultivated resilience in the Irish. Making it through hundreds of years of heinous treatment certainly required tenacity. Perhaps they even had to be stubborn.

Only rarely have I exhibited such behavior. It's not in my nature to be stubborn.

Just kidding. I'm downright pigheaded about most things. I forego tenacity and head straight for full-blown stubbornness. I believe in doing things all the way. A prime example: I said I'd never hire an editor. I had what I considered to be some pretty darn good reasons, too. I was most certainly obstinate whenever a friend or acquaintance even broached the subject. I wasn't going to give a complete stranger the reigns. God knows what they'd do. Probably delete all the cursing and water down the cheap sex. I couldn't let that happen.

Turns out Stephen King said, "To write is human. To edit is divine." I saw the quote on Goodreads and harrumphed it, but it stuck with me for a few days. I realized that if Stephen King thinks that highly of the process of editing, then I'd better reevaluate mine. Thank you Mr. King for the slap upside the head. I appreciate it more than I can articulate.

Through the generous help of a kind friend (Christine Green), I connected with NY editor, Nina Alvarez. Wow. What an invaluable and constructive process this editing thing has been. I was quite literally sick just thinking about handing my manuscript to an unknown person, who I imagined held a great big red pen ready to strike out this and delete that. I couldn't have been more wrong. I now appreciate and recognize the importance of the crucial skills the right editor can bring to the table. Nina is teaching me to step outside the story and see what's really there, instead of what I think is there. It's been eye-opening. Exciting, too.

Nina's wisdom and patience are just what the doctor ordered. Not only is she incredibly supportive, but she drops brilliant snippets of truth about the craft of writing that illustrate her understanding and experience. Please indulge me while I share two:

Her response to my frustration with finding a perfect ending:
"Go back and find the clues you left yourself. The ending is there, just waiting for you to find it."

Her description of drafts:
"The first draft is you telling the story to yourself. The second is you telling the story to your readers."

I wish I hadn't been so stubborn regarding editors in the past. However, I'm glad that Stephen King's comment about the subject danced across my computer screen. It has forever changed the writing process for me - in all positive, constructive ways. My sincere thanks to Christine Green for her willingness to share. Some people would want to keep Nina's talents for themselves, but Christine's heart is too big for such foolishness. My deepest gratitude and appreciation for Nina's honest insights and observations. The final product is going to be so much more than I'd have been able to accomplish without her guidance and direction.

Enough of the gushy stuff, I mean you'd think I was writing an acceptance speech. Perhaps I'll need this crap when I win the coveted Most Tenacious, Pigheaded Irish Wench Award.

The Fever Finally Broke

After a week of hell, the fever finally broke!! The flu still has the upper hand, but I'm making a slow come back. I managed to stand for 90 minutes late this morning, tinkering in the kitchen, before having to lie down for two hours. I also made baked ziti for Lauren... and then headed straight for the sofa. After an hour or two, I found the strength to make it to my desk.

Tomorrow will be better. I should be back to full strength in a few days. Thanks for asking.

Now that the fever is gone and my thoughts are sort of normal (don't expect miracles, okay?), I'm rethinking the title for book #3. After my last post, in which I proposed

Southernmost Invasion: The Swarm

one of my friends private messaged me. She said the title sounds like science fiction and she has a valid point. I don't want potential readers to think it's about a swarm of killer bees or tropical zombies.

Back to the drawing board? I don't know. Perhaps either Southernmost Invasion or The Swarm would be good....maybe putting them together pushes it over the science fiction edge. Your feedback is needed now more than ever!

On a side note, I had a conversation with a grown man today that you wouldn't believe if I testified about it in a court of law. I promise you this: the jackass and his heartless, selfish comments will be included verbatim either in book #3 or #4. If I can work the scene into book #3, I certainly will do just that. Then I will gift wrap a copy and hand deliver it to the donkey with said passage highlighted. Perhaps I'll add his email as a footnote, so that any reader who finds themselves moved by his callous, half-witted, short-sighted, malicious drivel can afford themselves the opportunity to drop him a line. 

I shudder to think this "human" is responsible for raising three sons and I pray to Allah, Jehovah, Waheguru, Elohim, Vishnu, and Baby Jesus that they are somehow spared from becoming a soul-less ghoul like their father. One such man on Earth is more than humanity can handle.

I relish the opportunity to share the exchange with you. Your cute little mouths will drop open, drool will escape and drip onto your lap, causing you to wipe your slobber with the back of your hand before you wipe it on your pant leg. Then your mouth will drop open again, repeating the sequence. Ahhh, yes. Good times.

Thank you, Mr. Ignoramus Lunkhead, you discourteous twit, for providing what is sure to be a memorable segment in my next novel. Writers rely on harebrained nincompoops such as yourself for fodder.

Where's the NyQuil?!?

Great Potential

Wow! You guys don't disappoint, that's for sure. I asked for editor referrals. Bam! I asked for title suggestions. Bam! Bam! Bam!

Thanks to the treasured advice from my friend, Christine Green, I have partnered with editor Nina Alvarez. She hails from Rochester, NY, and I think we make a good fit. Nina's been editing for several years and has some great success to show for it. I'm excited to have her onboard with this project. (I can't believe I hired an editor. It's exciting and unnerving. I swore I'd never do it.)

If you're a regular visitor to this blog, you may recall that Hellbent has been the working title of book #3. I like the name and it works with the story line, but there are at least a dozen other novels out there with the same title. The world doesn't need another.

You offered some amazing suggestions. Some were hilarious (thanks, Tiffany Paine), others quite nautical (thanks, Tim Farley), and some made sense only after a couple of glasses of wine (thanks, Lisa Perkins). After sorting through all of them, I have a tentative new title:

Southernmost Invasion: The Swarm

oooooo. I likey. Do you?

I've been battling the flu since before my last post, so I'll have to revisit this when the fever finally breaks. I liked the title Southernmost Swarm: The Invasion a little better at first, but I think it might be too hard for people to say. Please do me another favor and say it out loud. "Southernmost Swarm". Do it again. Is it hard to say? Does it sound odd? Now try doing the same thing with "Southernmost Invasion". Different experience, right?

To give proper credit:
 - Invasion was suggested by Marie Pauly

 - The Swarm was suggested by Tim Farley

(No, I don't play favorites to people whose last names ends with the "lee" sound.)

Thanks guys! You will both be officially thanked on the dedication page!

I added "Southernmost" to tie the title specifically to the Keys. Your thoughts on the new title are most welcome.

One blog post, some de-germing with Lysol, and it's back to the sofa I go. When will this damn flu ever end?

Be Nice and Find Me A Title!

I'm going to talk about a subject that most of you will shy away from. It's okay. I know that it makes people uncomfortable. No, it's not politics, because I hate that subject. Not religion either; I've already done that. It's not farts. People love talking about those. Well, at least my family does. I assume all families do. (That will be a topic for another day.)

Recently, I've been touched by the number of people who've contacted me to thank me for writing "Confessions of a Catholic School Dropout". Actually, I think shocked would be a more appropriate way to describe how they've made me feel.

There are a shit ton of women (hmm...there are a shit ton or there is a shit ton? I think "is".) out there who have pasts similar to my own. More than I suspected. Those that I've spoken with are grateful (their word, not mine) that I publicly owned my past and wrote about it for others to experience.

Stop rolling your eyes. I can see you. Does that make you nervous? Then be nice.

My past is exactly that. The past. As a small child, I was the victim of sexual abuse by a family member. Period. The end. I don't dwell on it because it's over. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed of it either. I didn't do anything wrong.

I'm not going to rehash all the stuff that's already been said about victims feeling guilty for their abuse. I'm sure you already know about all of that. It sure is weird, though. You know what's even more weird? There are adults who still blame the child for being abused. Yep, it's true. I just talked with one today. She's a grown-ass woman, married, with three beautiful baby boys. Her mother (and other family members) continues to blame her for the abuse she suffered as a child!

What the hell is wrong with people?!? I want to punch that poor woman's mother in the vagina. Repeatedly.

Okay, enough about that.


I've set an artificial date in my head for publishing the third book - which STILL doesn't have a title. The book is officially done, but I'm editing. Along those lines, I've decided to hire an editor. Yup, it's true! I'm biting the bullet and hiring someone who knows what they're doing. I've fought the idea for years, but I can finally admit that it's a necessity for a really well done novel.

Does this mean I'm growing as a person? (My closet sure says that I am.)

I hate asking for help and that's what hiring an editor feels like, which is why I refused to consider it for the first two books. Having said that, we all know that there were typos in both books and that there were some timeline issues in the second. I used to say that I was proud of the good and the bad in each book; that everything between the pages was mine. I didn't want an editor to be able to take credit for any part of what I'd written. I still don't, but I've decided that if I can find the right editor, I won't feel that way.

So...the search is on for a qualified editor that 1) I can work with; 2) I can afford; and 3) I can trust. Feel free to send recommendations or  - even better - offer your services.

For those of you who aren't editors/don't know any editors, you can help me with the book title....

The setting is the FL Keys (of course) during mini season. (That's a two-day affair during which people can fish for FL lobsters before the commercial season begins. Our islands are mobbed by people from the mainland. They are like locusts and leave a mess in their wake. Most locals hate mini season.) It's a story of life and death, love lost and found with a little bit of human trafficking thrown in for good measure. Some of the characters are despicable ghouls, others have questionable morals but are trying to become better people. It's my best story yet.

The damn title continues to elude me and I don't mind asking for help with this problem. What the hell am I gonna name this dang thing? Get busy and start thinking.

And, please remember to be nice. Just because Santa doesn't arrive for another 356 days, it doesn't mean you can be a dick.

Holding On Tightly

The subject of today's post has been on my mind now for a long time, years in fact. It's one that many of you have already dealt with and if you haven't, then it's on the horizon. It's about our children growing up and leaving home.

I suppose I'm beginning to understand why some folks (I never use that word because I dislike it. A lot.) don't thrill over the idea of Christmas the way I always do. I never understood it before, but it's becoming less of mystery as my babies grow up. This will be our third Christmas without our son. It sucks moose balls. There's just no other way to say it.

Christmas is an entirely different animal when one of your children can't be home to share it.

I refuse to allow this post to become a reflection of pre-menopausal emotions. Partly because I am, in fact, not suffering from that particular affliction. My body and I agreed years ago that I am not doing menopause. I'm just not. It's not mandatory and I refuse to participate in that crap. I don't believe in it, anyway. Back to the point, I don't want this post to be a puddle of shit during what is The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, so I won't drag out all my cry-baby thoughts about my children growing up and moving on.

However, I will take this opportunity to tell those of you who are still getting up in the middle of the night with crying babies or have toddlers in your bed, stealing the covers and kicking you in the bladder all night, that it goes fast. Too fast. Before you know it, they can drive and have the car on Friday night while you sit at home trying to remember where you put your social life. Then you remember that for the past sixteen years, your children were your social life. You have to adapt and change.

Its a time of change for all of us. Zak is a man. Grown and gone. Three years in the Navy and making his way in the world. Lauren is a sophomore. She drives herself where she needs to go and is already looking at colleges. I need old lady glasses to read my goddamn iphone and anything else that's not written in letters the size of walnuts. I've also discovered I snore, another sign of Father Time's shitty sense of humor. I have wrinkles that I can't see unless I take out my contacts, so I just don't bother looking in the mirror unless I'm wearing them. (If I can't see them, then they aren't there!) Then there's Doug, but he's been old since I was in high school. He can't hear shit but refuses to do anything about it. Instead of getting a hearing aid, we play the "Huh?" game after EVERY sentence that comes out of my mouth. Sometimes I just move my lips to make him think I'm talking and then refuse to repeat myself. I need entertainment, too.

In spite of these changes, I will never be old. I refuse to do that, just like menopause. I plan to live to be 120 years old. My kids know this plan very well. I will be 120, pushing Zak in his wheelchair - he will be 96. Lauren will be beside us with her walker. She will be 90. Doug probably won't be around, but we'll still make fun of him. While I'm happy to push his wheelchair, Zak will have to change his own diaper. Those days, like so many others, are over.

But we have the memories. Hold on tightly to your babies and relish this Christmas, whatever it brings.

Well that's odd....

Its an odd day no matter how I look at it.

It started with me having to drive my daughter to school; she usually gets picked up by a couple of hoodlums from the neighborhood but they were unable to get her today. When I stumbled to the bathroom to put in my contacts, I found the box empty. I tossed it in the trash and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet to pull out a new box of contacts.

There weren't any.

The contacts are gone.

Oh my. My vision is 20/225. That means at 25 feet, objects appear to my eyes as if they were 225 feet away. That doesn't make for save driving without some sort of eye correction.

I dug out an old pair of glasses. Not only are they hideously ugly (back in my Coast Guard days, we called glasses such as these "BC glasses"....as in birth control.), they aren't the proper prescription. No matter. I managed to drive the four miles there and back without incident.

It was raining lightly when we left for school and was pouring by the time we got back. That in itself is unusual for our island. It never rains here. It can be raining at the high school but will be perfectly dry and sunny here.

I came home and let out the dogs. They refused to go in the rain. What? Don't dogs love rain? Mine took one look out the front door and went back inside to sleep.

Everything is sticky. Not just sticky, gross and sticky. The humidity level must be maxed. My feet stick to the floor, my clothes feel damp, the dogs' fur feels damp and my fingers are sticking to the keyboard. Even the furniture is damp. I hate to close up the house and turn on the A/C again, because its only 72 degrees, but everything feels so gross.

Back to the oddness...

So, it's still raining. Hours of sold rain. We don't get that. As I looked out at the canal from the porch, I saw my poor little boat filling with water. Opps. I didn't cover it.

I ran outside to begin the bailing out. As I scooped water from the bottom and poured it over the side, I heard the unmistakable sound of dolphin exhaling. If you've ever heard it, you know exactly what I mean. I looked up and not far from the boat was a single dolphin. He eyeballed me and then dove. I waited and watched, occasionally bailing. He surfaced again, closer that time. I smiled and said hello. I asked him if he was enjoying the rain and he smiled before diving again.

Mr. Dolphin and I played that game until I was well beyond soaked through. He surfaced several times near the boat, never close enough to touch, but close enough that we spent several minutes just looking at each other. I suppose he wondered just what the hell this human was doing. He seemed curious. Just about the time I considered slipping over the side to join him, he showed me his tail flukes one last time and headed for Snake Creek.

I came back inside to get dry (that's not really possible today) and then called my eye doctor to order more contacts.

'I'm sorry, but you're due for your annual exam. We can't supply you with more contacts until you have another exam."

"But I'm completely out. I can't see to drive or work. Can't I buy a few pairs to carry me over until I can have an exam?"

"We don't usually do that."

(This is exactly what they did for me last time this happened.)

"What if I bring you some homemade fudge? Then would you do it?"

There was a long pause.

"How soon can you be here?"

It's only 9:41am and I've had lots of oddness. I wonder what else this day holds in store...

Food For Thought

Last week I attended the graduation of six of my former recruits. I was a proud Momma as I watched my babies stand before the community and receive their certificates. I'd be lying if I said I was I impressed with the way it was put together.... no honor guard and no bag pipes. Hello FKCC? My kids deserved better than the bush league ceremony that the college put together. My former supervisor didn't even know the names of the police officers that he was trying to introduce. I was embarrassed for him. Oh wait, no I wasn't. He showed everyone in attendance just what a donkey he really is. I may have smiled about it. A lot.

The purpose of the event was to celebrate the accomplishments of my babies and that's exactly what I did. They've come a long way from the day they stumbled into my office to hand in an application to the police academy. Wow. It's been a long ten months for them, but they are well on their way to bright futures. Congrats to them. They each made me very proud and I've no doubt that they will continue to do so. I look forward to rolling through Homestead/Florida City/Miami Dade and seeing them speed by in a patrol car.

On a related but different subject, I have decided not to pursue a career with the local law enforcement agency. Some of you think that a most unwise decision, but there's no way I could publish book #3 if I was on their payroll. I'd also have to seriously monitor what I publish on social media and we all know how difficult that can be for me. (Think back to the late July, voodoo doll fiasco.) I am who I am. I can't change it and probably wouldn't even if I could. I'm damn near 47 years old (how the flip did that happen??) and I don't enjoy the thought of returning to an environment where I have to bite my tongue, monitor every word that comes out of my face, and refrain from expressing my opinions. It wouldn't be worth the pay, the hours, or the irritation.

Fortunately, my Island Momma business has taken off like gangbusters, affording me the freedom to decline a more "traditional" means of earning a living. (I just looked up the phrase "coming on like gangbusters" on urban dictionary to learn about its origins...does anyone under the age of 70 say that? I mean other than me, of course.) I am fortunate and thankful to those who make this profession a wonderful way to support my family.

One of the greatest things about cooking for people is the ability to pick my hours. I don't have to miss important family events and I refuse to work holidays. My family time is so important. My baby girl is a sophomore in high school and I don't want to miss one minute of the time I have left. I can read the handwriting on the wall and that girl is destined for great things...but they won't be in the Keys. Her brains and talent will take her far away from this little island. I plan to do as much as possible with her before that happens.

I am very fortunate to be able to live the life I do. Thanks to those who make it possible, especially my husband Doug, who puts up with my latest and greatest most brilliant ideas and occasional mood swings (wink, wink...they might be more than occasional, but he's smart enough not to mention them). I know how lucky I am.