tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28869167149351456062024-03-13T23:15:02.185-07:00On Being Simply True"Some have relied on what they knew/Others on being simply true."
~ Robert FrostS Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.comBlogger391125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-77045362291944867262024-03-03T09:47:00.000-08:002024-03-03T09:47:49.218-08:00Remembering Harry<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_5Wtcrp4-jUaqwFIaBeceCDim69LR3m9grGV2o_rv47caC88z2Iru_4a6CX38E2nF8-fRLw3GfqH3ZmYHNBjZqw1aWLldG-mjdDVvOfF1NvQ9s-JolVP0VZWLzHPCh9p5ST9GsddspkcLsyVOlFCDWYl88yA2uboL8fnGpBbgHDYmUAn_QJpK5v2ol4/s1010/Harry%20Cauley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="975" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_5Wtcrp4-jUaqwFIaBeceCDim69LR3m9grGV2o_rv47caC88z2Iru_4a6CX38E2nF8-fRLw3GfqH3ZmYHNBjZqw1aWLldG-mjdDVvOfF1NvQ9s-JolVP0VZWLzHPCh9p5ST9GsddspkcLsyVOlFCDWYl88yA2uboL8fnGpBbgHDYmUAn_QJpK5v2ol4/s320/Harry%20Cauley.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Harry
Cauley—author <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bridie-Finn-Harry-Cauley-ebook/dp/B00A8OQ4OE/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1XO21PE0CGQ0T&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.-NIz3r86LTndJLE6p6pW0ZXH1Qpn63iMo9Nl-corstyQLkFHTh_W2BrWy_hglpRU.WRw-swUU_uzPn5-CVv_DX6w3Y22-LPhHJFT87OBqRVk&dib_tag=se&keywords=bridie+and+finn&qid=1709487802&sprefix=birdie+and+finn%2Caps%2C711&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Bridie and Finn</a></i> and the memoir, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Speaking-Cats-Harry-Cauley-ebook/dp/B00A8OPYI6/ref=sr_1_1?crid=V941PYKIUY98&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.IpaeChmBTIAEorxZry94G07f8VxEy8_8mxb7QY30Bqg.4RGAyWJDW-240oxFUOJzHwRtkTS_gEu1LUKmymVS0Iw&dib_tag=se&keywords=speaking+of+cats+harry+cauley&qid=1709487877&sprefix=speaking+of+cats+harry+cauley%2Caps%2C214&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Speaking of Cats</a></i>,
recipient of the Writers Guild of America Award and the W.H. Smith Fresh Talent
award in England, staff writer on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and several Carol
Burnett specials—died yesterday. He was 93.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In
recent years, as I have mentioned Harry to friends, I’ve been asked how I came
to know him. I get it. The question suggests no disrespect to me, I know, but…
How did I, from the very small reclusive sanctuary I have created for myself,
brush shoulders with someone who lived and worked and partied in Hollywood?
Well, I’ll tell you.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A
couple decades and change ago, a handful of other writers and I used to meet
bi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Sometimes the PR
person for the store would tell us, “I have a guest speaker for you,” and we
would be introduced to someone who was there to promote a book. I will never
forget the night we met Harry. He was there to talk about </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bridie and Finn</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">,
the rich, heartfelt novel he wrote—his first, written when he was sixty-five
and had retired from writing teleplays.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What
Harry said that night continues to resonate with me. I still have it in a
notebook: “Writing is the loneliest profession there is.” He went on to
elaborate on how difficult it is to sit alone in a quiet place—how intimidating
it is to face the blank computer screen, the blinking cursor—and begin to
compose a work of fiction entirely from scratch. Boy howdy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Harry
had no idea who I was that night, of course, and we didn’t really speak, other
than my sincere thank you as he was leaving. But fast forward a decade, and our
dear mutual friend, Peggy Jackson—PR person for Borders Books at the time—was having
lunch with me and another friend in Claremont, California.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Kay, I loved your memoir about your dogs,” Peggy said. “You remember Harry Cauley? He’s written a memoir,
Speaking of Cats. You would love it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
did read and love </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Speaking of Cats</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. So I reviewed it on Amazon. And
Peggy emailed Harry to tell him. And Harry emailed me to thank me for the
review. (What a classy guy!) And so it began, Harry and I exchanging emails
about books and writing and our love of cats and dogs and gardening.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Harry
lived in Cherry Valley, which is where I had planned to retire. When the time
came, I ended up in Calimesa, but I was 15 minutes away from his house, and our
emails became phone calls and visits. By then, his health was beginning to
decline, and, although he was still driving himself around town, he
occasionally needed help getting to appointments that were a freeway journey
away. When I drove him, he bought me lunch. Oh, the laughter over those
lunches! This man had 80 years’ worth of stories! About mowing Albert Einstein’s
lawn (because Harry was born in Princeton, New Jersey, and “the Einsteins”
lived down the street). About his stint in the army (“I tap danced my way
through the Korean War”—and he meant that literally). About his plays being
performed on Broadway. About the produce he would bring to rehearsals because
he had a vegetable garden and he loved sharing with his friends. About
celebrities—the truly nice ones (Carol Burnett), the “bitches” and the “s.o.b.s.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Harry
gave me unsolicited advice nearly once a week—how to train my dog (because he
never understood why Thomas wasn’t friendly), how to grow vegetables (as if I
hadn’t been doing that for decades), why I should stop looking for love from a
man (sigh), how to make soup (as I was making a pot of soup). And I listened,
whether I needed the advice or not. Because you don’t get as old as Harry
without becoming a deep repository of wisdom and truth.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
pandemic separated us. I didn’t see him for many months, though I left homemade
bread and cookies at his doorstep as often as I could. Fortunately, just months
before the lockdown, I drove Harry up to Living Free Animal Sanctuary in
Idyllwild where he adopted a beautiful black cat named Asher. Asher was his
only companion during all the months he was shut in, and we both often remarked
on the phone that Harry had selected “the perfect cat” from the dozens he
visited with that day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Asher
and Harry were separated when Harry went into assisted living a couple years
ago. Please don’t be sad for him; the “perfect cat” continues to be the perfect
companion for another human who needed him as much as Harry did.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
now Harry has left his physical shell and gone on to rejoin all the dear
friends and family members he has lost in nine decades. He lived an
extraordinary life, and he accomplished extraordinary things. Bravo, Harry.
Bravo.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhdTPrUUqxkAdbbGk8Y6A_Q18lK_RhXs3flv_i88JDka-c_E_Vtfe4cy52qNRW032ez9xWThIUGiCorCAwJKyWlXhIrhD4b_WVP2NXAxZM8QAttuPAmhIJuGPcMRhrAVWrpLT992EUzGY5ryWb_x9kXxRuAWNUR4OwRbcXndCpiWLIVYM0Id1Ig-S248/s400/Harry%20Asher%20One.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhdTPrUUqxkAdbbGk8Y6A_Q18lK_RhXs3flv_i88JDka-c_E_Vtfe4cy52qNRW032ez9xWThIUGiCorCAwJKyWlXhIrhD4b_WVP2NXAxZM8QAttuPAmhIJuGPcMRhrAVWrpLT992EUzGY5ryWb_x9kXxRuAWNUR4OwRbcXndCpiWLIVYM0Id1Ig-S248/s320/Harry%20Asher%20One.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-91645228153708824792024-02-18T16:03:00.000-08:002024-02-18T16:03:19.429-08:00This is Winter<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2IQV0XTsNpkc_PFPYFLUUiDXof006xsPre2vJSxGkFMGiRiuF-kHkrOF_D_HhwkexISRmGsbhFQ9OxEPhyphenhyphenMmxsdPIBkCz5aeKAKu2Y7CdlZumkUITQmKAU9xqO2iT_FkFyTj6KZfjRMeC5MyG13SsKhbHBLkex7966aZID3xZJC_kbIhf5Ib37SgqvY/s320/Blg%20winter%20peachtree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2IQV0XTsNpkc_PFPYFLUUiDXof006xsPre2vJSxGkFMGiRiuF-kHkrOF_D_HhwkexISRmGsbhFQ9OxEPhyphenhyphenMmxsdPIBkCz5aeKAKu2Y7CdlZumkUITQmKAU9xqO2iT_FkFyTj6KZfjRMeC5MyG13SsKhbHBLkex7966aZID3xZJC_kbIhf5Ib37SgqvY/s1600/Blg%20winter%20peachtree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>This is my peach tree, pruned and bare. Every night and every morning before dawn, in our forays into the yard for Maya's last potty, I stand on the walkway and stare at this tree (when I'm not staring at the stars), willing her to once again leaf out, then blossom, then bear fruit. "Stay strong, Peachtree," I tell her. But I know I'm really saying it to myself.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In her gorgeous memoir, <i>A Circle of Quiet</i>, Madeleine L'Engle writes of keeping herself from the darkness of depression by surrounding herself with "candles," as she calls them--those small artifacts in our lives that bring us the light of joy--books, songs, dogs, cats, tall trees, wild creatures, sometimes certain people.... This is my list, not hers. Like a squirrel gathering acorns in the fall, I gather these things around me to prepare for Winter's long nights, the lack of sunshine and warmth, the fleeting sense that everything else has died and death is inevitable and why not sooner than later? That last thought becomes more fleeting as the years pass. The light of my "candles" helps extinguish it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Winter isn't always dark. When not obscured by clouds, the sun's rays are present, albeit slanted, so that the sun shines <i>at</i> us instead of <i>on</i> us. It isn't hot, but on some days, boy howdy, it is bright. I live for these days, for long hikes with friends in cool temperatures, so I can experience this bliss:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdhiYzo-ngwJOTDkQcCSEfP1JS-f2FQpxGxdbFcplaoeZ85mRtJ7SsQXlIcWXL15t7svyqeJXvqw_L45r4bqMXYfeEGb_FUbwrBm03NYDSjunh14RmsN-GW9Yojc6j_w8T8DkxQ0sNYm1WsdgIBAuxQtWI6AIM_4CfL_cHf5-ZBYM6Y1GCjrnC7pZzLw/s320/Blg%20Mt.%20SA%20from%20Morton's%20Peak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdhiYzo-ngwJOTDkQcCSEfP1JS-f2FQpxGxdbFcplaoeZ85mRtJ7SsQXlIcWXL15t7svyqeJXvqw_L45r4bqMXYfeEGb_FUbwrBm03NYDSjunh14RmsN-GW9Yojc6j_w8T8DkxQ0sNYm1WsdgIBAuxQtWI6AIM_4CfL_cHf5-ZBYM6Y1GCjrnC7pZzLw/s1600/Blg%20Mt.%20SA%20from%20Morton's%20Peak.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGc0KuZbtX_tqsgwsB_Dzjg0bWrQ29WlOEu-nX6Qb6_kc7Xzigmwsf1fPaRVYAtjXsPQrZwevOGQw0rqkBPT8TX2eUF8IVnOOU1MAhrvxQcEbaGwUUazS0Xm7OqCAXyxu2lrZuBYYjf0n_N6eJEKUN4PolPiU6CSxfEXMPecCbHLh6OHQEWQI5fq9dA0/s320/Blg%20Winter%20valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGc0KuZbtX_tqsgwsB_Dzjg0bWrQ29WlOEu-nX6Qb6_kc7Xzigmwsf1fPaRVYAtjXsPQrZwevOGQw0rqkBPT8TX2eUF8IVnOOU1MAhrvxQcEbaGwUUazS0Xm7OqCAXyxu2lrZuBYYjf0n_N6eJEKUN4PolPiU6CSxfEXMPecCbHLh6OHQEWQI5fq9dA0/s1600/Blg%20Winter%20valley.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKZ2VSiilB_tG7HtgdaU1Ndwb3UJVy1qbGVOXFHnN0qzUtnXR7ezOGbG2vH8N8-LMgyH1NvYJdaRSwnW8oBODFYwvCV_2eGeFHahBb9YWjPKmygFEH164ovRmWU7hyKQKek8Totqqx4sxNo4sbqVmK_tyfRH3HzgTNg1uEPYq6JUVTZgwPe_lCJEhbe0/s800/K%20hikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKZ2VSiilB_tG7HtgdaU1Ndwb3UJVy1qbGVOXFHnN0qzUtnXR7ezOGbG2vH8N8-LMgyH1NvYJdaRSwnW8oBODFYwvCV_2eGeFHahBb9YWjPKmygFEH164ovRmWU7hyKQKek8Totqqx4sxNo4sbqVmK_tyfRH3HzgTNg1uEPYq6JUVTZgwPe_lCJEhbe0/s320/K%20hikes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And because some trees are bare... and the slant of the sun is what it is... we are gifted (if we walk through a woodsy canyon early) with sights such as this:</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJut7BN1mUrJbQW1jNV4s8GMp43368WpUK_wgmk4RxQQaHKMMYj2awv3ueorteDq-DxbjF4Wq_4yHx8iTvg7tFUJw725ZQcdcR_FhpKBuYogP2W4P61GnLs10pSP_ch_L378X0dmeejjaFthTqFF_Gu9Zt_xewrTV4TBNiR323BgSaRtCVZCHs88kVA4/s2016/Blg%20winter%20slant%20of%20light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJut7BN1mUrJbQW1jNV4s8GMp43368WpUK_wgmk4RxQQaHKMMYj2awv3ueorteDq-DxbjF4Wq_4yHx8iTvg7tFUJw725ZQcdcR_FhpKBuYogP2W4P61GnLs10pSP_ch_L378X0dmeejjaFthTqFF_Gu9Zt_xewrTV4TBNiR323BgSaRtCVZCHs88kVA4/s320/Blg%20winter%20slant%20of%20light.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Which brings to mind a few brief lines from Emily Dickinson:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>There's a certain Slant of light,/</i></span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Winter Afternoons - </i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The poet feels this slant of light "oppresses," but, all due respect to Miss Emily, for me, it blesses.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And Winter, my dear friends, is only twelve weeks long. I know. It seems to drag on, doesn't it? Much like the dog days of August....</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What else is there to do but be grateful in these brief weeks? For books and songs and good dogs and zany cats and the sudden sight of deer grazing in a meadow or a bobcat trotting shiftily across our path or a surprise letter in the box from a much-loved friend and the sweetness of an orange and the satisfying sip of pure Ceylon tea and the comfort of flannel against chilled skin and the brilliance of stars after a storm. I could go on. You make your own list, okay? Let's meet back here next December to compare notes.</span></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-80444809889375660452024-01-15T11:09:00.000-08:002024-01-15T17:29:59.827-08:00Leftovers<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpjziHP-lOYx8CO3Yc1nAjARLa7M0VzihJ0hfwchtnMci84LkvQMycWZrRzSp0cQZcCHbhYXzuZXQRaQVb7PJRdetGzcdJ0tTeEHzi2pK7zkyta-VGju_y5ms5k4B8wF0KeG97BfCb3RWxwiWZZupuKjdAqnqs0hlfzqV_D8axCm8Y2E_Lv4bZQoO74E/s640/Blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpjziHP-lOYx8CO3Yc1nAjARLa7M0VzihJ0hfwchtnMci84LkvQMycWZrRzSp0cQZcCHbhYXzuZXQRaQVb7PJRdetGzcdJ0tTeEHzi2pK7zkyta-VGju_y5ms5k4B8wF0KeG97BfCb3RWxwiWZZupuKjdAqnqs0hlfzqV_D8axCm8Y2E_Lv4bZQoO74E/s320/Blog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are two stuffies that belonged to Sgt. Thomas Tibbs within easy reach under my
bed (Blue Bunny and Fuzzy Dog). I see them every day, and every day I tell
myself, “I’ll pull those out and do something with them… tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thom’s
collar and leash still hang on the hook (which I installed seven years ago for
that very purpose) just inside the door to the laundry room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are three carrots in a plastic bag in the crisper of my refrigerator that have
been there for a month now. I need to get those out, too. Maybe take them to my
sister’s horse. Because what’s the point of peeling and chopping up a carrot if
your best boy isn’t there to share it with you?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s
why there’s a half of a bag of popcorn sitting on top of the fridge. I’m sure
it’s stale by now. I’d open a bag and sit down to watch TV, and before long Thomas
would come trotting out to the living room, those impossibly soft ears up, the
tip of his right ear flopping over. “Is there popcorn?” He could only have a
few pieces, so I’d try to eat as much as I could before he appeared, so I could
toss him a couple then make a big show of putting it away. “All gone, buddy. All
gone. Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are two plastic containers of very special dog treats—the ones Thomas could eat
that didn’t upset his very sensitive digestive system—sitting on the counter by
the pet food cupboard. Maya doesn’t care for them (because we are both
fortunate in that she can eat whatever she wants). How long will they sit there
before I can bring myself to do something with them? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A
week ago, while cleaning the kitchen, I moved all of Thom’s meds from the
kitchen counter and put them on the highest shelf in the pet food cupboard.
Why? I don’t know. By the time Maya needs any of them, they’ll be expired. But…
you never know.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
profile pictures on Google, Twitter, and Instagram are pictures of Thomas. My
profile picture on Amazon is a photo of me hugging Thom’s neck. When… how… do I
change those?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My little Ford Ranger--good old "Cloud"--is filled with Thom's floofy hairs. Everywhere. Between the seats, under the seats. There are even some behind the clear plastic dash cover. How the heck they crept in there, I'll never know. I've been saying for years that I would sell the truck when Thomas didn't need it anymore. But... sigh.... With it will go a thousand memories--mostly good, driving him around in it while he stared out the back window, curious about the world that he was too frightened to view walking in daylight. Some bad ones involving vet visits for a bad ear or his bad belly or his bad shoulder. Or shots. No more shots, Thom. No more terror heading into the vet's office.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
least for the foreseeable future, every day that I make a piece of peanut
butter toast for breakfast will be a sad one. Because that’s how I finally got
Tommy to take a treat from me. Every morning before work I would open the back
slider and try to coax him inside with pieces of toast. At first, I’d lay a
small piece of crust on the floor. But he was too wary to step over the
threshold to get it. He’d crane his neck as far as he could, snatch it up, then
run off to the yard to gulp it down. Finally one day, he put a foot in. Over
time, I moved the pieces closer to me in the kitchen. He would look at me, look
at the toast, and look back again, wondering if he could trust me. I ignored
him and drank my tea. Someone suggested adding peanut butter to the toast.
Total game changer. One day I looked up, and he was all the way in the house,
waiting by the kitchen counter for another bite of deliciousness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Seeing
him learn to trust was everything. Having him be comfortable living in the
house took another year or so. But peanut butter toast started the process. And
it became a special time of sharing for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
recent years, I would put a piece of bread in the toaster, and before long I
would hear his limping, old guy gait as he trotted slowly to the kitchen, those
goofy ears asking the question: “Is there toast? And can it please have peanut
butter? Please?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s
what I had for breakfast this morning. Peanut butter toast. Cheers, Tommy.
Someday all of this will get… not easier, but perhaps a bit less challenging.
And you, my sweet good boy—and all of your good successes—will never be
forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgQeujOftV9mNITCfb39Px6ee0E1KA1oekhWjwBv4pzRDbMtW3vX_X4R2IVYwi8Cz8hzGZ5ybMoD4lGeJwB8802BwFdRfywdFxkjOm39Y54_ZDuP90yw0qmiNN10lfnksQSQSVHXL0s_CNPNms2ydoVNQ7X5L2UWPEhO2BTAYPm54pPqvasqTv7RuHSI/s2048/Thomas%20checks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmgQeujOftV9mNITCfb39Px6ee0E1KA1oekhWjwBv4pzRDbMtW3vX_X4R2IVYwi8Cz8hzGZ5ybMoD4lGeJwB8802BwFdRfywdFxkjOm39Y54_ZDuP90yw0qmiNN10lfnksQSQSVHXL0s_CNPNms2ydoVNQ7X5L2UWPEhO2BTAYPm54pPqvasqTv7RuHSI/s320/Thomas%20checks.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-79468020085674619942024-01-10T09:45:00.000-08:002024-01-10T09:45:43.380-08:00Prey Drive<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2rwmsk8msvoo9uNNDicTVr4UxaeJTaoXsFaAxVQER3-mqr8qZAcMtRkX7ZhE72CKSjGsgN1-23zIBs04GS2YXEOg0B1H866CqOJ7Gerz8zTG3wi3NOh32wSKha5bPlqF8g9LxYrbY5NMqLnn2w_Cr1Zl9-SGG-9HPUbjrqJUomv37jLqmvoA189brGU/s640/Jenny%20helps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2rwmsk8msvoo9uNNDicTVr4UxaeJTaoXsFaAxVQER3-mqr8qZAcMtRkX7ZhE72CKSjGsgN1-23zIBs04GS2YXEOg0B1H866CqOJ7Gerz8zTG3wi3NOh32wSKha5bPlqF8g9LxYrbY5NMqLnn2w_Cr1Zl9-SGG-9HPUbjrqJUomv37jLqmvoA189brGU/s320/Jenny%20helps.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>She's definitely still watching for dangerous, snarling dogs.</i></div></i><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">First,
before I palaver on about prey drive in dogs, I want to express how grateful I
am for the many friends who reached out to me last week when I had Stevie the
Willful Dog here. It was an impossible situation, and extremely stressful.
Beyond that, Maya, Jenny the Cat, and I were still grieving the loss of our big
anchor, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Then the emergency situation with Stevie arose, and
we were thrown into chaos for a number of days. If you called, sent a text,
messaged me on Facebook, or simply commented with kind words when I posted about
having to rehome her, thank you. I appreciate your caring and support more than
I can say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Next:
Please don’t worry about that cute (and sassy) little lass. Stevie has moved on
to a home with stellar humans who have great pack leadership skills (and no
kitties, now or in the future) where she will be loved for the duration of her
life. Happy ending!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
for my pack: Stevie wouldn’t work because she has a very high prey drive. A
number of people have asked me what that is, so here is a brief explanation:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Puppies,
kittens, coyotes, bobcats, lions, tigers, and other predatory animals are born
with the instinctive drive to chase smaller moving animals that scurry or fly.
Thus, you can attach just about anything (including a paper wad) to a long
string, drag it across the floor in front of a tiny kitten, and be entertained
endlessly by the little fluff ball’s stalking, jumping, and attacking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the same way, if you roll a ball in front of a puppy, chances are the puppy
will at least follow it, though dogs have been domesticated to the extent that
some puppies will just sit and watch the ball roll, not really engaged beyond
curiosity. Other puppies, however, will somehow know that balls are for chasing,
and a few puppies will be convinced from a very young age that balls are for
chasing and killing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
a dog is young, this behavior can be encouraged (“Get it! Get it! Good boy!”)
or discouraged (“Good job getting the ball. Now drop it.”) Dogs, like children,
learn during play. If you give a toy to a dog with strong prey drive, then
cheer the dog on while it growls and shakes its head from side to side, you are
encouraging the same behavior that coyotes and wolves use to kill their prey.
That rapid head shake snaps the neck of the rabbit or squirrel—or small dog. Or
cat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I went to meet Stevie at the shelter, I was able to see her interact with
several other dogs, big and small, and she was good (although a bit
overbearing, due to her lack of manners) with all of them. But that particular
shelter does not “cat test” (which means taking the dog into an enclosure with
cats to see if there is “interest” of a predatory nature), so I knew I would
have to be cautious when introducing Stevie to Jenny the Cat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Good
thing I kept her on a leash. Her response was to lunge forward, stand on her
hind legs, snarling and barking, trying to reach Jenny where she sat on my dresser.
Yikes. I closed off the hallway with a gate so Stevie couldn’t get to Jenny,
and the next day, after Stevie had some time to adjust to the house, we tried
again. Same result. And later? Same result.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes,
over time and with training, I could have extinguished the behavior in Stevie.
But until that time, I would not have been able to trust her in the house alone
with the cat. Which would have meant that Jenny—who claims the house, the yard,
the patio, and the front porch as her domain—would have to be locked away in
the bedroom for the weeks or months this correction would have taken.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That
was not acceptable for either one of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
addition to all that, the entire point of bringing in a new dog is so that Maya
will have another anchor, another big sibling to help her feel safer and more
confident in the scary, peoply world. Maya found Stevie, with her need to jump
and play, and her lack of good manners, as irritating as an annoying little
sister.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
goal in getting Stevie out of the shelter was to right a wrong that had been
done to her. In the end, that goal was met when Stevie was embraced by the
folks who will now take over her training and care. Win-win. And when dogs win,
my world is a happier place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-73292071258424154042023-12-31T19:50:00.000-08:002023-12-31T19:50:08.893-08:00How Maya is Grieving<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbhrI4zdezzNEap5prakxS-k26BBPlIQYhecHehso7lKbX2S0_n_Fqc3aWog5a_Zij_Ki5FDcC0-iT7UYLbKu2yuCYgmke4g6T8-lbu9DvkNkA_lC2JONkMBX8pwyyVufNmU6tPprP_r1yj8t0YjIxS2xHxmnP5CiRj6As0LVJbrRPVeuH_CeBQ8-rSY/s400/Maya%20on%20Jessi's%20blankie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZbhrI4zdezzNEap5prakxS-k26BBPlIQYhecHehso7lKbX2S0_n_Fqc3aWog5a_Zij_Ki5FDcC0-iT7UYLbKu2yuCYgmke4g6T8-lbu9DvkNkA_lC2JONkMBX8pwyyVufNmU6tPprP_r1yj8t0YjIxS2xHxmnP5CiRj6As0LVJbrRPVeuH_CeBQ8-rSY/s320/Maya%20on%20Jessi's%20blankie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Maya Angelou Murphy</i></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A
number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since
Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they
sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night
since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and
she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could
also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under
the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother
cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maya
is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When
Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the
block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re
unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too
peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and
through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to
play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her
breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At
the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya
has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the
back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for
him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to
the den and curls up again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This
makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be
withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to
sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a
good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be
like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As
some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog
companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and
make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And
I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that
his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that
end….</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><Spoiler
alert: Big Announcement ahead></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest
shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me
assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do
know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be
changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able
to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new
little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I
can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be
sworn to lifelong secrecy.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For
now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent
weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging.
She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and
spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks,
though she would do for a namesake, too).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That’s
all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t
pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because
of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t
know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing
one more thing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You
may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth
is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine
are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things
are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my
mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new
situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over
here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny
or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt
exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10%
excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And
look what became of that.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just
reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under
the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home
that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the
floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of
joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias
speaking).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbNJ3s7aRZiOUmJk-P7ENds4isJREDjTSt8w90ry8GBy9BsYyU_8PuMpzMsHJQO1BlohtgKJKPwP1OT4tw80Iqbb1Yltbg9KVwSm46_YMyj7wJmMNMOpl-uJVHISgyY0KXYmnvc-JyWghsZD98Wd-JXKdAxnm3-gM1TK38bHny9wI6WAW-KxWp8n5Yak/s320/Stevie%20in%20jail%2012-28-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbNJ3s7aRZiOUmJk-P7ENds4isJREDjTSt8w90ry8GBy9BsYyU_8PuMpzMsHJQO1BlohtgKJKPwP1OT4tw80Iqbb1Yltbg9KVwSm46_YMyj7wJmMNMOpl-uJVHISgyY0KXYmnvc-JyWghsZD98Wd-JXKdAxnm3-gM1TK38bHny9wI6WAW-KxWp8n5Yak/s1600/Stevie%20in%20jail%2012-28-23.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-90327464981311188752023-12-20T09:58:00.000-08:002023-12-20T09:58:54.815-08:00Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhb1T3Cm20shR3zEAhWwABAnsAETTbzh31HQf0-1Rw5eEBUDFLeupPYIHq-b0g-jZ1IlJ34aMUOvkBn5qHbheZ15anI7KCxP9xIxHbfw2ZSJFAPA_2OpGA4cG8IQ42Ty2Yny0P28vid2-GIwhqVlvzkpL0Q_FVLJpOHcDchM19cekRc78kDg-HmSEd_eQ/s1492/Thomas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="972" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhb1T3Cm20shR3zEAhWwABAnsAETTbzh31HQf0-1Rw5eEBUDFLeupPYIHq-b0g-jZ1IlJ34aMUOvkBn5qHbheZ15anI7KCxP9xIxHbfw2ZSJFAPA_2OpGA4cG8IQ42Ty2Yny0P28vid2-GIwhqVlvzkpL0Q_FVLJpOHcDchM19cekRc78kDg-HmSEd_eQ/s320/Thomas.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5heJytDgQPVQ2Zxu45FCiD7Y1sscTjVboI4dheHMTlqxxQvCMDLLlNtkxeiDQvv4_HNc4PWuzcMXIZVWOJwyZENjYhihBDrrKX9I7FE78ns8azAf8acyyHr-GM5WuBYJfUPLBmFyUq6Akrl-ZqbgboNzfBixpJQ-3ex5cDlZZ0TxrF_VLCvWX8gIv8AU/s320/Thomas%20at%20first.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5heJytDgQPVQ2Zxu45FCiD7Y1sscTjVboI4dheHMTlqxxQvCMDLLlNtkxeiDQvv4_HNc4PWuzcMXIZVWOJwyZENjYhihBDrrKX9I7FE78ns8azAf8acyyHr-GM5WuBYJfUPLBmFyUq6Akrl-ZqbgboNzfBixpJQ-3ex5cDlZZ0TxrF_VLCvWX8gIv8AU/s1600/Thomas%20at%20first.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9MkKB_mfci0SGjd2RZJOcBJveGzyRi1gFB-NnaDh2OC-Q2Ij4HbOlc1OQ06DkMsLNIPcckmjEbvd-y-d0F_Ji4GpMY0ej6FRjWgtCoQpSt4sJbh-X8qPCA9XSp3SI054r9GgJcr2ok1sdB3-H5mcojmkzSVREwBiXXh3wQ462IzFIGtNuvYw2vAc32wE/s400/Thom%20sleeps%20w%20Bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9MkKB_mfci0SGjd2RZJOcBJveGzyRi1gFB-NnaDh2OC-Q2Ij4HbOlc1OQ06DkMsLNIPcckmjEbvd-y-d0F_Ji4GpMY0ej6FRjWgtCoQpSt4sJbh-X8qPCA9XSp3SI054r9GgJcr2ok1sdB3-H5mcojmkzSVREwBiXXh3wQ462IzFIGtNuvYw2vAc32wE/s320/Thom%20sleeps%20w%20Bunny.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99RMIL6BMePnnVKnLErtv0Wt7YFQnExMzVNLCY58XJIUQVVp8586OY_2gJtFi0gcjcqgwWP9TPc9Xyurddnu2YTxTDP8b39b7zB-u1AJ0MLsl0jmcGxqOYqqzhVFXi6kkPUwqKHbdC0fAcuxpKwDJ3Jlpckbts-xYmhWMnOHmiD5cUy5-DF88BjWI0Cg/s1783/Thomas%20nose%20to%20tail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1759" data-original-width="1783" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99RMIL6BMePnnVKnLErtv0Wt7YFQnExMzVNLCY58XJIUQVVp8586OY_2gJtFi0gcjcqgwWP9TPc9Xyurddnu2YTxTDP8b39b7zB-u1AJ0MLsl0jmcGxqOYqqzhVFXi6kkPUwqKHbdC0fAcuxpKwDJ3Jlpckbts-xYmhWMnOHmiD5cUy5-DF88BjWI0Cg/s320/Thomas%20nose%20to%20tail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAjF3B2ZW8dq2jv4JSyX-S4zE123nMfAWoYfZqhbUBje36GmvxIlKlAN3ByVDf2U1oRx9nkn5KQhk3xtp7U38M7UTYnzZIrbdwackDArT1rYRtBXg7C_BVbQ10mhaenB41x0JQdgztIXyo-T8DxNwPHOahW-YrHT-9OrxgTnbIJN7Cs6qHNJdbsxWOMc/s3264/Thomas%20in%20Cloud.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAjF3B2ZW8dq2jv4JSyX-S4zE123nMfAWoYfZqhbUBje36GmvxIlKlAN3ByVDf2U1oRx9nkn5KQhk3xtp7U38M7UTYnzZIrbdwackDArT1rYRtBXg7C_BVbQ10mhaenB41x0JQdgztIXyo-T8DxNwPHOahW-YrHT-9OrxgTnbIJN7Cs6qHNJdbsxWOMc/s320/Thomas%20in%20Cloud.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChOE1VzSg6nNC5Wd1OqEbswtrZagAWRPVzrQt3mRdthRClxJH0F6Joxm4KJ_B71dq7TYzB5i4nsApjXybHSTgbf1WMa5_D9n8ycuDAuzsCSUsYdYSaighJfJ3bbO3sStKaU6ccCU63G8xe3Y_Oln1X7sp3Nb1nnyONqhL-64F21x55QsaDBVgbHQVdNs/s400/Thomas%20spring%202020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChOE1VzSg6nNC5Wd1OqEbswtrZagAWRPVzrQt3mRdthRClxJH0F6Joxm4KJ_B71dq7TYzB5i4nsApjXybHSTgbf1WMa5_D9n8ycuDAuzsCSUsYdYSaighJfJ3bbO3sStKaU6ccCU63G8xe3Y_Oln1X7sp3Nb1nnyONqhL-64F21x55QsaDBVgbHQVdNs/s320/Thomas%20spring%202020.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLvlAjJbCWv8YreEVzyRVgFWDgpBa_557IBpmWXRR_A9RrdWEWg9uC015_Nday1YRHYhImF2cc-mhCdKo8O5m7v0sShCmffTrppJRqXhyphenhyphenngnPtRSs-ao-AFCyh1fE5HZrapJmHfK1PjaJAX5K8bEwHRqzAWFVEaBC0JXRPe6XtAsNvz_6LQUche1mhLE/s400/Thomas%20&%20Purrl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="400" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLvlAjJbCWv8YreEVzyRVgFWDgpBa_557IBpmWXRR_A9RrdWEWg9uC015_Nday1YRHYhImF2cc-mhCdKo8O5m7v0sShCmffTrppJRqXhyphenhyphenngnPtRSs-ao-AFCyh1fE5HZrapJmHfK1PjaJAX5K8bEwHRqzAWFVEaBC0JXRPe6XtAsNvz_6LQUche1mhLE/s320/Thomas%20&%20Purrl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhzl1dRoUQo-wGg63i3A1EzsM4YWV3l8isRghD1usE3IqvcK-2qI3DzigB5Tr4goe831mUYwYfODSb4RYfc4BhCa_se-WecO5pXH7KfePB2pK0DclqMzgbF0piaM9GK8o_ttjg4gl6QOD37UF0DnGDsJFQb518bPfdk1wAw1H69NeFkxpZVs7qhnbm8Q/s2016/Thom%20w%20Lamb%20Chop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhzl1dRoUQo-wGg63i3A1EzsM4YWV3l8isRghD1usE3IqvcK-2qI3DzigB5Tr4goe831mUYwYfODSb4RYfc4BhCa_se-WecO5pXH7KfePB2pK0DclqMzgbF0piaM9GK8o_ttjg4gl6QOD37UF0DnGDsJFQb518bPfdk1wAw1H69NeFkxpZVs7qhnbm8Q/s320/Thom%20w%20Lamb%20Chop.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXj2eT4jMrELLfvpelbQqFMkgLwp78yIJTGFvxmo4eGhGpd8o9AbWs44gd7uhe9-gSV_ZQpBCXej2dqd_X9q9noLAuKpSyTuZNJUPaPVRiiIBpZRySOcIYxOtozawmKDzqBoo-1_XVQAfj2NyrpCVXqnM5YkVJFzLG7FTgufJiv0Prg_0DJoq91AxAYs/s853/Thomas%20&%20Me%20shadow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXj2eT4jMrELLfvpelbQqFMkgLwp78yIJTGFvxmo4eGhGpd8o9AbWs44gd7uhe9-gSV_ZQpBCXej2dqd_X9q9noLAuKpSyTuZNJUPaPVRiiIBpZRySOcIYxOtozawmKDzqBoo-1_XVQAfj2NyrpCVXqnM5YkVJFzLG7FTgufJiv0Prg_0DJoq91AxAYs/s320/Thomas%20&%20Me%20shadow.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-59614957324657377292023-12-07T15:34:00.000-08:002023-12-07T15:34:40.758-08:00Friendship Circle<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0B_cxoFPYyK9qEATJ6SuSear8zO0PpKW4sdVr9bAB0vr5LGaqXzhccVtHibwCrBaj99q9B1p1-xNY1bf-hA7H8-uDEroACPkgpXcqsq4Me10M_4CyQyIll1szOkwwBdUhkWBnMtzowPBlTZ-1dyr4Vp48C193TLn5N_2tMiI4TvEHGshONgYNJ72Pebw/s320/Blg%20dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0B_cxoFPYyK9qEATJ6SuSear8zO0PpKW4sdVr9bAB0vr5LGaqXzhccVtHibwCrBaj99q9B1p1-xNY1bf-hA7H8-uDEroACPkgpXcqsq4Me10M_4CyQyIll1szOkwwBdUhkWBnMtzowPBlTZ-1dyr4Vp48C193TLn5N_2tMiI4TvEHGshONgYNJ72Pebw/s1600/Blg%20dragon.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>My new desk buddy</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I started to say that it all began with Friendship Circle, but it didn’t. Not
quite. Well, sort of.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It
began when I moved to my current residence in a senior community. Ella, my
neighbor, was quick to introduce herself. Having served on the city council and
in various volunteer positions in her community, she was cordial and welcoming
and diplomatic. Ella invited me to join her for a luncheon hosted by the
Friendship Circle group here in the park. I realized too late that this was a
potluck, but Ella assured me that as her guest, I wasn’t required to bring
anything—actually, no one is required—and that I could consider doing so if I
chose to attend again in the future, which I did.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Two
of the first people I met that day were Ursula and Bob Thomas. I don’t believe
I’ve ever met two kinder people in my life. Maybe. But…. Bob and Ursula are
extraordinary people, warm, kind, intelligent, empathetic—and each one has a
great sense of humor. While I did not continue being involved with Friendship
Circle after the first few months, I have continued my friendship with the
Thomases.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bob
and Ursula like to walk early in the morning, as I do, so there are times when
we will see each other at 5:30a.m. (yes, it’s still dark), and we’ll stand in
the road and have a chat for ten minutes or so. It was during one of these
morning chats that they mentioned their daughter, Shanon, had written a picture
book for children. The book, complete with cover design and illustrations, was
ready for publication, but Shanon wasn’t sure which route in publishing she
wanted to pursue. I offered to help her decide, and I encouraged her parents to
give her my number.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When
Shanon called, I knew right away we were kindred spirits. Like her parents, she
is warm and kind and empathetic. She is also very generous; her sole purpose in
making her book available to the public is to encourage young readers to be
kind, to look for opportunities to show empathy. The book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Claras-Scarf-Shanon-Paglieri/dp/B0CD16CF9Z/ref=sr_1_1?crid=WVIND3HSGMTD&keywords=clara%27s+scarf+book&qid=1701989811&sprefix=clara%27s+sc%2Caps%2C412&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><i>Clara’s Scarf</i></a>, is
lovely and sweet (and is available on Amazon).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fast
forward several months, and there I am, looking for an illustrator for my <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fey-Girl-Book-Dragon-Singer/dp/B0CKX8SQMG/ref=sr_1_1?crid=27U4QQ7WV3K7K&keywords=fey+girl+s+kay+murphy&qid=1701991908&sprefix=%2Caps%2C177&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Dragon Singer Series</a></i>. The search was not going well (that may be a profound
understatement), and it occurred to me to talk to Shanon about the illustrator
she used for <i>Clara’s Scarf</i>.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
that’s how I met (via email) Allie Myers. I know I keep saying this, but it’s
like Allie is reading my mind. When I explain roughly what I want on a cover,
she asks, “But what are the kids’ personalities like?” And bingo—she produces a
sketch that somehow depicts everything I was feeling when I wrote the scene.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
have been grateful for Allie’s amazing artistry, and for my connection to
Shanon, and my continuing friendship with Ursula and Bob. (What amazing parents
they must have been to produce such a talented and wonderful kid!!) Then last
week Shanon happened to be in town, and Ursula called to see if the two of them
could stop by. When they did, Shanon gifted me with the sweet little white
dragon pictured at the top of this post. He’s my new desk companion. Friendship!
What an inspiration!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">May
the circle be unbroken, and may it continue to expand as those within it reach
out a hand to others.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSifqNeDQvH8F-kRLk3t2kIsHSeAvM3RHdcXFSswbMbNLVljWlIBSXy4oCWwwypxtwTn8kbfQ6ek4v4_tSlioUbmrJ7zSrWxe2z9biGzB2-3BYc6ZQW3pqLStWbv952HSC5PXQdNlWgp_69gDcsAPggBk0W-J7OqbIMPcZGHh8wAYpM7SIaUst2nOxhBo/s3400/Fey%20Girl%20Front%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3400" data-original-width="2200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSifqNeDQvH8F-kRLk3t2kIsHSeAvM3RHdcXFSswbMbNLVljWlIBSXy4oCWwwypxtwTn8kbfQ6ek4v4_tSlioUbmrJ7zSrWxe2z9biGzB2-3BYc6ZQW3pqLStWbv952HSC5PXQdNlWgp_69gDcsAPggBk0W-J7OqbIMPcZGHh8wAYpM7SIaUst2nOxhBo/s320/Fey%20Girl%20Front%20Cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2eeHbo2fI1RRoxQcQZfqAJ6kpTqI9geC73FxLlnltR01eYqL83IEkHsL-parUKbjQiEuNXWqSQEtFs02FS8qGNlPB8433o2qFmBvXsa9a10pyAfB4uJrcM1i0xISQphtJ8t1cr97tjUNNf7V6-LmiVm5EURIaiK0Ms6tPTlt8f7zvwgp8GHd6psSOoA/s1620/Dragon%20Song%20front%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2eeHbo2fI1RRoxQcQZfqAJ6kpTqI9geC73FxLlnltR01eYqL83IEkHsL-parUKbjQiEuNXWqSQEtFs02FS8qGNlPB8433o2qFmBvXsa9a10pyAfB4uJrcM1i0xISQphtJ8t1cr97tjUNNf7V6-LmiVm5EURIaiK0Ms6tPTlt8f7zvwgp8GHd6psSOoA/s320/Dragon%20Song%20front%20cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /></div><p><i></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><i><br /></i></i></div><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-82940142623976754042023-10-29T10:40:00.002-07:002023-10-29T10:40:33.478-07:00Losing Maya<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0U_t2CFUXzm0eOfzbhin1aGavvX9rHEJLgzMfL94sU3nK94LTpZUuzpgzrHqHfeyBZ8wre_9BhqJ8wsITvklhPuirlYSmWbAzS_7bbOtVEv5YAG4OuOVsfhRTYPR_sZf9lBptJ1BZe2M_OFSsLNpkKqFUFdf9wDbyn6EAlAzBuDQh4Uy5lsSvBczcfb8/s320/Maya%20home%20safe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0U_t2CFUXzm0eOfzbhin1aGavvX9rHEJLgzMfL94sU3nK94LTpZUuzpgzrHqHfeyBZ8wre_9BhqJ8wsITvklhPuirlYSmWbAzS_7bbOtVEv5YAG4OuOVsfhRTYPR_sZf9lBptJ1BZe2M_OFSsLNpkKqFUFdf9wDbyn6EAlAzBuDQh4Uy5lsSvBczcfb8/s1600/Maya%20home%20safe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">*Spoiler
Alert!* I found her again. But not without significant emotional trauma….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
over a week ago, I took my darling girl, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, pictured above, on a
hike in the Cienega Canyon Preserve. It’s a wild area out in the hills
southwest of where we live, and I’ve hiked there often with her. We both love
it. She gets to sniff wild creatures on the wind and in the brush, and I get to
watch for hawks, deer, coyotes, and other wild creatures.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
this particular morning, we’d gone less than a mile before looking up to see a
very young bobcat playing in the trail about forty yards ahead of us. At the
sound of my laugh, the big kitten bounded off into the sage and sunflowers, and
a moment later we crept past that spot, Maya with her nostrils flaring, me with
my phone out, camera app on, hoping to see it again. No such luck. We walked
on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmea53qp0adJoajlZOgoq9ssEq5klsb1jHhLbmRjM77zPrysyqs5FsqohVnIia8cAGkDJJrNYKXBnI8__4Au68gHFYQvv9UVVrABzZvZLuC-CA1U7QiMcBOjNr1viHJutu2VhGgRis68RX5fadtD2PrSdYXHxeNKJtGdxc9vMInWpXJF6jHQvY24BfS0/s320/Maya%20sees%20a%20bob%20kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmea53qp0adJoajlZOgoq9ssEq5klsb1jHhLbmRjM77zPrysyqs5FsqohVnIia8cAGkDJJrNYKXBnI8__4Au68gHFYQvv9UVVrABzZvZLuC-CA1U7QiMcBOjNr1viHJutu2VhGgRis68RX5fadtD2PrSdYXHxeNKJtGdxc9vMInWpXJF6jHQvY24BfS0/s1600/Maya%20sees%20a%20bob%20kitty.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Mom! What was that big kitty thing?!?"</div><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
morning was bright and already heating up at 8:00, and the trail we had
traveled in the past had become extremely overgrown, so I was just making up my
mind to turn around and head home when Maya began limping. She’d picked up a
sticker in her left front paw.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
presented a problem. While it is no longer much of a struggle for me to touch
her feet (to check them after a hike or to clip her nails) when she’s in her crate, she is still too wary to let me touch her paws or legs while we are out
hiking. We obviously couldn’t go on, though, so I made her sit, and when she was
calm, I reached down to check her paw. She panicked, jumped backward, and slipped
right out of her collar. Then <i>I</i> panicked, telling her “Maya! Wait!” a bit too
sharply. But she stopped. (Good girl!) Hands shaking, I grabbed her scruff,
holding it tightly with one hand as I slid the collar back on with the other. I
walked her forward, and in the tussle, the sticker had apparently been
dislodged, as she was walking without limping. Whew. Safe. Or so I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We
turned to go home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
a previous visit to the preserve, I had dropped Maya’s leash when we were about
a half mile from the trailhead, and she had done beautifully, trotting ahead at
times, but always stopping when I gave her the “wait” command. On this day, when
we were still three quarters of a mile out, I decided to try that training
again, but instead of dropping the leash in the dirt, I unhooked it. She trotted
along beside me in the trail, never going ahead, just being with me. It was
glorious. Until it wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Because
we’d seen the bobcat, and because the day was warm, my gaze alternated constantly
between the trail up ahead (for coyotes or critters), the trail beneath our feet (in case of
rattlesnakes), and checking to make sure Maya was beside me. We’d gone a quarter
mile when I looked out, looked down, looked to my side—and she was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
stopped and turned. She’d taken a side path, a single-track coyote trail that
led toward a steep ridge, and those crazy long legs of hers were trotting as
fast as she could stride. She was already thirty yards ahead of me. Panicking
again, I called her loudly: “Maya! WAIT!” To no avail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Here’s
the thing about feral dogs: You can’t chase them. In Maya’s first life, the one
she spent in two successive, awful rescues, they handled her by chasing her—out
of her kennel, then back in. When she sees anyone behind her on our walks, she
immediately becomes anxious and strains on the leash, trying to run.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
this situation, I had to pursue her, but I knew I couldn’t run. I walked as
fast as I could, repeatedly calling her. She ran up a hill so steep, I questioned
whether I could get up it—but I did. I had to. As I topped the ridge, I saw
her, now fifty yards ahead, still trotting. She disappeared down a slope, and
all I could do was follow, hoping she didn’t leave the trail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
didn’t. As I reached the bottom of the downhill slope, I could see her topping
the next hill. On we went in that fashion, with me losing, then gaining sight
of her, willing myself to breathe deep, save my oxygen and strength.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
topped a hill, and there she was, exhausted, lying in the shade under some
brush.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Maya!
Wait!” I snapped. And she was off and running again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
slowed my walk, thinking, as the sun rose higher and I realized I’d brought no
water with me, I might have to follow her all the way to the
far end of the preserve, which was three miles along the ridgeline—and a block
from Interstate 10.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Breathe,
Kay,” I told myself. “What would Cesar Millan do?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Well,
he would adjust his energy, stay calm, and not utter a word.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
did these things, as best I could, topped another ridge—and there she was again,
lying in the dirt, panting. I stood in the trail, breathing and sweating and
hoping, not saying a word. Slowly she rose to her feet. I didn’t move. She
walked toward me. Quietly, calmly, I said, “Maya, come,” and I turned toward
home. She followed, right at my heels. After a moment, she moved beside me on
the trail. Ever so slowly and gently, I reached out a hand and took her collar, stopped, and
snapped on the leash.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I knew I had her, I sank to my knees in the trail and sobbed. If she’d been
lost in those hills, she would not have survived. The coyotes would have
made a quick meal of her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivyl4oJUFXyAYLeB92Fe3Y01F0Ciupo_Y2s1z_SbDBZjVW7fmZCkkJiqvT6Kt8OqyrGNlEFehSFPp-iypsJNVpkZQfy0dGX2XMu0FmXtlVcrCcJuiOH2bEcZD_VHDynKyNzum_jbUH-N9D1cWfpp7PLR8X7URrx1JKfGqa_5mkxyjo03dKsMvT1LNCRbw/s320/Maya%20waits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivyl4oJUFXyAYLeB92Fe3Y01F0Ciupo_Y2s1z_SbDBZjVW7fmZCkkJiqvT6Kt8OqyrGNlEFehSFPp-iypsJNVpkZQfy0dGX2XMu0FmXtlVcrCcJuiOH2bEcZD_VHDynKyNzum_jbUH-N9D1cWfpp7PLR8X7URrx1JKfGqa_5mkxyjo03dKsMvT1LNCRbw/s1600/Maya%20waits.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">How I found her--without the leash, of course.</div><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
long walk back in the hot sun, descending those steep hills on shaky legs, took
an agonizingly long time. Maya was overheated and kept trying to lie down in
every little bit of shade she found. I would have carried her—all thirty pounds—but
on those treacherous descents, it would have been too dangerous. If I’d
sprained or broken an ankle, our day would have gone from bad to really quite
awfully terrible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Friends,
I believe I have learned more from the mistakes I’ve made with my dogs than all
the YouTube videos and episodes of The Dog Whisperer (or Cesar’s other many
shows) I’ve ever watched. How did I fail Maya? By not realizing that, while I had
quickly moved on after the sticker-in-the-paw episode, she had not yet shaken
it off—how I’d grabbed her, speaking sharply and holding the back of her neck.
The trust of a feral dog is always tenuous. With Thomas, it still is, even
after nearly ten years. Yes, we have our sweet moments when I brush him or clip
his nails or simply sit and rub his belly, and he is blissfully happy. But then
I might do something he sees as threatening—slap a mosquito or pick up my
guitar or print out a document—and suddenly he is terrified, running through the
house and seeking safety somewhere away from me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s
what Maya was doing, seeking a safe place to hide. Eventually, she came to see
that she could run forever—or she could choose to trust me again. Boy howdy,
did I get lucky this time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Training
feral dogs is not for the faint of heart or for those with little patience. The
journey is often two steps forward, five steps back. The Universe gave Maya
back to me. I will be much, much more careful with her in the future.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9a7IVldj2d9485X1geQXJ7ftvCxF3sfcbIyrD0Qe9DmS8Zp-WDcADTMuJkjdsrzKVx48TIGTZlYBbProtiplUuJ59iMt2Sq2QQVKn4ZoznUuUcZ89pVJ6tHwE-tRDy-KTM5CGXY2fYWdri2MVKf6LlYPZu7ut3uhPnk9rag1eEM-yGvl_mxET1oIjkTo/s320/Maya%20as%20we%20start%20home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9a7IVldj2d9485X1geQXJ7ftvCxF3sfcbIyrD0Qe9DmS8Zp-WDcADTMuJkjdsrzKVx48TIGTZlYBbProtiplUuJ59iMt2Sq2QQVKn4ZoznUuUcZ89pVJ6tHwE-tRDy-KTM5CGXY2fYWdri2MVKf6LlYPZu7ut3uhPnk9rag1eEM-yGvl_mxET1oIjkTo/s1600/Maya%20as%20we%20start%20home.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Contemplating the long walk back to the car.</div><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-51947448389147773842023-10-13T09:14:00.001-07:002023-10-13T09:14:43.388-07:00How Books Are Made, Part II<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEW-IQlHYNFone_8NMVMfv62el7-NyW7zLip8Fs1D3Sb5T_DmHfwMfNHd1CUEPX1Mh40iDA9DFr2Rle_W9G2S4MYpIFVCLlalWUBxtDZgdTGYhDVxdxtG6PnPqH1r1oGDU9nMtB-JTuarC2UDVEtz-V07s892b0DDxlyczTuXSQZsL6nPMN48I9yOYcY/s3400/Fey%20Girl%20Front%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3400" data-original-width="2200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEW-IQlHYNFone_8NMVMfv62el7-NyW7zLip8Fs1D3Sb5T_DmHfwMfNHd1CUEPX1Mh40iDA9DFr2Rle_W9G2S4MYpIFVCLlalWUBxtDZgdTGYhDVxdxtG6PnPqH1r1oGDU9nMtB-JTuarC2UDVEtz-V07s892b0DDxlyczTuXSQZsL6nPMN48I9yOYcY/s320/Fey%20Girl%20Front%20Cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
my previous post, I talked about the <i>creativity</i> that goes into the
making of a book. But I didn’t talk about the practical side of bringing that
creative spark into fruition (if you’ll allow the mixed metaphor there).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s
one thing to have an idea for a book. It’s an entirely different matter to
spend hours at a keyboard (or with pen or pencil and paper), day after day,
week after week, month after month until that original idea has been fleshed
out into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, hopefully containing
some tension and conflict throughout, and a resolution that satisfies the
reader—plus maybe, just maybe, giving readers something to “take away,” a
lesson to ruminate upon or a miniscule bit of wisdom that might, in the tiniest
way, influence their choices for the better. One hopes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When
I began the </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dragon Singer Series</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, I was still teaching, so my writing
time—after being away from home all day, then returning to walk an anxious,
troubled dog, and feed the cats, and eat dinner, and watch the news, and maybe
toss in a load of laundry—was limited. In addition to that, I began </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fey Girl</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">,
the first book, in pencil, writing in a composition book that my granddaughter,
Ellie, had given me. I wanted to channel my inner ten-year-old, and I
remembered writing some stories in a composition book when I was that age—some of
my first! And so I began.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
process was interrupted often. Given my schedule (rising at 4:00a.m. to get to
the gym before work or to ride my bike to work and arrive at 6:45), I was tired
by early evening. Things happened. I had house guests. I came down with
pneumonia a few times. I struggled through winter depression.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally,
in June of 2016, I retired from teaching. In that summer, I sold a house,
bought a house, moved 40 miles east—and slept as often as I felt like it. Then,
at long last, I joyfully returned to my writing life in earnest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
soon as <i>Fey Girl</i> was finished, I began writing the second book, making
steady progress and finishing it within a year. The third book took less than a
year. The fourth, even less than that. While I was working on Book Two, my dear
friends John and Lisa Durham introduced me to John’s niece, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Annie-Katz/author/B009MF970I?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true" target="_blank">Annie Katz</a>, a
writer and novelist and earth mother who became my best and truest critique
partner. We began exchanging projects, giving each other feedback, and engaging
in long phone conversations about the best way to publish. She is all about independent
publishing. Another friend believes one is not a “professional” writer until
one has been published by a traditional publisher. (Well, I’ve done that, so….)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
a nutshell, here’s the difference:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A
traditional publisher takes the author’s manuscript and has a team of printing
experts design an interior (choosing the type of font, the type of paper—weight
and color, the margin size, the spacing between lines, as so forth). Another
team of experts designs the cover. (Will the title be larger than the author’s
name? Yes, if it’s a first-time author, no, if the author is Stephen King. What
will the balance of text-to-graphics be? What colors will work best?) While this
process is happening, the publisher may decide—based on “marketability”—to change
the book’s title. Or add a subtitle. Or edit—or delete—some of the content. But
hey, when the book is finally ready (one to two years after acceptance), it
will be released across the country simultaneously, available online but also
on bookstore shelves, all at once, all on the same day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">An
indie author can’t do this, since the big bookstore chains (well, I guess there’s
only one left, isn’t there?) will not carry (unless asked by customers)
independent authors on their shelves. Nor do indie authors have the opportunity
to list their books in the lovely, slick catalogs that publishers send out to
bookstores.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">However—independent
authors have full control over every aspect of how their books are published,
from interior design to cover design, and we even determine the list price.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is why I made the choice to publish the <i>Dragon Singer Series</i>
independently. The more I spoke to Annie Katz and others (including my buddy,
writer/actor/director/funny guy <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Tim-Chizmar/author/B07FLDY7GY?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true" target="_blank">Tim Chizmar</a>), the more reluctant I became to
give up creative control. I had a vision for these books, and I couldn’t bear
the thought of being told, “We’ve decided to add/subtract/edit…” or whatever a
marketing department might choose for MY books. (For the purpose of brevity, I
will not include all the struggles I had to this end with the publishers of my
first and second books. If you’re curious, just ask in the comments below. But…
boy howdy….)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Of
course, in making that crucial decision to self-publish, this also means that
the entire process rests in the hands of the writer (unless one chooses to
outsource the work, which is possible, but also expensive).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
only thing I didn’t do was create the illustration and design for the covers.
(Thank you, artist-designer Allie Myers!) Everything else—fonts, font size,
paper, margins, interior design—that’s all me. And believe me, it’s not a
matter of “select all” on MSWord and typing in a few choices. There is a lot to
very carefully complete. Plus don’t even get me started on how the format of an
“ebook” differs from the format of a paperback. Good grief!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
yeah, even though the fourth and final book in the <i>Dragon Singer Series</i>
was completed months ago, it has taken me quite a number of weeks to find an
illustrator and work on the interior design.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally,
though, the first book is finished, and I am so, so proud of it! Allie’s cover
is beautiful, and I am satisfied that my young (and older) readers will feel
comfortable with my choices for the interior design—if they’re even paying
attention. Maybe they’ll just immerse themselves in the story and keep turning
those pretty white pages….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Fey
Girl</span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
<i>Book One in the Dragon Singer Series</i>, is set to be released at 12:01a.m.
on Tuesday, October 17. Please celebrate with me on that day! If you get crazy
(or extraordinarily kind) and decide to read the first book, just know that
Allie and I are already working hard to get the second book ready for
publication. This one should be easier than the first; I kinda know what I’m
doing now. Kinda….</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8thg4NmzGByPWndQqPFJoUTm5EYVpsmJmBy1_h1r_gEtpwP2Cf8MgmfvrPQTihUTREnnuqn3xVAmEgdC0QaBC3BhtSInbaRhsg2Dthw91UvuFu_x7f6OnjLDCcKUXWlY82pnkp6px278F0yKg-e1v3NFsH4-K8CkJ6zPFGrBr8sjL40tHYFyyg51J-kg/s3600/Fey%20Girl%20back%20cover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3600" data-original-width="2400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8thg4NmzGByPWndQqPFJoUTm5EYVpsmJmBy1_h1r_gEtpwP2Cf8MgmfvrPQTihUTREnnuqn3xVAmEgdC0QaBC3BhtSInbaRhsg2Dthw91UvuFu_x7f6OnjLDCcKUXWlY82pnkp6px278F0yKg-e1v3NFsH4-K8CkJ6zPFGrBr8sjL40tHYFyyg51J-kg/s320/Fey%20Girl%20back%20cover.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Back cover of Fey Girl</i></div>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-81462156283133880282023-10-03T08:45:00.005-07:002023-10-03T08:45:56.096-07:00How Books Are Made, Part I<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGZ2OVyytANaXzLCOIiG8Hdhv802QD9fqqrrFRPmo69FGORajEZuVcwKL8w7Uu359tahNb0u32312jHLC2VPqKNlxf36KqPOV24pph4LtQg3QKooiAKjwrKDkJsamc1S8TAJDh3XxUgzZO0hjcUE-cV0OwvDzdumePg7qIby6tHUD19vqx2ga663gLTA/s225/Toothless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGZ2OVyytANaXzLCOIiG8Hdhv802QD9fqqrrFRPmo69FGORajEZuVcwKL8w7Uu359tahNb0u32312jHLC2VPqKNlxf36KqPOV24pph4LtQg3QKooiAKjwrKDkJsamc1S8TAJDh3XxUgzZO0hjcUE-cV0OwvDzdumePg7qIby6tHUD19vqx2ga663gLTA/s1600/Toothless.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Hiccup" and "Toothless" from How to Train Your Dragon</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
starts with a spark of creativity, a tiny seed of an idea that begins to take
root and grow in a writer’s brain. At first, it’s easy to ignore the tender
little seedling trying to find purchase in a place already teeming with ideas.
Those initial ideas definitely get overshadowed by projects that have already
made it from brain to keyboard (or yellow pad or sketchbook, in my case). I can
pretty much guarantee that the majority of working writers have at least a
dozen ideas growing in addition to the three or four projects they’re working
on. I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Take
this post, for instance. The initial idea formed about a month ago. In that
time, I have jotted notes for the next blog post (and the one after that),
finished and submitted three poems for publication, revised and submitted an
essay for publication, worked my tail off to format a book for publication
(more on that in the next post), and written countless journal pages. That’s
just the physical work I’ve put in. The extra ideas that haven’t been harvested
yet? They’re still growing in my brain. Some of them are really getting out of
control in there….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
still amazes me to think how my published books came into being. In the 1970’s,
I was teaching Lamaze childbirth classes, and my students felt the available
books were too technical. I was freelancing at the time, miraculously getting
published on a regular basis, and they suggested I write a book with all the
information I dispensed in class, posed in less clinical terms than others had
used. I gave it some thought (and growth time), and two years later my first
book was published.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I began researching, at my mother’s request, the alleged crimes of her
grandmother, I knew eventually I had enough material for a pretty compelling
memoir. Many years later (when Mom would finally allow it), <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tainted-Legacy-Bertha-Gifford-Memoir/dp/1530983487/ref=sr_1_1?crid=36DEBIVBH490C&keywords=the+tainted+legacy+of+bertha+gifford&qid=1696347792&sprefix=the+tainted+legac%2Caps%2C183&sr=8-1" target="_blank">The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford</a></i> came into fruition.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dogs-Who-Saved-Me/dp/1475195567/ref=sr_1_4?crid=2JQM30KSDQLWG&keywords=the+dogs+who+saved+me&qid=1696347864&sprefix=the+dogs+who+saved+me%2Caps%2C443&sr=8-4" target="_blank">The Dogs Who Saved Me</a></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> came about during a long summer afternoon spent
organizing photographs. I had so many pictures of the various dogs I have
companioned with, I realized there were enough to make an album of just dogs
alone, and as I leafed through the finished project, considering all their
incredible stories, I knew I wanted to record them. That book took two years to
write.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
next book—the one that I am just weeks away from seeing released on Amazon—did
not begin as a book idea or even a writing project. It began as a song. No. It
began with a cat that looked like a dragon. Or more accurately, a dragon that
looked like a cat. Here is that story:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I moved waaaay up to a cabin in the mountains, I took two black cats with me:
Old guy Boo Radley and newly adopted Sugar Plum (aka “Sug”). Sadly, in my
second year on the mountain, Boo died. Where Sug had previously bonded with
Boo, now she began to bond with me in earnest. And it was cold in the winter
months, so she would come to the loft at night, jump on the bed, and I would
hold the blanket up for her to climb under and snuggle down. Often, in the
depth of darkness and quiet only a mountain retreat can offer, I would sing to
her. In the beginning, I sang her “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral” and other sweet Irish
songs I had learned as a child.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
several things happened in succession. My dear friend and fellow author Michael
Welker (<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Blockbuster-Blueprint-Step-Step-Best-selling/dp/0998638714/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696347647&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Blockbuster Blueprint</a></i>) suggested I watch the animated feature
How to Train Your Dragon, mostly because he thought I’d love the soundtrack,
which I did. (Loved the film, too; ya gotta love a rescued
critter/underdog/unlikely love story/unlikely hero movie.) Sometime in the
ensuing days, I walked into the main room of the cabin to find little Sug face
to face at the French doors with an enormous black bear. Sug was standing her
ground, back arched, fur and tail puffed to maximum bigness, and hissing as she
bared her teeth. She looked, in that moment, for all the world like a tiny
dragon. Later that night, as we hunkered down in bed, I began to hum a random
tune I’d come up with. Suddenly there were words for it:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Dragon
song is an old one<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sing
the tale told so long<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Dragon
song is an old one</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Old
one, sing the dragon song.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
some point before this, I had attended a writers group meeting in which the
guest speaker had noted, in suggesting ways to market one’s books, that the
creation of a series (rather than a stand-alone novel) brings readers back
looking for the next chapter in the saga. I had dismissed the idea at first.
(Writing a series—keeping every detail of every character and plot point clear
and correct throughout all the books—is much more challenging than writing a
single, all-encompassing story.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But
that night, singing this new song to my tiny cat who apparently had the spirit
of a dragon abiding within her, a seed was planted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Hard
to believe that seed began to take root over a decade ago. Well, the original
idea became a book. (More on how <i>that</i> happened in the next post.)
Originally, I had decided just three books—a compact trilogy—would do nicely.
(No way would I attempt an on-going series, given all the other projects I want
to tackle.) But as I worked on the second book, I realized that the four
seasons had become a theme, so that now there are four books in what will be,
when they are published, the <i>Dragon Singer</i> series. The books are written
for a middle-grade audience. Which means, I suppose, that any avid reader over
the age of say, eight, who loves cats and good dogs and dragons and music will
probably enjoy them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Did
I mention that the first one is nearly ready for release in a matter of weeks,
if not days? Watch this space!<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p><br /></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-67356064285940049422023-09-04T18:56:00.001-07:002023-09-04T18:56:57.667-07:00Constants<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdFiip_UI8ZwNguZS8DOWPWakG1x5De-WMHA8agSg0zcx4ZOSiZXQ-Afz0pgrk2HfJcq54KZb43aJqX4TKzkfqMrilYhQlgYDMp-pJ3ZEZ-lIB1Qyv-uWbFxROAERT3_YX17LW1hOkziFkMFmj0v-us4OduAjzDmEGq6LfgKGO4MM0zTdBobUofkydFg/s320/Blog%20up%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdFiip_UI8ZwNguZS8DOWPWakG1x5De-WMHA8agSg0zcx4ZOSiZXQ-Afz0pgrk2HfJcq54KZb43aJqX4TKzkfqMrilYhQlgYDMp-pJ3ZEZ-lIB1Qyv-uWbFxROAERT3_YX17LW1hOkziFkMFmj0v-us4OduAjzDmEGq6LfgKGO4MM0zTdBobUofkydFg/s1600/Blog%20up%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
been six weeks since I’ve posted. I’d like to use my typical “off with the
fairies” excuse—and in some ways, I think I would be justified—but really, time
and creative energy have been sorely depleted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
know some of you loyal, compassionate readers, if you follow me on Facebook,
have been waiting to hear the warm, fuzzy details of my romantic relationship
with “that one guy” (or, if you’re Sean Piscioneri, the guy before that guy—sorry—inside
joke). Alas, the guy who began as a friend and briefly became “boyfriend” has
now agreed that “friend” is the more healthy status for us. We like each other.
Always have since we met 27 years ago. We just don’t… see eye to eye on some
things. It’s not important what they are.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Among
the critical take-aways from that brief experiment, however, is the fact that
my mental health can still easily be tipped off balance under certain
circumstances. This surprised me. I mean, seriously, when you get to the age of
70, and you’ve spent decades working to shore up your strategies and defenses
against panic attacks, you float along through life thinking you’re safe from
them. Then out of the blue a trigger is pulled—however gently—and suddenly your
heart is racing and that dark shadow is just there, over your right shoulder,
looming. Takes your breath away. Like, literally.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
one of my accomplishments this summer was finally—FINALLY, damn it—getting an
appointment with a therapist. It took a month, from initial phone request to
finally seeing someone (and by “seeing,” I mean staring at a screen image via
Zoom), and I had to push hard with follow-up phone calls. But hey, the energy
expended was worth it. I like my therapist. More on that in future posts, I
promise—not because I really want to talk about my childhood trauma—I don’t—but
because I want to do whatever I can to encourage others to seek professional
help in being the best version of yourself you can be today. And tomorrow.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAZPiQ0ZMs4OzSD4XZLA_h9c4CxpDnAdTHafBto8SjOW1u3ez1cFdpeY-R5a_cXLLcDIElDfAMapTP0HiGwgC00TlodAkqlKbitZO_rS7bPGdOxFiirdNKwRylsELOLoNBeBkOj5v8uZqgDZtojVnnsAdFwzBn48YCf1aKA_BooIOtzYvaK3HG8_GluA/s320/Blog%20up%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAZPiQ0ZMs4OzSD4XZLA_h9c4CxpDnAdTHafBto8SjOW1u3ez1cFdpeY-R5a_cXLLcDIElDfAMapTP0HiGwgC00TlodAkqlKbitZO_rS7bPGdOxFiirdNKwRylsELOLoNBeBkOj5v8uZqgDZtojVnnsAdFwzBn48YCf1aKA_BooIOtzYvaK3HG8_GluA/s1600/Blog%20up%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Another
satisfying accomplishment of the summer was writing 31 poems in the month of
August and sending them out to strangers on postcards. This was not a zany idea
of my own. Rather, it was part of the annual “Poetry Postcard Fest” sponsored
by <a href="https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/" target="_blank">Cascadia Poetic Labs</a>, the mission statement of which states: “Empowering people to
practice poetry & deepen connections to place, self & the present
moment.” (Gotta love the alliteration!) The cool thing about signing up for the
PPF is that you also (potentially) receive 31 postcards. So far, I’ve gotten
about 20 postcards, mostly handmade and decorated with creative artwork, in
addition to the poetic offerings. It definitely put some pep in my step on my
daily walk to fetch the mail.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
didn’t expect to write any particularly whiz bang poetry. Just as in the year I
participated in NaNoWriMo, I signed up for the PPF simply to challenge myself,
to impose the discipline of working on poems in addition to my other writing.
(Once upon a time, I did call myself a poet, because I have had a few poems
published. But that was years ago.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Surprisingly,
though, I was quite satisfied with several of the 31 poems I wrote, and so, for
the first time in decades, I think I’ll send some out, just to see what
happens. Stay tuned.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As
you can imagine, I needed inspiration for those poems. I also needed time alone
to process pre and post panic attack, so off to the woods I went, hiking every
few days with Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, who continues to let her guard down
with me. Nature is an inspiration in and of itself, so I was pleased to capture
some photos reflecting my awe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezyE3EanN8Dn2xqWyhEkCAjolsLeiK95eT56z-4uQJH0YrkcT1FQNpsrjv2XtG-x6XP58wcK7g9Ta7o66b65X09wfi_0_E_eVq6u6t3lUa_YQKv7X6QRVc6uuJEnJXhK1OlhQLFCk02UFOAuIh4e_l9I_2sfYJTsyYYJpliANiqFLA1n6Dt1DfRLVIBs/s320/Blog%20up%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezyE3EanN8Dn2xqWyhEkCAjolsLeiK95eT56z-4uQJH0YrkcT1FQNpsrjv2XtG-x6XP58wcK7g9Ta7o66b65X09wfi_0_E_eVq6u6t3lUa_YQKv7X6QRVc6uuJEnJXhK1OlhQLFCk02UFOAuIh4e_l9I_2sfYJTsyYYJpliANiqFLA1n6Dt1DfRLVIBs/s1600/Blog%20up%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And,
of course, I spent time with my emotional support pals, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs and
Jenny the Cat. The Dog Who Hated Being Touched has now become The Dog Who Loves
to Be Loved On—brushed, petted, scratched, massaged, whatever. Whenever the
world becomes “too full of weeping,” as Yeats described it, I can sit down next
to Thom, give him head rubbies and ear scratches, and tell him all about it for
as long as it takes for my blood pressure to drop to normal again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GU27L2oWHcF3WGpxhWoZOYgluAR3HfSZ6PLgSGxAoDkEnMHVol_ltadoX2O3J1A8wuqAIxOJh8iEIxdsuQS73Oh24n9j4rFGqSl0G3nHnnH4vqYfIXvHdvn4nygKSDrUqXQbh3GzA3dYY2LsIOA-eVyMObFNirC9fzIrdOrWrIHQEXsH9TitM5hrgR8/s320/Blog%20up%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GU27L2oWHcF3WGpxhWoZOYgluAR3HfSZ6PLgSGxAoDkEnMHVol_ltadoX2O3J1A8wuqAIxOJh8iEIxdsuQS73Oh24n9j4rFGqSl0G3nHnnH4vqYfIXvHdvn4nygKSDrUqXQbh3GzA3dYY2LsIOA-eVyMObFNirC9fzIrdOrWrIHQEXsH9TitM5hrgR8/s1600/Blog%20up%204.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Don’t
get me started on Jenny’s antics for comic relief. This cat… oh my dragons…. If
I had let her, she would have stayed outside on the patio for the duration of
Tropical Storm Hilary as it blew through our town with crazy wind and sideways
rain. As it was, she stayed out, curled in a corner of the blanket on the patio
swing, until I finally made her come in when debris began flying around the
yard. And let me tell you, she let me know how unhappy she was about having to
do so. She always lets me know <i>exactly</i> how she’s feeling about my
unilateral decisions. That’s where dogs and cats are different; dogs say
“Okay!” and cats say “Who said so?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjm2VQb322_vclQopIRSZXtBn3jPMnL6nbQHNi1pJZzyQAhCsE_8S_i0-_A47JdqFIUj-f2AcN5phgDwX-dc6N16hwH9C9BODEiob1m5zzsOTria4upTXYgW8EiHv2gDrV4j7sSGyxKJR6AdshvPS53wvjEfzzKTWzVwAKz8UgaU2vDzCS0B8P5_BQy-s/s320/Blog%20up%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjm2VQb322_vclQopIRSZXtBn3jPMnL6nbQHNi1pJZzyQAhCsE_8S_i0-_A47JdqFIUj-f2AcN5phgDwX-dc6N16hwH9C9BODEiob1m5zzsOTria4upTXYgW8EiHv2gDrV4j7sSGyxKJR6AdshvPS53wvjEfzzKTWzVwAKz8UgaU2vDzCS0B8P5_BQy-s/s1600/Blog%20up%205.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Speaking
of cats… and dogs… and dragons: I also spent the summer—as promised—working with
artist/illustrator Allie Myers on the cover of Fey Girl, the first book in my Dragon
Singer series of middle grade fantasy novels. Allie is beyond amazing—I feel at
times she is somehow “seeing” what is in my head—and she has just informed me
(as in, this morning!) that the front illustration for the cover is complete.
And, oh my dragons, it is exactly—no, it is better than what I had imagined in
my head. I will be sharing that in a separate post, along with more information
about the series. Since the back cover and spine are simple, the cover should
be ready in another two weeks, which means the book could be released as early
as late October, early November—just in time for Christmas. Again, stay tuned.
I am so, so excited about these books, and I can’t wait for all four in the
series to be out in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
you’re still reading, thank you. Let me sign off here with one of the poems
from this month’s Fest that I particularly liked, once I was satisfied with the
final draft.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Constants<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">S.
Kay Murphy</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
wake up moody, musing</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
the problems of yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the still-dark, I take the dogs<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Out
to the yard, looking up,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
always, to find my constants.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
is Taurus, stretched across<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
sky, the Seven Sisters,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Whispering
secrets, and proud<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Orion,
on his back in August,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Perpetually
sighting his arrow<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nonetheless,
unconcerned<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For
the tilt of the Earth</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today,
tomorrow, or yesterday.</span></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-86316375250571386402023-07-15T15:42:00.005-07:002023-07-16T07:36:41.723-07:00Nothing But Gratitude<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ixk-z3cT2Md1aSVlFdqbyp1-ykb9XMJEdi106rAxTa7KUBAoTrEjNDb7iUHRSRPXYPh4j6Tz0nUjDAh0JYMJPnqFuEpwiR5HFoisvjrnnqF3YRSpwHvoYUlSfv6tB7ehk5IygiSdnWO2QRuXDHfRcuAnQ6K-mT7Huh7RVm3km-1hRNJJoOs_wLW4yZQ/s320/Blog%20oatmeal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ixk-z3cT2Md1aSVlFdqbyp1-ykb9XMJEdi106rAxTa7KUBAoTrEjNDb7iUHRSRPXYPh4j6Tz0nUjDAh0JYMJPnqFuEpwiR5HFoisvjrnnqF3YRSpwHvoYUlSfv6tB7ehk5IygiSdnWO2QRuXDHfRcuAnQ6K-mT7Huh7RVm3km-1hRNJJoOs_wLW4yZQ/s1600/Blog%20oatmeal.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
Friday I had one of those moments of profound exasperation at the absolute
mindless insensitivity of some people, and (if I may state this publicly
without seeming like a complete judgy wench) the idiocy of <i>some</i> people
in the treatment of their dogs. Sigh….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
needed a few warm, fuzzy feelings to balance the negative energy, so I asked
Facebook friends to post pictures of their pets. Boy howdy, did they ever. If
you were one of those folks, thank you. We can never underestimate the power of
seeing a cute dog or cat or horse or reindeer face (or robot—long story) to
release a bit of oxytocin and calm our troubled hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
perusing those pics for half an hour, I left the valley and drove to Lake
Arrowhead to do a quick hike then visit my granddaughter and her baby daughter—all
of which enhanced my oxytocin high.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Beyond
that good stuff, I want to take a moment to thank those of you who are regular
readers of my posts. I began this blog in 2009 while I was living in the
wilderness of Mt. Baldy, having adventures with nature and wildlife nearly
every day—while also experiencing many, many rejections of my work written for
commercial purposes (and an occasional sale or two). I wanted to write about
whatever I felt like writing about, with no concern for word count or market
viability. So I began to blog (the first post mentioning how much I loathe the
word “blog”).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
first, I had a handful of folks who were regular readers willing to skim
through my somewhat provincial if not inane musings. Slowly, as the posts went
out into the world—and I began to write about more pressing issues, such as
race relations in the U.S. and the “Me too” movement—views of my posts
increased from 30 a month to 100 a month and then close to a thousand a month,
which is where the average now hovers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But
last month was a banner month. I mean, I had a lotta lotta views. The analytics
on Blogger allow me to see what posts people are looking at, so I know what
started the upward trend in views (a post that could be construed as
political), but I was downright shocked when I saw the numbers skyrocket.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Total
number of overall views for June: 9,041. These were not views of the same post;
there were a number of different, er, issue-related posts being viewed. But oh
my goodness, I am humbled and grateful whenever people read my words, be it 5
or 500. This number nearly floored me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So
thank you, dear Readers, for clicking that link again and again over the months
or years to see what the heck I might have to write about in my rambling,
parentheses-and-dash-infused style. Before you click away from the page, here’s
one more silly rambling offered for your amusement:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><b>Things
to do while the oatmeal is cooking:</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(Note:
Of course it’s cooking—no packets here, no “instant” for me! Damn right it’s
steel cut (whatever that means), organic, they-take-forever, cholesterol-lowering
oatmeal for this “granola head.”)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Start
a load of laundry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Add
“laundry detergent” to the grocery list.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Empty
the dishwasher.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Open
the door for Jenny the Cat to sashay outside and begin her day, warning her not
to bring yet another mouse into the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Wash
the dogs’ dishes and Jenny’s dish.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Wash
hands thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stir
the oatmeal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Catch
the mouse that is now scampering about the living room with Jenny merrily giving
chase (without letting Jenny see you taking him... or her).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Carry
the mouse outside (in an empty oatmeal can) and down the block, depositing
him/her near the ravine (and thus near food, shelter, water).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stop.
Notice the sunrise as it tops Mt. San Jacinto.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Think
of that one guy who always makes you smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Return
to the house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Wash
hands thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stir
the oatmeal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Encourage
Jenny disingenuously to “keep looking for Mr. Mousie,” pretending it “must be
here somewhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Create
a Facebook post documenting the number of mice Jenny has brought into the house
to play with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Walk
all the way back to the bedroom to pet Sgt. Thomas Tibbs in his bed and tell
him he is the best boy ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Walk
back down the hallway to the den to pet Maya and tell her she is the best girl
ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Wash
hands thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stir
the oatmeal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Add
walnuts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Grab
the blank page journal used for poems and jot down the lines that came to mind
about that one guy while you were walking back from relocating the mouse.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Turn
off the burner under the oatmeal and add raisins, dried blueberries, banana
slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stop.
Close your eyes. In one long inhale of this sweet-scented repast, acknowledge
with gratitude the blessings of food, cat, mouse, dogs, dishwasher, washing
machine, sunrises, wild spaces, warm smiles, word gifts… and that one guy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-38964232381616713262023-06-28T08:40:00.000-07:002023-06-28T08:40:19.766-07:00The Continuing Legacy of TKAM<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmUmm-TkqtwwNFFe7j9cQWiHLS_fzoxnQ5G1oC66vPmNjl7NA0juD3_SoZoO4XiQj0NSxrjHmhkUaJbbYprqwz6HB4bbeNdBWuBgveWY9Z6XbXCKGJC6gVAASk4pQVzp6Cnn0dUzTXFHHnwD5P86KcHHpQdKhm-uRABcj9hhsgM4gNm40W0u-YNoLKrg/s320/TKAM%20for%20blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmUmm-TkqtwwNFFe7j9cQWiHLS_fzoxnQ5G1oC66vPmNjl7NA0juD3_SoZoO4XiQj0NSxrjHmhkUaJbbYprqwz6HB4bbeNdBWuBgveWY9Z6XbXCKGJC6gVAASk4pQVzp6Cnn0dUzTXFHHnwD5P86KcHHpQdKhm-uRABcj9hhsgM4gNm40W0u-YNoLKrg/s1600/TKAM%20for%20blog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Some
months ago, my dear friend, poet and author Mary Langer Thompson, sent me a
copy of the book pictured above, <i>Why To Kill a Mockingbird Matters</i>. I am
deeply indebted, as reading Tom Santopietro’s fascinating review of the writing
of the novel and the making of the film reminded me once again how much I love
this book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ten
years old and starved for books that were slightly more advanced than the <i>Bobbsey
Twins</i> and <i>Little House on the Prairie</i> series my friend Cathy had
offered, I snuck into the closet where some of my older brother’s books were
stored, hoping to find a science fiction or fantasy novel I could get lost in.
Instead, I pulled out a tattered paperback with the picture of a bird on the
cover. <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. I was a birdwatcher. Why on earth would anyone
want to kill a mockingbird?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In
Harper Lee’s words, “Thus began our longest journey together.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reading
it then, at age ten, I didn’t fully understand all the nuances of race
relations. I was a young white girl living in a predominantly white community
in Southern California. That particular summer was a quiet, lazy one. The fiery
tumult of the Watts uprising was still a year away.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What
did resonate with me the first time I read TKAM—and every time since—was the
story of a girl who was as like me as she was unlike me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Like
me, Scout was a tomboy. (With my first read, I was ever-so-envious of Scout’s
overalls; It would be another ten years before I finally had the buying power
to purchase my first pair at age twenty. I’m nearly seventy now, and I still
wear them often.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Unlike
me, Scout had a comfortable and close relationship with her father (something
else I was envious of).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But
what a story! Bored of a summer, Scout, Jem, and Dill spent their days
imagining life inside the Radley home, in the same way my brother, sister, and
I would wonder and speculate about the weird neighbors who’d moved in next
door, bringing with them a live monkey that roamed freely about the house and
regularly attacked and bit the girl our age who lived there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
my initial read, the trial of Tom Robinson seemed to interrupt the flow of the
book, and I didn’t understand most of it, or the chapters about the
well-intentioned but clearly racist (although not to me at the time) missionary
society or Scout’s very racist third-grade teacher. Happily, the novel returned
to the mysterious figure of Boo Radley in its final pages.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
some point in my childhood or adolescence, I saw the movie based on the book. I
have no memory of how I saw it for the first time; it must have been shown on
television. But my emotional memory recalls the tenderness that Atticus
extended to his young daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Some
years later, when my own daughter turned ten, I gave her a copy of TKAM for her
birthday. It occurred to me then—since my kid would be reading it—that I should
read it again, review it from an adult perspective. My, how differently—how
much more heavily—the story landed on my heart. Now that I had more fully
experienced the Civil Rights Movement. Now that I had been caught up in race
riots at my high school. Now that I had Black friends. Now that I had children
of my own, some of them racially mixed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If
I had loved the novel before, I revered it now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So
I count myself most fortunate and blessed that, nearly as soon as I began
teaching high school, I was privileged to teach <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i> as
part of the curriculum. I taught ninth grade for 25 of the 27 years of my
teaching career, with multiple sections of ninth grade in any given year. How
many times now have I read aloud these words, affecting a Southern accent, “Folks
call me Dill” or “Scout, let’s get us a baby” or “Hey, Boo”? I have no idea.
How many times have I watched my students as they watched the big reveal of Boo
Radley in the movie? I have no idea of that number, either. But I can tell you
that, despite having read and seen it over a hundred times now, that scene—whether in
the book or in the film—still brings me to tears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
recent years, TKAM has had its detractors. In my humble opinion, the critics
who focus solely on the plot thread of Tom Robinson miss the mark of Harper
Lee’s great American novel. As much as we may agonize over the stark truth of
his situation, the book is not “about” Tom. It’s Scout’s story, one hundred
percent. It’s a coming-of-age tale—albeit based on the harsh realities of
Southern issues—of a young girl who is, initially, blissfully ignorant of the
ignorance in her community. She is six and innocent as the story begins, nine
when it closes, her eyes now having been opened to see some of those things
that Atticus would have kept her from seeing, if only he could have.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sixty
years on—even after all those years of reading it over and over again to sweet
but squirrely freshmen, even after my lofty graduate classes in Faulkner and
O’Neill and the many women writers like Toni Morrison who have brilliantly shifted the landscape in modern literature—TKAM is still my favorite book. In
nine years and four months, my great-granddaughter will turn ten. I know exactly
what gift I will give her for that birthday.</span></p><p></p><div><br /></div>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-10117421043247253502023-06-19T20:22:00.001-07:002023-06-19T20:22:10.784-07:00A Cascade of Nostalgia<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2wUemje_wURLV0Fi_bsNZ4X4tqo-T8L_jCscDoTZBW4Ev_uogme8oupuTkee1xNl1Rl3R0gyloNYZorDtg_id0JiRYOEGszxCz3yvFJi3n08FOedFuukm4mBGRTP6Rp3QgCA4d4RO7BBplAZ1VcCK1xZjJ-2Ybrh6fRKkJCzR7W2PpogiqHwaKlUhMk/s640/Forest%20Falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2wUemje_wURLV0Fi_bsNZ4X4tqo-T8L_jCscDoTZBW4Ev_uogme8oupuTkee1xNl1Rl3R0gyloNYZorDtg_id0JiRYOEGszxCz3yvFJi3n08FOedFuukm4mBGRTP6Rp3QgCA4d4RO7BBplAZ1VcCK1xZjJ-2Ybrh6fRKkJCzR7W2PpogiqHwaKlUhMk/s320/Forest%20Falls.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Forest
Falls, named in part for a very tall, very beautiful cascading waterfall (called "Big Falls") at the east
end of town, is a small village in the foothills below Mt. San Gorgonio in
Southern California. I made my first sojourn there when I was in high school
when a group of “Jesus freak” young people like myself car caravanned there
from Riverside. I still have photos and many fond memories from that day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A
half dozen years after that first trip, I returned to Forest Falls to attend my
very first writers conference at Forest Home, the beautiful conference center
there. At the age of 21, I had entered a national writing contest, won third
place, and the person who called to make that announcement told me, “I see that
you live in Southern California. In addition to everything else you’ve won
[publication in a national magazine with a readership of six million, plus
books on writing AND the entire </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chronicles of Narnia</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> series, just for
fun], we’d like to send you to a writers conference.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Did
those lovely folks have any idea how attending that conference would catapult
me into my dream of writing and publishing? I don’t know, but it sure did.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When
my children were old enough, we returned for a day of hiking, picnicking,
blackberry picking—and, at the end of it, a trip to the ER for stitches after
my eldest son stepped on a piece of broken glass while wading barefoot in the
stream.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
can assure you, when I returned many years later with three young grandkids in
tow, I made sure all of us kept our shoes on.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At
some point in my adult life, I picked up a friend who was trying to decide
whether or not to leave her abusive husband. I took her up to Forest Falls in
my beloved VW bug. While we rock-hopped over rough terrain to get to the falls,
we also attempted to navigate the equally challenging topics of “commitment”
and “self-esteem.” Good talk. Good walk. But when we returned to the car—the only
one at the trailhead on a weekday—we discovered it had a flat tire. In the
hours previous, I had been trying to convince my friend that she was stronger
than she realized. When she saw the flat, she began to wring her hands and cry.
(Mind you, this was decades before the convenience of cell phones.) She was not
reassured when I told her not to worry, we would, together, fix the flat ourselves.
But we did, handily. At some point, a young man with a six-pack of beer pulled
into the parking area on a motorcycle. He took a seat under a tree and watched
us do the work—and I was grateful that he never offered to help, just sat and
downed his beer, one after another. Because when we triumphantly finished and
climbed into the car to leave, my friend told me how empowered she felt.
Booyah.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In
the past, the trip to Forest Falls required some planning, as it was some
distance from where I lived. Moving to Calimesa, however, put me much closer,
so that now I can get up there in just over half an hour, traffic permitting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
of course, I had to take Maya. Here’s what happened when I did:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As
soon as we left the car and hit the trail, we saw the giant sign erected by the
Forest Service: The area around the waterfall was “closed,” for all intents and
purposes. Why? Because in order to get to the falls, you have to cross Mill
Creek, and (as mentioned in my previous post), the water in the creek is
running so high and so fast, it’s treacherous. Plus someone dies every year by
trying to climb the falls, and I think USFS is simply tired of calling Search
and Rescue to pack out another dead body. Seriously.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">However—we
could still walk along the creek, which we did. (</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/shorts/XRFlR20OJIc" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Click here</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> to see a bit of that.) Until she saw people. Too many
people. There may have been a total of five or six at various points along the
stream. But for her, one human (besides me) is too many. So she panicked. Where
to escape?? Into the water. She headed straight into the stream and would have
paddled to the far side had I not reeled her back in. (When we hike, she’s on a
fifteen-foot lead, so she really did get pretty far before I wrangled her
closer to shore.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT2C5aVp3iCbmsbPmim6JCskOH3CUW6N1IEbgc8I_b0JEkVROS1uf0xODLEscjuUGLNXD8wHG39u6LjUpYO74sBTFNRze4TNsSfwQr0-wc_2eaxdLBgGMVjrMxGE_MasBOvKDYxvOE3AXFJJc6AkLGUyDfUnAcAc3ubktW8N-ZUeyZpbrz2cuzD8jTVI/s640/Blog%20FF2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXT2C5aVp3iCbmsbPmim6JCskOH3CUW6N1IEbgc8I_b0JEkVROS1uf0xODLEscjuUGLNXD8wHG39u6LjUpYO74sBTFNRze4TNsSfwQr0-wc_2eaxdLBgGMVjrMxGE_MasBOvKDYxvOE3AXFJJc6AkLGUyDfUnAcAc3ubktW8N-ZUeyZpbrz2cuzD8jTVI/s320/Blog%20FF2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I wouldn’t let her retreat, she did what I have taught her to do when she’s fearful,
which is to sit down and take a breath. (Okay, I know you can’t really teach a
dog to take a nice deep breath, but she sits, and I do the deep breathing.)
Yep, she sat her little bottom right down in that ice-cold water. Silly dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofsAAeiyASgUmEP62Fbm07_M_g-U8Kf2uysWC7pFlBlbJKRTMCOuaMlDEkWllPjMEmaIXhXi5J6rKYgMTjDcIo7h22Fo6Nr4dJ2rryXHTttLsWPsbk0ZIafKwTg53QTA6VH1SgdJLGhffE4nWGKl_5Y9BBBekokYz_fQysnqh2s50X33vEob5UmDDoPY/s640/Blog%20FF3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofsAAeiyASgUmEP62Fbm07_M_g-U8Kf2uysWC7pFlBlbJKRTMCOuaMlDEkWllPjMEmaIXhXi5J6rKYgMTjDcIo7h22Fo6Nr4dJ2rryXHTttLsWPsbk0ZIafKwTg53QTA6VH1SgdJLGhffE4nWGKl_5Y9BBBekokYz_fQysnqh2s50X33vEob5UmDDoPY/s320/Blog%20FF3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We
didn’t stay much longer; I had things to do at home. But I did stop to take
pictures, and realized (shout out to all my Baldy friends!) from a certain
point, you can see all the way from Forest Falls to Mt. Baldy. And yes, of course
I waved when I realized that. You never know who might be waving back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bQJQCjxXMivim_R_ueFtFmTI6_zumrmJB7KXtgOLDakdVPDNVeonmyTtsuoovLTBdffchk7xCI2gQrnWr_TAQ_GsLQ93OwRu_Vo4a7WYK9IO5wsXLykj0qZpxs-EO72MnZZQV497Vv1n7obS-m6di3b-CIl0yWk2dqxB-upIxVD5qdBL9BpP0keO8e0/s640/Blog%20FF5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bQJQCjxXMivim_R_ueFtFmTI6_zumrmJB7KXtgOLDakdVPDNVeonmyTtsuoovLTBdffchk7xCI2gQrnWr_TAQ_GsLQ93OwRu_Vo4a7WYK9IO5wsXLykj0qZpxs-EO72MnZZQV497Vv1n7obS-m6di3b-CIl0yWk2dqxB-upIxVD5qdBL9BpP0keO8e0/s320/Blog%20FF5.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-37538117502390949272023-06-06T18:41:00.000-07:002023-06-06T18:41:13.083-07:00Rising Out of the Gloom<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItCNtzgAIACl0g_-VhG05yzNRAUwwRuwm6nJwAxFz73vMKMv4-0A2id8Kqf3zHuzjsQhZVmv-nCtmuFNqBpmt7WfG2JVFBX1YuG6HxUWzPhiSPoGXDGe7qgYeoo6yu8RFRdGTJhDfPWhc0dTNlI8tibObV3Z_YnBm2_3x-7En7N-uVbBbwpbtpuk3/s640/Blg%20kiss%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItCNtzgAIACl0g_-VhG05yzNRAUwwRuwm6nJwAxFz73vMKMv4-0A2id8Kqf3zHuzjsQhZVmv-nCtmuFNqBpmt7WfG2JVFBX1YuG6HxUWzPhiSPoGXDGe7qgYeoo6yu8RFRdGTJhDfPWhc0dTNlI8tibObV3Z_YnBm2_3x-7En7N-uVbBbwpbtpuk3/s320/Blg%20kiss%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
been a very long time since I’ve been kissed, and it finally happened
today! Details to follow….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
you live in Southern California, you know that we’ve been having day after day
after day of first “May Gray” and then “June Gloom,” those mornings in which
the marine layer from the Pacific Ocean has drifted far enough inland to cover
everyone in light to heavy fog. Yesterday was no different, the damp and tangy
layer so thick I had to use my windshield wipers as I drove Miss Maya Angelou
Murphy up to a hiking spot that, while quite familiar to me, had been
previously undiscovered by her.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thurman
Flats is located off Hwy 38, a mile or two to the east of the Hwy 38 and Bryant
Street junction. There is a small brown Forest Service sign for it that indicates
“Picnic Area, ¼ mile.” You can't miss it if you drive slower than the 70mph most
locals want to drive on that stretch of highway.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And there
is indeed a beautiful, tree-shaded picnic area there, but I wasn’t intending to
have a picnic. I just needed to rise above the gray gloom that had been
hovering physically outside my house but also mentally inside my head. I know,
I know; we writers live inside our heads. I try to come out and play from time
to time… but… a lot has been going on that I’ve had to… ruminate upon. We’ll
just leave it at that.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
photo above was taken from the parking lot at Thurman
Flats. Note the pretty blue sky, the low cloud cover in the valley below. Yes!
I could feel my spirits lifting as I called Maya out of the car.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Challenge
#1: Would Maya be willing to cross water and boulder hop with me to get to Mill
Creek? We had to pick our way over places like this:</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAbzJYpxFpZZ_-YwfXyfRms_hyHGG-lwvTZ8Wtpuo4pbFRV4ZaTdsW2hsTE8PT8OkpUwyQjb_3Gj-uPHicbI7hykXm2XAeNy_eBIfdbEl7UxjsnLzXla7dgz_M7xiNwi1r9O7yFLlTs2YhYEOGbGbSseLZY5-_H-Nx5V7ZTcvYH3tCr7c-U9mH3_k/s640/Blg%20kiss%203%20really%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAbzJYpxFpZZ_-YwfXyfRms_hyHGG-lwvTZ8Wtpuo4pbFRV4ZaTdsW2hsTE8PT8OkpUwyQjb_3Gj-uPHicbI7hykXm2XAeNy_eBIfdbEl7UxjsnLzXla7dgz_M7xiNwi1r9O7yFLlTs2YhYEOGbGbSseLZY5-_H-Nx5V7ZTcvYH3tCr7c-U9mH3_k/s320/Blg%20kiss%203%20really%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But
that girl was ready and willing, as she always is when we hit the trail,
and across she went, stopping only when I asked her to so I could get a
picture. Then on we went.</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisayzTYRmfxTZaE-mofNQAR5ipguwaI67SR6Rbj05OI9oYuNd8QcUQ0J7dHnavIrQcWd_Gr5GlxUs0Zz2C0bNq-Ki3-ULdu6NYsP88LSxBZa86-HU9trefA9UGm6O5fGmUPO0kYv5AcsdPTJwcCrsXRpTBrajH9BOYHKd2coJ0U408nzoGPzlOjvq/s640/Blg%20kiss%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisayzTYRmfxTZaE-mofNQAR5ipguwaI67SR6Rbj05OI9oYuNd8QcUQ0J7dHnavIrQcWd_Gr5GlxUs0Zz2C0bNq-Ki3-ULdu6NYsP88LSxBZa86-HU9trefA9UGm6O5fGmUPO0kYv5AcsdPTJwcCrsXRpTBrajH9BOYHKd2coJ0U408nzoGPzlOjvq/s320/Blg%20kiss%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Through
the trees and blackberry brambles, keeping an eye out for both bears and
snakes, we carefully, cautiously traversed the trail and found Mill Creek
gushing madly with water pouring over and around boulders at a level I’ve never
seen it, and I’ve been going there for decades. Hooray for snow melt!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Challenge
#2: Would Maya come willingly to the edge of the roaring stream? Or would she
fear it?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Challenge
accepted, of course. She trotted right up. I held her back from the edge. I
didn’t want her to take a dip in the icy water then have the current drag her
in (and me along with her). There is a very short video of her coming through
the woods to find the water, which you can view by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/shorts/SWt_mNeSDZs" target="_blank">clicking here</a>.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We
walked along the edge of the stream for a bit, but it had broadened so much,
the trail was obliterated in some spots. It was early when we went, and my car
had been the only one in the parking lot, so I was surprised to find a pair of
men’s shoes by the shore. Did he walk back along the trail barefoot? </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Did he realize when he arrived home where he’d
left them? Who knows. I left them where I found them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7rINSH9LgMUkJr1rlcI-dx7DUwctV7jwni9phjCJroWAntT5cKMdXOIbL2cC07JM0V9_5OYton6TWmsdmuuIKqsTOdDiJva7SCHA-OMQA71yJvuG3V8DAKuwPxxdErXgNonhvtlhTaKmYaRmbaNm7gHl_qlobt7QVgPtzA5ywCCak10ipXyHYgnm/s640/Blg%20kiss%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7rINSH9LgMUkJr1rlcI-dx7DUwctV7jwni9phjCJroWAntT5cKMdXOIbL2cC07JM0V9_5OYton6TWmsdmuuIKqsTOdDiJva7SCHA-OMQA71yJvuG3V8DAKuwPxxdErXgNonhvtlhTaKmYaRmbaNm7gHl_qlobt7QVgPtzA5ywCCak10ipXyHYgnm/s320/Blg%20kiss%204.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We
headed back—which was when my kiss was finally bestowed. We had almost reached
the narrow trail leading to the parking area when I heard a commotion and
looked up through the foliage, half expecting to see a bear. Nope. It was a bounding
dog, a large coonhound, followed by an even larger German shepherd. They
barreled straight for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Challenge
#3: Would Maya completely freak out? Or allow the over-excited doggos to greet
her?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Turns out, she didn’t do either, really. She sat down, which is what I’ve
taught her to do when she’s frightened. The dogs ran up and sniffed her, but
she remained sitting quietly, not trying to run. I could hear the dogs’ person trying
to call them back from yards away, shouting as loud as he could to be heard
above the roaring stream. I looked up to see him moving down the trail—a man
about my age, backpack on his shoulder, two smaller terrier mixes following at
his heels. He called to me, something by way of apology, I assume. I laughed
and shrugged because I couldn’t hear him, then turned my attention back to the
dogs just as the coonhound leapt up and kissed me right on the cheek!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wait.
You didn’t think the kiss was offered by a <i>man</i>, did you? Nah. Just a sweet dog
saying hello—and leaving huge muddy paw prints down my sleeve and all over the
front of my jacket. Closer now, the man called once more to his rambunctious
boys, and both galloped off, leaping over boulders and kicking up sand. I’m
guessing they had a great day. Maya and I left them to return home, driving
back down into the drizzle, but not minding it one bit.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-1817883243935855582023-05-24T12:05:00.005-07:002023-05-24T12:05:43.143-07:00Pivoting<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKI3zh_o2Jn9B-MI7-hq3Nhgvuy8w40j_pHsTveop1YbdesVTrLVokH_OGix2rERC9xN_466CwZ6Mgnopfsb1mGFZ_FtqNXpR71KiujEBSSLfLC3haNpbw_KPTnFZsbAeqC7PZHjaAUTMevQfS_n-b_FmPQTpMN7pjHsIL8ua1hiW91MypyPE9Y8F/s320/Blog%20tattoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKI3zh_o2Jn9B-MI7-hq3Nhgvuy8w40j_pHsTveop1YbdesVTrLVokH_OGix2rERC9xN_466CwZ6Mgnopfsb1mGFZ_FtqNXpR71KiujEBSSLfLC3haNpbw_KPTnFZsbAeqC7PZHjaAUTMevQfS_n-b_FmPQTpMN7pjHsIL8ua1hiW91MypyPE9Y8F/s1600/Blog%20tattoo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was 23 years old when I wrote my first book, 25 by the time it was released
across the country by a national book publisher. Ah, the good old days! Back
then, I wrote first drafts in longhand, then typed them on an IBM Selectric
typewriter, edited each page, and typed a final draft, so that everything I
wrote was replicated at least twice, sometimes three times.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
submission process back then was similar in some ways to what it is now.
Despite what we might see in the movies (proud, independent women marching into
editors’ offices and plunking down weighty manuscripts with entreaties that the
work be considered), the whole deal begins with a simple letter, dubbed a
“query” letter, because it’s basically a question: “Hey there, I wrote this
book about this person/thing/idea. Care to read it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Pre-computer
age, these letters were sent off via USPS in great numbers with, of course, a
self-addressed, stamped envelope (the sacred SASE) enclosed for the reply. Then
the waiting began. Weeks, often months, sometimes years later (or never), a
response would finally arrive: “We regret to inform you” or “Thanks for your
recent query letter regarding blah blah blah book. However….” Or (blessedly)
“Hello, Kay! I was intrigued by your idea for a book about prepared childbirth.
Please send me a proposal.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
proposal is somewhat like a very lengthy query. In it, the writer is once again
asking that the work be considered, but the first three chapters or fifty pages
are included, plus an outline of the entire book, plus, in recent years, the
author’s marketing strategy, and the author’s bio including previous publishing
credits.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once
the proposal (typed and retyped on that trusty machine) was packaged up and
sent out (again via USPS, again with a SASE tucked inside), the waiting would
begin again… weeks… months… years. No exaggeration. No kidding.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of
course, if one desired to be published by one of The Big Five New York
Publishers, one submitted queries to an agent, not the publishers themselves,
as the Big Five will not take unsolicited mail from the likes of us lowly
urchins pecking away at keyboards for fun or for a living. Ahem.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nowadays—O
joy!—we live in the whizbang era. I can write queries on my laptop, send them
out to writer friends for feedback, make changes rapidly, and email them
out—for FREE! No stamps, no SASE, no waiting! Well, okay, still waiting… weeks,
months, years for a reply. But at least no waiting for the mail to arrive at
its destination.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">[Side
note here about the whizbang era: I once sent a short piece to the Home Forum
editor of the Christian Science Monitor (a publication which pays very nicely)
to whom I had submitted successfully in the past. I sent this new essay at
5:30a.m., via email. By the time I got to my day job at 7:00a.m. and turned on
my computer, the editor had responded with a short email in reply: “Hi Kay, I
read your piece over my first cup of coffee this morning and loved it. It’ll be
in our October 30<sup>th</sup> issue. A check is on its way to you. Thanks for
thinking of us.” Holy hot damn. That’ll make your day, won’t it?]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
digress.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One
more note about querying publishers or agents: In modern times, this can also
be done by (a) spending $250-$500 or so to attend a writers conference and
“pitching” one’s idea directly to an agent or publisher face-to-face (known as
offering the “elevator pitch”—in other words, if you encountered said person in
an elevator, how might you quickly describe your story idea in a way that
grabbed the listener’s interest enough to be offered a read—or (b)
participating in “pitch wars” on Twitter, during which one tweets out (in 280
characters or less—that’s </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">characters</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, not words) a synopsis of one’s
book idea—for all the world (and hopefully an agent) to see.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
love writers conferences, but can no longer afford them. I am reluctant to
share my story ideas with the masses before they are in print, especially in today’s
world of I-saw-it-online-so-it-must-be-fair-game-to-copy, so neither of those
options will work for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All
of the above is a verbose, reminiscent preface to make this short announcement
(mostly as a follow-up to my post of 27 February of this year): After a good
deal of rumination, two brief forays into the modern publishing world (during
which I was told the first book in my middle-grade series is “too long” for that
age group and also four books in the series is “too many” for a small press),
and a couple of great conversations with two writer friends, I have decided
that my series will be published “independently” (as we now say to avoid the
sad and defeatist label of “self-published”).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What
this means for me:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No
waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
first book will be released as soon as I can get it formatted and have a cover
design professionally created. Booyah.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have total control over the creative content; I will not need to change the
titles of the books in the series (to suit the marketing department of any
potential publisher) or the characters’ names, nor will I have to cut the book
length from 70,000 to 50,000 because “children don’t want to read long books,”
as the industry believes. (I keep suggesting the so-called experts ask kids,
but no one is listening to me. Again, I’m just the urchin pecking away….)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It
also means that there will be a handful of fellow writers who will shake their
heads and cluck their tongues in an exercise of group schadenfreude because “poor
Kay couldn’t get her kids’ books published so she did it herself.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sigh.
It used to bother me that I didn’t get respect among my writer friends. But
seriously, if they’ve read my work (and many of them haven’t), and they don’t
think I’m “good enough” by now, I can’t help them with that. They are not the
readers I’m concerned with, anyway. The ten-year-olds who read this series can
let me know if they like the books or not. And I’m pretty sure they will (like
them, I mean—but also let me know—because that’s how ten-year-olds roll).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So:
Those of you who are mentioned in the books or have become characters in one
form or another, you won’t have long to see yourselves in print. Wondering if
that’s you? Stay tuned….</span></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-15231641834698603782023-04-26T09:08:00.003-07:002023-04-26T14:38:09.302-07:00Conversations with My Cat<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54lKBDu4owd0S0M5P4zcfIjjOgFAr4aF964Ft8oInNRgrNO_bqMteg4cewOdygRwPzYzEZQtv0_HEzKhSWmKLiWE3catwtNlsmtxikeDRgTeIiWzYhTu5jwKt0YJmKytAoC6JmpfRUtqXwQknQtEQr3Q4imXCzX5Ufev89eBMD9NpQt0jFF_YtkQG/s640/Jenny%20in%20light.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54lKBDu4owd0S0M5P4zcfIjjOgFAr4aF964Ft8oInNRgrNO_bqMteg4cewOdygRwPzYzEZQtv0_HEzKhSWmKLiWE3catwtNlsmtxikeDRgTeIiWzYhTu5jwKt0YJmKytAoC6JmpfRUtqXwQknQtEQr3Q4imXCzX5Ufev89eBMD9NpQt0jFF_YtkQG/s320/Jenny%20in%20light.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Friends,
it has been over a month since I posted here. Usually, my absence from the blog
means that I am sad or ruminating or preoccupied with mental health challenges.
Not this time. This time it has been because I have been giddily happy—surprised,
amazed, and tearfully grateful for what the Universe has recently brought into
my life—all of which will, eventually, be expressed in words in this space (if
I can find sufficient words to capture those feelings).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">In
the meantime, we interrupt these (mostly) serious posts regarding social justice,
women’s rights, suicide prevention, and nature walks to bring you:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Conversations
with My Cat </b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have recently been told that Jenny the Cat is “squishy cute.” I cannot
disagree. It has also been suggested (though not by the same person) that, no,
not everyone has conversations with their pets the way I do. How can this be?
If your cat speaks to you, do you not answer in kind? If your dog questions
your punctuality in doling out dinner or treats, do you not offer some lame
excuse regarding “the next commercial” or “Hang on! I’m not ready to get up out
of this chair yet”? Indeed you do. I do concede, your conversations may not be
as <i>in depth</i> as mine…. But see for yourself. Below is a composite of a
typical day in conversation with Jenny.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4:30a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Wake up time? Wake up time?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Jen, come here. Get on the bed. Let’s cuddle. Your boy is still sleeping.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">[Most
nights, Jenny prefers to sleep in the guest room, not on the bed with me. Don’t
ask me why (and don’t suggest that I snore). She also mirrors the movements of
Thomas. If he gets up, she does. If he sleeps longer, she will wait on my bed
until he gets up before venturing out to the kitchen. Silly girl.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">[In
contrast to Purrl, who would purr if I so much as said her name, Jenny is not
as demonstrative—except in the morning when we cuddle, and at night when it’s
time for bed.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5:00a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Outside? Outside!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">[And
so the demands begin… and will continue until the dogs are fed and walked and
the sun has risen sufficiently to allow her out to the back yard. In the
meantime….]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6:00a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Treats? Treats?!?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Yes, Jen, hang on. Thomas gets his treats first because he went walking. And
what did you do? Tell me again why you get treats, dearest? For watching out
the window while we walked? For meeting us at the door? I’m not sure what this
reward is for, but here you go, little girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6:05a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Outside!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Ok, Ok, good grief. Go on out there. <i>Do not</i> bring a mouse back with you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6:30a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
[Running to the living room and opening her jaws to deposit a live mouse on the
floor, which promptly skitters under my writing desk] Mom! Mom! Baby!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Jen! Good grief! You didn’t hurt him, did you?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">[She
never does. She brings them in and chases them around until they’re exhausted
enough for me to scoop into an empty oatmeal can. The last mouse she brought in
was more afraid of me than it was her, and when I tried to get it, the poor
thing ran to where Jenny lay on the floor like a sphinx, and it cowered against
her chest. Her response? She just sat there, harboring the fugitive with a smug
grin on her face. Cats. Sheesh.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">9:00a.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Naptime
begins… and goes on and on throughout the day, with occasional interludes for cat
treats (if the dogs get one) and exchanges such as these:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>1:00p.m.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jenny: Mom. [Waking me from a nap]</p><p class="MsoNormal">Me: [Whispering, so as not to wake Thomas] Up here, baby. Jump up on the bed.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Jenny: Mom. Sleepy. [Flopping over next to my side and going back to sleep]</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5:00p.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Me:
Jen! You’re up! Hi, baby. Wanna cuddle with Mom? Wanna eat your dinner?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[Silence, as she strolls haughtily past me and through the open door to the back yard]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">[I
can’t blame her. I don’t like to chat when I wake from my nap, either.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>6:00p.m.</b>
[As Jenny jumps onto the kitchen table, flopping over next to where I am
sitting, trying to have a phone conversation with The Very Special Man in My Life]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
Mom. Talking?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Yes, honey. Shhhh….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
Mom. Pet Jenny.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Of course. Shhhh….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Look!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Good grief. <i>What?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
[Looking out the window] Bird!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
I see it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Very
Special Man: Is that Jenny? What’s she saying?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">[Note:
This is how you know a man is very special, when he understands that if the cat
is talking, she must be saying something of import.]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6:30p.m.</b><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">
[As I attempt to resume my conversation with the human]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
[Puffing up to twice her size] Mom! Mom! Look!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
<i>What,</i> Jen?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
<i>DOG!</i> [Her eyes track Ace, the large collie who lives down the street and
passes our house every single day at this time on his way to the dog park with one
of his humans.]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Yes, Jen. It’s Ace. Again. You’re safe, baby. Might be a good idea to stay in
now—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
[Jumping down from the table] Outside!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">7:00p.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
[Calling into the back yard] Jen! Time to come in now!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
[Grumbling as she trots back along the walkway toward the door] Why? Why? Why
come in? Now? Right now? Why?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
[Shaking the can with cat treats] Come on, stop complaining. I’ll give you a
treat for coming in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
Treat?!?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">8:00p.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
Mom! Mom! Bedtime!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
I know, dearest. Let me finish this—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jenny:
Mom! Treat time! Bedtime!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
OK! OK!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">8:30p.m.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Jenny:
RRRrrrRRRrrrRRRrrr</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmnGsdrwvMnZwhGWg5jX1tGj72_JzQWpdQvsrLzKcrAx-0iJWVJ5W4K00O3BZ__qbLwarJyRLznwuR8HXS8otVXsuS-9u4omEORh8ta0chURLbrGXkSiX7U_ryK2XljZFbDdzU-cYzMe9YVmpK5YX9eCvaZRV8xXkiYZcnXNCBaMFqwNk-43adUHA/s1497/Jenny%20belly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1497" data-original-width="1393" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmnGsdrwvMnZwhGWg5jX1tGj72_JzQWpdQvsrLzKcrAx-0iJWVJ5W4K00O3BZ__qbLwarJyRLznwuR8HXS8otVXsuS-9u4omEORh8ta0chURLbrGXkSiX7U_ryK2XljZFbDdzU-cYzMe9YVmpK5YX9eCvaZRV8xXkiYZcnXNCBaMFqwNk-43adUHA/s320/Jenny%20belly.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span><p></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-34001722772009510032023-03-12T11:00:00.002-07:002023-03-14T10:01:02.911-07:00AI? Pffffffttttt....<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEp3sTW9QMrMisPf1yY0MOBtp4nEOlK6uZr-mghUJs7p3LH-kzvYu5KjP49eiKq7fwCqyTYASxDzTQHFHQJWkthFY58_yUL_nhlVVDtJMOWoSo38YdjpZefzBODLlJNO72lAJZvuT9EmTata0dYkef1etp5ajB0OGXyC7l8YfzICQ7TZq2IEgpUb0/s444/Sleeping%20dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="444" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEp3sTW9QMrMisPf1yY0MOBtp4nEOlK6uZr-mghUJs7p3LH-kzvYu5KjP49eiKq7fwCqyTYASxDzTQHFHQJWkthFY58_yUL_nhlVVDtJMOWoSo38YdjpZefzBODLlJNO72lAJZvuT9EmTata0dYkef1etp5ajB0OGXyC7l8YfzICQ7TZq2IEgpUb0/s320/Sleeping%20dragon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Let sleeping dragons lie," by Eirescei, can be found on DeviantArt.com. (Used with permission.)</i></div></i><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
heard a lot of talk recently about AI (Artificial Intelligence) and how new apps
recently released can write English papers and even books. “It’s the way of the
future!” is what we’re hearing proclaimed, with some suggesting that “anyone”
will be able to write a book simply by telling the AI software what they want.
Yeah. Right. Just as we were told twenty years ago that books would soon be obsolete
because we’d all have Kindles (or similar digital readers), which would do away
with paper books forever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yeah.
Good thing I didn’t hold my breath for that to happen.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
you’re a writer who is sweating this stuff, please stop. Your craft is safe.
Trust me. If it helps, consider what I wrote some years ago as a submission to
a “Flash” contest for nonfiction. Maybe it will help. Here ya go:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Prompt:
Write 250 words on why writing is a mystery.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why
is writing a mystery to me? Because when Shakespeare wanted Hamlet to express the
depth of his depression, he could have written his line as, “Man, I’m just so
sad about it all.” Instead, he wrote, “O God, God, how weary, stale, flat and
unprofitable seem to me all the uses of the world.” And when Milton described
the domain of Satan as “darkness visible,” he reached for a phrase that had
never been used before… and it worked for generations to come, as did Frost’s
choice of the road “less traveled by” and Whitman’s cry of “O Captain, my
Captain!” Writing is a mystery to me because we cannot resolve scientifically—even
with all our super-technology—why one particular word order is more pleasing,
more poignant, more profound than another. Nor can a machine, given every
dictionary entry known to the language, replicate the creativity, the subtle
dance with words that a writer produces with a simple pen and paper. Writing is
a mystery to be because a craftsman with words can so set the stage that two
words may bring us to tears… or to our knees:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hey,
Boo.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Jesus
wept.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Writing
is a mystery to me because when I write, I become enthralled, and when I
emerge, finally, there lies my soul upon the paper—for all the world to see.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-55532408807309448022023-02-27T19:01:00.005-08:002023-02-28T07:18:56.062-08:00Rising with the Day<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqmxRYpMxB06ByTzL7XubVcs54Glp98U8--2C6IKOuUwDW2lsOx1OCc5iB_tV5RHgL9juJJpLSarw_NbTGT7D4UHgSZonmp-Y6KGS_XiU3HBOpIjX0WWGRUh-t8GpHK-YA9nF9LUwEtdXwOakplzxWMDfmqfGWUHQuyn-31-ikhLi1dCE-3PPXiMS/s640/Bread%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqmxRYpMxB06ByTzL7XubVcs54Glp98U8--2C6IKOuUwDW2lsOx1OCc5iB_tV5RHgL9juJJpLSarw_NbTGT7D4UHgSZonmp-Y6KGS_XiU3HBOpIjX0WWGRUh-t8GpHK-YA9nF9LUwEtdXwOakplzxWMDfmqfGWUHQuyn-31-ikhLi1dCE-3PPXiMS/s320/Bread%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bread
is such an amazing food, isn’t it? Take a handful of ingredients—salt, sugar,
flour, water, yeast—maybe some olive oil and rosemary—combine it, then watch as
it does its magic.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I
woke to snowfall on Thursday. We’ve been expecting this storm, here in
Calimesa, hoping for snow because we rarely get real snow. When I opened the
door to take the dogs out at 4:00a.m., big, fluffy flakes were falling. Did the
dogs mind? Not a wit. They had to pee! Out into the yard they raced, returning
to me on the patio ten minutes later, their coats dusted with flakes that were
already melting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">It
rained and snowed on and off all day—a good day to hunker down and produce some
good work.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">So
after breakfast, I started some bread rising. The night before, in anticipation
of the storm, I’d plucked some sprigs of rosemary from my back yard shrub, washed
it, and minced the leaves. (The entire house smelled like fresh rosemary, and I
remember catching a whiff of the scent as I went to bed.) I added salt, sugar, water,
flour, yeast, and some olive oil, stirred, mixed, and kneaded until a dough was
formed. (When people ask if I have a bread maker, I always answer in the
affirmative as I hold up my two hands. I’ve been making bread this way for 50
years. No reason to change it up now.)</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBRAyh3CHEb7GWlsAM__xRF18zyjFIAk_TudzldSb_dNkpZ2XDcMkDCmco7W4YqOUGBybRiGJen6B6Bj3YD9aT0pc4zovwSsCikHqpCwKSKyui4P8lGD1WYnXv2-kuE3DWVPKrrBIn9YFAROM9-ik72k0Joyn9P_brafar78sJjMp0keAmjpaub8L/s640/Bread%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBRAyh3CHEb7GWlsAM__xRF18zyjFIAk_TudzldSb_dNkpZ2XDcMkDCmco7W4YqOUGBybRiGJen6B6Bj3YD9aT0pc4zovwSsCikHqpCwKSKyui4P8lGD1WYnXv2-kuE3DWVPKrrBIn9YFAROM9-ik72k0Joyn9P_brafar78sJjMp0keAmjpaub8L/s320/Bread%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">With
the dough in the bowl, rising nicely, I opened my laptop. I know I don’t talk
about it much—I consider it bad form to do so—but since I retired, I’ve been
working on a series of children’s books. (Not a Young Adult novel, as I’ve done
before, but a Middle-Grade series, for kids 10-12.) The idea came to me years
ago, when I lived in Mt Baldy. I intended to write one fun book. Then I heard a
fellow writer talk about the advantage of writing a series—in order to sell
more books.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Huh,</span></i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"> I thought. <i>I
could make it a trilogy.</i> (Which is how it started, but well into the second
book, I knew there had to be four, as it follows the seasons.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">But
finding the time to write it was nearly impossible while I was still working. (Though
I did write the first 30 pages and hand them off to one of my favorite
brilliant ten-year-olds, Matthew Confer, who read it and gave me the best
feedback I’ve ever gotten from a first reader. Matthew is 19 and in his second
year of college now.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">One
week before our rainy snowstorm, I finished the last chapter of the fourth
book. All that was left to write was a short epilogue. But some things happened…
some good, some bad… and I didn’t get back to it until Wednesday night. After I
chopped up all that aromatic rosemary, I wrote the first half of the epilogue.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">On
Thursday, while the bread was rising, the house now filling with the scent of
yeasty dough, I put some soft music on for the fur kids, then, as I mentioned,
opened the laptop. And cried. And wrote the final words of the book. And cried
some more.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">It
may seem like a tired trope of egocentric writers, so forgive me if that’s the
case, but I absolutely love my characters. Writing fiction is damn hard—you have
to create lives and back stories and scenarios out of thin air—truly like
pulling a rabbit out of a hat where none existed previously. But a decade ago,
when I had the idea, one snowy, wintry night in Baldy while I lay in bed in the
loft with my tiny cat, Sugar Plum, curled beside me, I began to tell her a
story. A story about a cat… and a dragon. And in the years that passed, the
story took shape in my head. And I knew exactly how it would end. Ten years and
four books later, that story ended exactly as I had envisioned it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">To
celebrate, I took a long nap. When I got up, I shaped my lovely mound of dough
into four smaller mounds, let them rise one more time, and then put them in the
oven.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Imagine
the joy in my house: The quiet snow falling… the scent of fresh baked bread…
the satisfaction of seeing a vision come to fruition….</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8Dx5Cw7ZnM2bo2th28ssxuD8mBEW2D1CVIgs57sz8uPvJ7NFFl3gmAoU01xcfvl0xG-r5Dzv3lLT3q5qFsDG9ZcDpbOktBwwsbms0pHQfaT6D3xaZ2ih2sqYQ92-GDktoBAvwEhtc0KMfznUb5ZLU56SO2a3gzHPi9WCIL6eq2pKhqRp6NzFp_Jg/s640/Bread%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8Dx5Cw7ZnM2bo2th28ssxuD8mBEW2D1CVIgs57sz8uPvJ7NFFl3gmAoU01xcfvl0xG-r5Dzv3lLT3q5qFsDG9ZcDpbOktBwwsbms0pHQfaT6D3xaZ2ih2sqYQ92-GDktoBAvwEhtc0KMfznUb5ZLU56SO2a3gzHPi9WCIL6eq2pKhqRp6NzFp_Jg/s320/Bread%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Storytelling
is much like making bread. You only need a handful of ingredients—a few
characters, a setting, a bit of conflict to get the story churning—and, with
patience, you can produce something wonderful. Something magical.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now the hardest part of all begins: Finding just the right publisher to get these books out into the world for kids just like me who love to read books with cats, dogs, dragons, and a wee bit of fantasy.</p><p class="MsoNormal">While we wait, here's a tiny sample from Book One, just to give you a taste: (FYI: I have this section printed and thumbtacked to my writing board.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Little one." The dragon stopped, turned, and spread her enormous wings to embrace the small girl who had halted in the middle of the path. Softly, she continued. "Here is my blessing of peace to your heart. It matters not whether this person at this time chooses or does not choose you. Let that be the furthest from your mind. It has been asked of you to sing. This is a sacred gift. You honor us all--your ancestry and yourself--when you do so. At the time given, let go of 'what if' and celebrate what <i>is."</i></span></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-31453647538021921802023-02-06T18:57:00.001-08:002023-02-06T19:37:12.444-08:00The DirecTV Guy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnbPyYEmHGxG2Wg1WWB9B_omIEv6xjCoGevdGKHOkDe6yx0eYiV1_PQ4Kci9Sm6nshRIB1DhkMdZJ5JDJ5zS_GO-b4J4EnId83GiaUU7xEN_ZEI9OfWzN2WE4BVps9PfZRa18QXB2zkS2WcS-cmAVnSbOaqBW2shVFnqiWdtkp6B2gGcdYbgF80z6/s2016/Blog%20fridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibnbPyYEmHGxG2Wg1WWB9B_omIEv6xjCoGevdGKHOkDe6yx0eYiV1_PQ4Kci9Sm6nshRIB1DhkMdZJ5JDJ5zS_GO-b4J4EnId83GiaUU7xEN_ZEI9OfWzN2WE4BVps9PfZRa18QXB2zkS2WcS-cmAVnSbOaqBW2shVFnqiWdtkp6B2gGcdYbgF80z6/s320/Blog%20fridge.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay,
I’m going to palaver on about my hellacious weekend, but really, all that mess
is just backstory to what I really want to say about the DirecTV guy. Please be
patient….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In
the middle of the night on Thursday night, I was heading for the back yard with
Thomas when I walked through a large pool of water on the floor. It was coming
from under the refrigerator.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But
that’s not what this post is about.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
next morning, I called an appliance repair place, and they scheduled someone to
come out and fix the fridge </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the same day</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. Booyah!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
I’m thinking, I’m on a roll. Might as well get this over with and call DirecTV.
My receiver had essentially quit working days before. I was so done with
DirecTV. But wait! The lovely young woman I spoke with made it all okay, said
she’d send someone out the next day to install a new receiver, and we did a fancy-dance
work-around on the cost. Boom!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fridge
repair guy, Ruben, comes out, pulls the fridge out, clears the defrost drain
tube of all the accumulated ice, charges me a fair price and heads out,
mentioning as he does that “there may be some residual condensation there on
the floor.” Huh. So I just keep putting down dry towels, rinsing the wet ones,
drying them, repeating the process.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At
3:00a.m. the next morning, taking Thomas out, I step into nearly-a-lake on the
kitchen floor. Many, many towels are removed from the dryer and thrown on the
floor to try to sop it all up. I do not go back to bed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At
6:45a.m. I call the appliance repair place and am surprised when someone
actually answers. I explain that I still have “huge amounts of water” on my
floor, and I’m told the technician “will call” me. And, eventually, he does.
When he comes back out and pulls the fridge out again, he discovers that the
water is not coming from the refrigerator. It’s seeping in under the wall.
What’s on the other side of the wall? My water heater.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But
that’s not what this post is about.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ruben
takes some pictures, tells me his company can replace the water heater (which
is what I should have done last summer, due to age, and I knew it), and they’ll
call me with an estimate.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So
now I’m sopping up water in and around my water heater. And there’s no shut-off
valve for the incoming cold water on the thing, so to stop it would mean
turning my water off at the main. </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No.</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Hard stop.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Overwhelmed,
I call my next-door neighbor, the very cool and heroic Gustavo, who hurries
over, assesses the situation, hurries back to his place, returns with channel
locks, a pipe wrench, some plumbers tape and a pipe cap. Fifteen minutes
later—I kid you not—he’s shut down my water heater. Finally, the water stops
seeping under the wall. I don’t have hot water, but I can deal with that. I
have water. I have pans. I have a stove. I once went two weeks without hot
water while living in Mt. Baldy. What I </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">don’t </i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">have is water accumulating
along the baseboard and pooling on the floor. Bravo!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just
as Gus is picking up his tools, the DirecTV guy shows up. Whew.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That’s
what this post is about. It’s about the DirecTV technician, Luis.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He
introduced himself, showed me his badge, then trudged in, carrying a new
receiver. As he went to work doing the install, I went in the kitchen and
started getting organized for who-knows-how-many days without hot water.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When
I finished, Luis was sitting idly on the living room floor, scrolling through
his phone, waiting for the system set-up on the receiver to do its thing. I
asked him if he was having a good day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m
not,” I said, “so I hope your day is going well.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He
shrugged. “Saturday is always easy.” Then he looked back at this phone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hmm.
Definitely not a chatty guy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
persisted. “Because less traffic?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He
shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess.” Then he pointed to my typewriter. “I used to
have one. In school. For homework.” His accent was heavy, his English
imperfect. I wondered if he found it easier not to engage in conversation with
people who weren’t likely to understand him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
told him I was a writer, and it’s like this quiet gentleman just came to life.
“You do art, then,” he said. “I am artist, too. I paint.” He picked up his
phone again, excited now, poking it a couple of times to bring up Instagram. He
started to show me his pictures, but I told him to wait while I got my phone so
I could follow him on the platform. As I scrolled through his beautiful beach
and forest scenes, I told him how much I loved the mountains, how I used to
live in Mt. Baldy. He told me he drives up to Idyllwild as often as he can just
to be up in the mountains and look for scenes to paint. He told me how he was
bored during the pandemic so he watched some YouTube videos and picked up a
brush and started painting with acrylics. His wife took one look at what he was
doing, he said, and she charged off to Hobby Lobby, buying him more paint and
canvasses. He started posting pictures of his work on Instagram, and people
commented. So he set up an Etsy account, and now he sells them. His wife, he
said, likes to go to bed early and get up when the world is quiet. (Sounds
familiar.) After she goes to bed, he paints. For two or three or five hours. He
showed me a picture of his wife and son, talked a bit about his wife going
through some health problems in recent years. She didn’t want him to sell any
paintings—because she loves all of them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Finally,
he asked if he could see a copy of one of my books. I grabbed one and showed
him. He asked where he could buy a copy. I took that one back, signed it, and
gave it to him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I
will read it,” he said. “I promise.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
I believe he will.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Given
the “Salvi Pride” tag on his Instagram profile, I’m guessing Luis is from El
Salvador. I don’t know how long he’s been in the U.S. or what he had to go
through to get here or what it felt like to leave his homeland, hoping, as he
came to this strange new country, that he would somehow make a better life for
himself and his family.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But…
consider this: His Instagram handle is @luis_vichez_art. What if, like, a whole
lot of people read this post and decide to follow Luis on Instagram? And maybe
even some people buy a painting from him? Wouldn’t that be amazing? I’m telling
you right now, it would make all the insanity of the past couple of days worth
it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
oh—the appliance repair business called while I was talking to Luis. They gave
me a reasonable estimate on replacing the water heater—on Monday, so I would
only have to be hot waterless through Sunday. Which is when I’m writing this.
And guess what? They called back this morning to ask if they could please do
the job today. A day early. And yeah, it gets even better. They did the whole
job in an hour and a half. Done, cleaned up, water heating as I wrote the
check.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But
that’s not what this post is about. It’s about Luis, the painter.
@luis_vichez_art</span></p><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-45470734557662601712023-01-14T15:41:00.000-08:002023-01-14T15:41:07.842-08:00Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, Nine Years In<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qnPVMa2XLikSpIU7vCcCAx_AveWMIUwxgVoYPYP9soe3rQETBTpvHSl86losb3k9z-YGVdkeIuGwhcOEaOWiDtKmS8cjqmFSJ7I4SMA0qg_oXnu6gsDXmchWfUPmHIQ42ycanic2j-vTvSxdk5qp15ByIZkQoww37ZDap-QJ5xp5tzflYqn90LL8/s1800/Thomas%20at%2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qnPVMa2XLikSpIU7vCcCAx_AveWMIUwxgVoYPYP9soe3rQETBTpvHSl86losb3k9z-YGVdkeIuGwhcOEaOWiDtKmS8cjqmFSJ7I4SMA0qg_oXnu6gsDXmchWfUPmHIQ42ycanic2j-vTvSxdk5qp15ByIZkQoww37ZDap-QJ5xp5tzflYqn90LL8/s320/Thomas%20at%2015.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
know. I can’t believe it, either. This fuzzy boy has been with me for one year
shy of a decade. Amazing.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
you don’t know his background, <a href="https://skaymurphy.blogspot.com/2014/01/sgt-thomas-tibbs-update.html" target="_blank">clicking here</a> will give you some perspective. And if you also read the post from <a href="https://skaymurphy.blogspot.com/2014/01/saving-sgt-tibbs.html" target="_blank">January
4</a></span><sup style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://skaymurphy.blogspot.com/2014/01/saving-sgt-tibbs.html" target="_blank">th, </a></sup><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://skaymurphy.blogspot.com/2014/01/saving-sgt-tibbs.html" target="_blank">2014</a>, you’ll
have a more complete picture of how far this dog has progressed from the frightened
feral creature he once was.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now,
when I post his picture on Twitter or Instagram, I get far more “likes” for his
cute mug than I do for anything I post about myself, whether that is some bit
of wisdom for writers or a photo of the hills where I hike. Thomas has the GQ
good looks to get him noticed—even though he still hates having his picture
taken.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At
fifteen, my boy is an old guy now, with arthritis in his shoulder and hips and
back. Last year I spent a thousand dollars on tests to try to discover, once
and for all, what initiates the on-going issues with his sensitive gut. Turns
out he has Irritable Bowel Syndrome due to his chronic anxiety. So now he has
multiple meds for anxiety, IBS, and arthritis. Some days are tough, when his belly
hurts. Some nights are even tougher, when we’re up four or five times—especially
in winter—going out to the yard. Good thing I’m retired and I can nap during
the day….</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last
year around this time, I wrote about how Thomas has come to love our bedtime ritual,
wherein we sit on the floor of my bedroom and he is petted, massaged, and/or
brushed before it’s time to say goodnight. A year ago, it was Purrl getting in
on the attention. Now, with Purrl gone, Jenny has stepped in, insisting that
she, too, be the recipient of all this love and affection.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And
Jenny has made up her own bedtime ritual for Thom. She loves to ambush him. When
I tell them it’s time for bed, she runs ahead toward the bedroom, but ducks
into the guest bathroom, hiding there in the dark until Thom comes trotting
down the hall, at which point she jumps out at him, batting him with soft paws.
He has no idea that this is a cat game, and that he is supposed to react by jumping
in the air and chasing after her. So he just ignores her. Which he pretty much
does all the time anyway. Even though she loves him and rubs on him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thomas
was six when I adopted him. I told him then that I just wanted him to live six
years, to have as many good years of safety and love as he had starvation and
abandonment. I was surprised and happy when he reached that landmark. Now we’re
three years past that. In some part of his brain, he still remembers the awful
time; he still occasionally cries out in his sleep as if he’s being wounded.
But as the years go on, those times are fewer and farther between.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">May
he never have another bad dream.</span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzbVIBIMvIikTIO8BWQRjAcH7Ramaqh9ARrXwFbdt6aDIf_6wYswko0aeP2fxEnYlt-qjSbdSb3a8L3wtGkDNVXqgxSId6tit6FhqaoHhZD8VodiD7ttdjL3uBClSVij8GOVIjaJvYErpkws3vYuZgsMm9gaQ7ovgRTjhj3-94BgNb85fMIe_jAsq/s2016/Thomas%20sleeps%20peacefully.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzbVIBIMvIikTIO8BWQRjAcH7Ramaqh9ARrXwFbdt6aDIf_6wYswko0aeP2fxEnYlt-qjSbdSb3a8L3wtGkDNVXqgxSId6tit6FhqaoHhZD8VodiD7ttdjL3uBClSVij8GOVIjaJvYErpkws3vYuZgsMm9gaQ7ovgRTjhj3-94BgNb85fMIe_jAsq/s320/Thomas%20sleeps%20peacefully.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-51433478776677701572022-12-21T07:00:00.002-08:002022-12-21T07:08:07.917-08:00The Darkest Evening of the Year<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGc5tVhoiYvR2E0ohMwao--pBY358UrtT9M8yU_wNjY4xp6URZvCFSe1MiznEf1_fknVoqYBQKB-8_t-BiZm_3_6Or_tzuWNB2Xui5Hi2G6B1KSDP4prUbl_KQgL40Ffz97Xl7cifEif8cak5KNmkh4VWgFMk32G4FcI5y2zKc3Bl69F5xvhkLtO9/s400/Sunset%2011-18-11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGc5tVhoiYvR2E0ohMwao--pBY358UrtT9M8yU_wNjY4xp6URZvCFSe1MiznEf1_fknVoqYBQKB-8_t-BiZm_3_6Or_tzuWNB2Xui5Hi2G6B1KSDP4prUbl_KQgL40Ffz97Xl7cifEif8cak5KNmkh4VWgFMk32G4FcI5y2zKc3Bl69F5xvhkLtO9/s320/Sunset%2011-18-11.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I wrote the following short piece for <i>Fresh Ink</i>, my writers club journal, but I decided to share it here because... it's the Solstice. And why not?</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"> In “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert
Frost describes a reverie he’s had on the night of the December solstice as he
stops to watch the snow fall on a neighbor’s woods. It’s a lovely image—the white
flakes falling, dusting the trees with winter icing. As his “little horse,” impatient
to move on, shakes himself, his harness bells—sleigh bells—jingle. Apart from
that, they are in a place so isolated, it’s quiet enough to hear the snow
falling. (“The only other sound’s the sweep/of easy wind and downy flake.”)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We love this poem because,
the Christmas season being what it is, with its frenetic activity of shopping,
wrapping, preparing, cooking, and so forth, we relate to the final lines of the
poem: “But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to
go before I sleep.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Until I memorized this poem long
ago (along with a freshman English class I was teaching), I didn’t fully
appreciate the line that comes before those final lines: “The woods are lovely,
dark and deep.” It seems there is a certain reluctance here to push on, get
those chores done, those promises kept, get out of the cold and into a warm
bed. Why? What drives a man to sit in a sleigh and stare, when he has so much
at home compelling him to get moving?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is what I relate to,
the dragging of his feet, the lure of the woods. As much as we would love to
remember Frost as the kind, grandfatherly man who wrote of nature and farming,
he was a profoundly troubled individual who possessed the requisite tortured
soul of many poets. Consider this: His sister spent her last years in a mental
institution, as did one of Frost’s daughters. One son died of cholera at the
age of four; the other committed suicide when he was thirty-eight. Frost would
outlive this son by twenty-three years, which is a long, long time to carry
such grief.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Suffice it to say, the poet
experienced his share of sadness and depression. What comforted him, we assume
from his work, was the beauty and resiliency he observed in nature, the
constancy and routine of the seasons’ change.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Many decades ago, when I had
recently emerged, battle weary and deeply depressed, from the worst year of my
life, two friends stopped by my house and nearly dragged me out to hike with
them. I had no hiking boots, only sneakers. It was January, and while the
golden California sun was shining, it had snowed in the mountains the night
before—which is where they insisted on taking me, up to the nearest mountain,
Mt. Baldy, for a long walk up a winding fire road that eventually led to a
crystal-clear view of the valley below.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The snow was the brightest
white I had ever seen. The trees, warmed by the sun, gave off an aromatic scent
of pine you will never find in a cleaning product or deodorizer. And after
miles of hiking, endorphins flooding my brain, I was hooked. Here was solace.
Here was comfort. The sights, the smells, these two goofball friends who told
stories and laughed and kept me moving until I was (finally!) warm, gave me the
gift of hiking to achieve balance and perspective, to be reminded that, as
nature endures, so will I. The hours we spent were more memorable than I can
describe, and I will be grateful for it through the rest of my days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“The woods are lovely, dark
and deep.” During the holiday season, this line will come to me at the oddest
times—standing in line at Target, sitting on the floor wrapping gifts, breathing
deeply in heavy traffic as I try to remain calm and get to my destination
alive. They will draw me out, those woods, and offer me quiet moments of
solitary, serene walking in between the frenzied times. And I will remember
Frost and his work with much gratitude.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-91510206152575973122022-11-30T10:26:00.003-08:002022-11-30T10:26:28.237-08:00988<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFy5otye80qsWdcr3w8TeyGMw5yuT5IrEierCpibJt7148G1ubaelNsC5w0UVdYngQOYBJ4V5aPX946vxJR9hWwoOqAXKXhFwGglTwAC2PolyQjHqJGCLL21-U_CBJcDHsSMA_86exZVVyDUU5cP2AsomNKbP1OMuonXXcT_bRCXYL8kLRX0uy-Kld/s3785/Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1987" data-original-width="3785" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFy5otye80qsWdcr3w8TeyGMw5yuT5IrEierCpibJt7148G1ubaelNsC5w0UVdYngQOYBJ4V5aPX946vxJR9hWwoOqAXKXhFwGglTwAC2PolyQjHqJGCLL21-U_CBJcDHsSMA_86exZVVyDUU5cP2AsomNKbP1OMuonXXcT_bRCXYL8kLRX0uy-Kld/s320/Sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before
I jump into what I want to say here, let me assure certain family members and
friends—you know who you are, the three of you who check on me after I talk
about this sort of thing—that I am feeling fine and on the bright side of the
rainbow today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some
weeks ago, I called the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. I didn’t call because
I was in crisis, so I wasn’t on the phone very long. I just wanted to see how
the system worked and how long it took to actually speak with a caring person
on the other end. Turns out, not long. In less than a minute, I connected with
a gentle-voiced woman who asked, “How are you feeling today?” I told her that I
was feeling fine, that I only wanted to try the system so that I could write
about it. I thanked her for her time, and we ended the call quickly so that she
could help others who were actually in need.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s
been a long time coming, and I’m glad the number is now available. Three
digits. 988. Easy to remember in a crisis.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It
was decades ago that I wrote my first article on suicide prevention. At the
time, I was living in Rancho Cucamonga, and I wrote occasional columns for the
Daily Bulletin newspaper. Days after that first piece was published, a
gentleman called my home, apologized for having obtained my number from
information, and went on to thank me for writing the article. He’d lost his fifteen-year-old
son to suicide the year before. We talked for an hour. The man was broken, and
he said what I’ve heard repeated so many times since then: “We just didn’t see
it coming.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This
is what I know about those who are serious about ending their lives: They try
very, very hard not to let anyone know. So, my “I’m feeling fine” at the top of
this post would be something I would definitely say if I were definitely </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">not</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
feeling fine. It’s a conundrum, I know.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What
is critical, if we are to help those we love who consider taking their own
lives, is paying attention, and paying attention long before plans are made. If
someone talks about feeling hopeless, or giving up, or having no purpose, or of
experiencing unbearable pain, that’s when we need to listen. To care. To reach out
nonjudgmentally.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A
trained therapist can help, but unless you are one, please don’t offer advice
to someone who is hopelessly sad. Offer a hug. Offer unconditional love. Offer
time—to listen or just be with that person.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And,
bear with me; it’s not my intention to preach or instruct, but if I could just
make a suggestion from personal experience about taking the time to be with a
person who is feeling hopeless or sad or depressed. Listening is key, if your
sorrowful friend or family member feels like talking. But it’s not necessary to
draw them out about what is troubling them. If you ask, “What’s bothering you?”
you’re apt to receive a nonspecific answer like “Everything.” Let them talk if
they feel like talking. Be silent, if that’s what they prefer. Or talk about
the mundane aspects of your life, what you saw when you walked your dog or how
you need to get the oil changed in the car. What’s not helpful is trying to
“joke” a person out of their sadness. Please, I beg of you, don’t ever say,
“Ah, come on. Cheer up!” Understand that it is beyond the realm of possibility
for someone in this state to switch on the happiness chandelier.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You may have heard that this time of year, the holiday season, is the most
critical time of year for depressed individuals, that the suicide rate
increases around Christmas. In fact, it does not. Statistically, the most
suicides of the year occur in April. Yep. Right when spring is springing, and
everything seems new and fresh. I would speculate, however, that those feelings
of loneliness and isolation that often lead to a suicide attempt begin months
earlier and simply reach their peak by springtime.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We
have this time, however, during the holidays, to check in with our friends and
family members who lean toward melancholy. And for my friends—you know who you
are—who find your loneliness deepening through these winter months, I’m here
for you. Reach out, however you care to, by text or phone or email or whatever.
I’ll listen. Or just sit with you. Or tell you what I saw when I walked Thomas
or Maya. Or, if you’re willing, call 988. You don’t have to wait until you’re
in crisis to call. There are kind people waiting to listen anonymously to
anything you have to say. And don’t forget that I love you… just as you are.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-26131209880202793532022-09-29T12:33:00.001-07:002022-09-30T06:58:48.613-07:00Progress<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_1vcQyaX1y55gNvHLVwEuRElLV1wAhAJ0V93Ntd3_v20dyrXc7Xp6FBoj6VPUlFn0rkyAvVerctXSVl3YKdefv3vYhMIwZISSK-814q3VvzVlVYp_EIRiwQWFT-Rv95YlTp_iVEAgSnZHiuqO9WnbLP_AxLRfynSl-QLa4huEEWLRO8VWvvnE8sg/s2016/Blg%20Maya%20first.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_1vcQyaX1y55gNvHLVwEuRElLV1wAhAJ0V93Ntd3_v20dyrXc7Xp6FBoj6VPUlFn0rkyAvVerctXSVl3YKdefv3vYhMIwZISSK-814q3VvzVlVYp_EIRiwQWFT-Rv95YlTp_iVEAgSnZHiuqO9WnbLP_AxLRfynSl-QLa4huEEWLRO8VWvvnE8sg/s320/Blg%20Maya%20first.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><p>My dog made me cry today.</p><p>I took Maya to a very large dog park. I used to do this with <a href="http://skaymurphy.blogspot.com/2014/01/sgt-thomas-tibbs-update.html" target="_blank">Thomas</a> from time to time in the first years after I adopted him, take him to a dog park very early in the morning when no one else was there, then let him off the leash just to see if he would come back to me. Nope. He'd trot away to the farthest corner, then huddle against the fence. I knew if he ever got away from me, he'd just take off. Not until I'd had him nearly three years, and I'd retired and had much more time to spend out in the hills with him did I finally trust him to be off leash. Sort of. One day on a hike, descending a steep hill as we made our way back to the truck, I simply unhooked his leash, and he stayed right behind me, picking his own way down. I was very, very proud of him that day, as he stopped and waited when I asked him to so that I could hook him back up. But he has always felt safest when he's connected to me, so that's the way we keep it most of the time.</p><p>I knew Maya would be a flight risk when I brought her home, and boy howdy, did I make sure to watch her every second, to check the gate every time the gardeners left, to tighten my grip on the leash when we left the house, to always be aware of where she was when a door opened anywhere in the house.</p><p>Not so anymore. A few months ago, I was walking her with Thomas, and as we neared the house, she shook the leash out of my hand. I tried not to panic as I watched her trot ahead up the street--and go straight up onto our porch. Whew. 'Okay,' I thought. 'She knows where home is now.' I tested this a few times, dropping the leash a few doors away, and she will always run right home.</p><p>But out in open spaces, yeah, that's a different story. Many's the time we've stood on a rise overlooking a long stretch of rolling hills, and she has leaned into that. I know if I unhooked her, she'd be in the wind, running for miles until she either denned up in the wild or a coyote had her for lunch. Scary, scary thoughts.</p><p>So today was somewhat of a test for her. Did I mention this is a very big dog park?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIs70ZYnrfp9I7PAj7AntdmJDU8vuhCBNF4A85bDpvbxoWFMyXyZ_WVuttC93fLtYQABdqLZjU35ttqMOqsidBom_dTqCsDjrFWB5TOcx39RzfVLOXeT6gwUdI0V3mFcZU_7cE3iyJaUQ3WG6--hj3AtbayM1QkJuDdaZd4qYYFChImLYE7UYXf3E/s2016/Blg%20Maya%20second.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIs70ZYnrfp9I7PAj7AntdmJDU8vuhCBNF4A85bDpvbxoWFMyXyZ_WVuttC93fLtYQABdqLZjU35ttqMOqsidBom_dTqCsDjrFWB5TOcx39RzfVLOXeT6gwUdI0V3mFcZU_7cE3iyJaUQ3WG6--hj3AtbayM1QkJuDdaZd4qYYFChImLYE7UYXf3E/s320/Blg%20Maya%20second.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>That black and white dot, center of the pic, is Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, off leash. As soon as we were in, I unhooked the leash, and off she trotted. Away, away, away, almost to the back fence. I didn't follow. I just waited. Finally, she stopped. Turned back. I walked to the middle of the park and stopped. She doesn't really know the come command. But she knows "Wait." So I gave her the hand signal and told her, "Maya, wait." And she did. She sat her sassy derriere down and waited for me to approach her. I petted her--something that she never used to let me do if it were outside the confines of her crate, but she has decided, in recent weeks, it's actually quite nice. So she got some pets and head rubbies, and then I said, "Let's go," and we walked around the expansive park some more, Maya sniffing and peeing and being a dog. Pretty fabulous. Of course, I had to stop for a while and wipe the tears off my face and blow my nose. This is huge progress for her. She's learning to trust, and I know, with everything she experienced in the past, humans have shown themselves absolutely untrustworthy. (I hear ya, girl.) But she's trying.</p><p>All this was after I had walked her through the kid part of the park, around the playground equipment, and then asked her to walk up this bridge with me:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkzPTZ4eFczwH90ukZcjhi3qzrx8hNv5M-fqyMP8aj2ir8GTLBVph2nflcxOnZkrFN7SsGQwLCVrpM9Dy8PgJMyGOhgGNFoyf73KhhhPHNIcruPY1bKiPpXkqivizyl7EYTRSqCqP2LkpKayibmzk0UUvdtBxTxUUWGMQhlG1ieqUs9sQz7iEFa2Q/s2016/Blg%20Maya%20bridge%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkzPTZ4eFczwH90ukZcjhi3qzrx8hNv5M-fqyMP8aj2ir8GTLBVph2nflcxOnZkrFN7SsGQwLCVrpM9Dy8PgJMyGOhgGNFoyf73KhhhPHNIcruPY1bKiPpXkqivizyl7EYTRSqCqP2LkpKayibmzk0UUvdtBxTxUUWGMQhlG1ieqUs9sQz7iEFa2Q/s320/Blg%20Maya%20bridge%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>It would require her to take a big step up, and I knew that the thing would probably move, but every time we hike, I ask her to do something difficult--climb up on a boulder or cross a small stream or duck under a fallen tree. She amazes me every time with her courage. So without hesitating, I asked her to follow me up and over, and damn if she didn't do just that. On the way back, we did it again, but this time we stopped in the middle for a photo op.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69hOw-pfxcjgrxMI_2Adf7Fvnrwk2gTfDvPaUSsoZ6N1cZBhPe9wncdS8yauP8Oc8OhD-wM_KyHYz58RFtakVls0v5ywUwUT_6MAlNNygYdHzA0En2CjG5Kfu0nFydvVmKrR8k3dZI11Aj90aZHZhWpUB26F_YhKPQhSxh4EAyS3mXGpH-NE_CNmM/s2016/Blg%20Maya%20bridge%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69hOw-pfxcjgrxMI_2Adf7Fvnrwk2gTfDvPaUSsoZ6N1cZBhPe9wncdS8yauP8Oc8OhD-wM_KyHYz58RFtakVls0v5ywUwUT_6MAlNNygYdHzA0En2CjG5Kfu0nFydvVmKrR8k3dZI11Aj90aZHZhWpUB26F_YhKPQhSxh4EAyS3mXGpH-NE_CNmM/s320/Blg%20Maya%20bridge%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>It's important to note here: For most of every day, Maya still stays in her crate, by her own choice. (The day is coming when I will close it off during the day and only allow her to den up at night, but not yet. She's not ready yet.) She doesn't interact with me or Thomas or Jenny the Cat. She listens to the household routine, emerging for potty breaks when asked to do so. She is still very shut down.</p><p>In fact, just this past month, she finally began taking treats from my hand. For eighteen months, she has gotten a treat for going outside--at least four times a day. But, just as Thomas did in the beginning, she would turn her head away as I offered her a treat, even if she had returned to her crate. In the first weeks after I brought her home, she wouldn't eat the treat--even if it was sitting under her nose--until I left the room. She still won't eat food from her dish or drink while I'm in the room. But miraculously, a few weeks ago, after I'd been sitting with her for a while, petting her, she finally took her favorite treat from my hand. Of course, I cried that day, too.</p><p>But these carefree mornings when I hook her up to a fifteen-foot leash and let her wander in safe, isolated places--these are healing for her. She gets to be a dog, but she is reminded that we're in this together. Someday, I hope, she will see our connection as a good thing.</p><p>Good girl, Maya. You are a very good girl.</p></span><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2886916714935145606.post-4113736501689889622022-09-21T09:23:00.003-07:002022-09-21T15:20:06.065-07:00Tiki Man: Interview with an Author<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZ5dcijnuyUmUsr8r58VSQkms0ahFFMEBLH2bsk7EuxZov2xw9BWMHaMn4Nmy0z3b_G0ERh64A-e3n1JWYAh5pH6rEG8O-EdfFRYWC-5lr_XMZOMihwP4hnYjH8B5jpz4OHsB-vZsMXo8sMzcCZbk5b2txmw53rsICAUpVxvto5ExMv-gh2tOeDQj/s499/blg%20cover%20tm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZ5dcijnuyUmUsr8r58VSQkms0ahFFMEBLH2bsk7EuxZov2xw9BWMHaMn4Nmy0z3b_G0ERh64A-e3n1JWYAh5pH6rEG8O-EdfFRYWC-5lr_XMZOMihwP4hnYjH8B5jpz4OHsB-vZsMXo8sMzcCZbk5b2txmw53rsICAUpVxvto5ExMv-gh2tOeDQj/s320/blg%20cover%20tm.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I
read (which is constantly), I wear two hats, that of reader and that of writer.
As the former, I want to be immersed in the story. As the latter, I’m
interested in how other writers work their craftsmanship. Recently, I read a
novel that impressed me as much for the way the plot was presented as it did
for the character development. Both were stellar. I loved the writing so much, in
fact, that I reached out to the author, Thomas M. Atkinson, on Twitter and—what
do you know?—he was gracious enough to respond and even more gracious to agree
to an interview. Below are my questions and his answers regarding how he
constructed <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tiki-Man-Thomas-M-Atkinson/dp/1646030834/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2FT9P3D8B40Q9&keywords=tiki+man+atkinson&qid=1663777316&sprefix=tiki+man+atkinson%2Caps%2C265&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Tiki Man</a></i>, his second novel.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Why did
you make the decision to offer very little exposition at the front of the
novel, parsing it out in small pieces as the story unfolds?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Well, as
with the narrative voice, and the tense, I am trying (I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> successfully since it hasn’t been an issue), to craft a more
honest story, right? Because while <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tiki
Man</b> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a story, it is actually
Pere telling the reader a story, which is a huge distinction. The opening
chapter is, without giving too much away, Pere telling the reader how he dealt
with a problem that came up, and how he came to be taking care of Tammy. Now the
reader’s takeaway is probably much different than Pere’s takeaway, but even
Pere recognizes that how he handled it wasn’t the best way. But what Pere knows,
that the reader has to suss out, is how much of his response was self-serving,
that while he might have been perfectly justified in his response, that
response was also an excuse for getting back to a very dark place, (but a very
dark place where he was at home). In other news, I think that makes it both a
more interesting read and a harder sell (because it isn’t what agents and
editors are used to seeing).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Is Pere’s
character based on someone you know?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He’s a
composite of a lot of guys I’ve known (with a generous helping of Me). A lot of
people have a hard enough time just getting themselves through life, and while
they might be totally at sea when put in charge of a small person, it’s not for
lack of trying.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tell us
about your process. Do you write every day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How is your first draft composed? Longhand? Computer? Typewriter? Do you
have a daily word count or a specific time frame?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">First of
all, no one should take anything I say about process as a recommendation or
endorsement of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> process. I don’t
write every day, because I would write a lot of crap and then I'd get used to
writing crap and then…. I write on the computer even though I suck at the
actual typing part of it (I took “Touch Typing” in night school my senior year
of undergrad. I took it pass/fail and only had to type 24 words a minute to get
a D. The best I ever did was 23, but since the teacher was worried she might
have to see me again, she passed me.) I don’t do drafts. As a matter of fact,
my process might best be described as semi-benign mental illness. I think about
what I want to write about. I obsess about it. I dream about it. And just when
it is starting to become dangerous, I try to get it all down on paper. And what
I get down is pretty much fully formed and while it needs some corrections, of
course, it doesn’t need revision.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who or
what are you reading most often, and why?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">News and
nonfiction. Every couple of years I will go back and read all 20 books of the
Master & Commander series by Patrick O’Brian. And I like to revisit William
Gibson (<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Count Zero</span></i> has
one of the best opening pages ever) and Samuel Delaney (<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Nova</span></i>). I try to avoid literary
fiction because I’ve spent a long damn time honing my voice and I am
primitively superstitious of any bleed-through from another author.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For <i>Tiki
Man</i>, did you have an agent? Or did you work directly with your publisher?
And how did you happen to choose Regal House? (I know I’m turning that trope
around; we’re led to believe that authors, like ladies at the dance, must wait
to be chosen.) <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An agent?!?
You’re funny. An agent once told me that publishers and readers aren’t
interested in poor people with problems, so I threw my hands up, “Counts me
out!” Regal House is one of the few publishers that doesn’t require an agent.
They read the first 20 pages, asked for the entire manuscript and things
happened very quickly after that. As I’d long suspected, what it actually took
was for someone to read it.</span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How
important are reviews on Amazon and Goodreads? Do they matter at all?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think
they are very important. It’s hard to say if they affect sales, but I think
they are enormously helpful in terms of what your readers are taking away from
your book (and if it’s what you intended), which I think writers should care
about.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How
available are you for speaking engagements, talks at libraries, and the like?</span></b><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I will
pester <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anytime</i>. I’ve done a number of book clubs, both in-person and
remote, for <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Tiki Man</span></i> and
they’ve been fun for everyone. At the first one, somebody brought candy
cigarettes so everyone in the club could play “Bitches,” a game the neighbor
girls play in Chapter 1. It was awesome. Next week I’m doing a presentation on
“Dancing Turtle,” my short story and its journey from prize-winning story to
prize-winning play (I’m also a playwright.) This might sound dumb, but I am
really excited about it because after I read the story, the intern company of
Ensemble Theatre of Cincinnati is going to do a staged reading of the play, so
the audience can see the changes, the problems, the solutions – it’s something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’d</i> like to see!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p></p>S Kay Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09631953082915369422noreply@blogger.com1