As You Know...

Recently I've been hearing a certain phrase over and over in TV shows and in movies. It's the dreaded "as you know" line. It's a spotlight on upcoming exposition or infodumpage. And what makes it really annoying is that it's unnecessary. Why direct attention to the fact that you're about to spew information for the viewer's benefit that everyone on camera knows as a matter of course? I've been hearing it often enough that I'm in danger of developing a twitch. To prevent this from happening, I'm going to set up a drinking game and see if poking fun at the phrase will stop me from shuddering.

You can apply this game to any movie or TV show. You can substitute popcorn and anything else for the alcohol. You can do this by yourself, but for maximum hilarity, bring in a few other writerly types. The rules are as follows:

Every time you hear the phrase "as you know," drink a shot.

Drink two shots if the phrase is spoken by the character who always has the explanations, such as Colonel Samantha Carter or Dr. Daniel Jackson.

Drink three shots if the content that follows the phrase is information that is the basic premise of the show or movie, such as, "As you know, we've been traveling to hundreds of other worlds through the Stargate for a decade."

Drink four shots if the phrase is followed by a character's name, such as, "As you know, General O'Neill..."

Finish the bottle if the name that follows the phrase is Bob.

I used SG-1 as my example, but this show is most certainly not alone in this writing sin. And it's such a lazy, useless tactic, too. In nearly every instance, you can just get rid of the words "as you know" and have smoother dialog. In fact, you can often replace "as you know" with the word "because" to explain reasoning for the logic or solution that follows the infodump, or you can for the recent examples I've heard. And very often, the infodump is not necessary because the audience--even the casual viewer--is smarter than the writers give them credit.

Where in the World was Kellie Hazell: Stratford-upon-Avon, 1995

See me previous European adventures: East Germany, 1988, Berlin, 1996, and Prague, 1992.

The drama department at my high school organized a trip every year to London and Stratford-upon-Avon to, of course, watch a few plays and tour the Bard's hometown. I went on the trip fall of my senior year, along with several good friends from my drama class and the various plays I had worked either on stage or behind it. I don't remember much beyond Stratford itself, although I know we spent an evening and night in London when we first arrived in England, toured Warwick castle, and spent a day in London before leaving for home. Nearly all of my memories of that trip are of Shakespeare's town.

And it was a very lovely town. Big enough for good shopping and many excellent bed and breakfasts, but small enough that you never felt crowded or tiny. It was a town in which I would have loved to live. It had such a great feel to it. It also had three theaters, which certainly didn't hurt matters. One day I'll have to make a return trip. Hopefully the Drew Monster won't think Shakespeare is dull.

I had never been to London before, and I remember being a bit disappointed that we had arrived so late in the evening and that I was too tired from the bus ride and Channel crossing to appreciate the city or the play we saw that night. I'm never going to recall the name of the play we saw. It might've been something about the French Revolution, but I really can't say for sure. I think most of us slept through the thing. We stayed at the English equivalent of the YMCA or something that night, and I don't remember much about that either.

We all but descended on Stratford the next day, a whole bus of high school students scrambling about along one street in Stratford, trying to figure out who went in what B&B and who was rooming with who. It's possible there was more organization than I'm remembering, but it was a bit confused. That night we saw The Taming of the Shrew in the biggest of the three theaters (I'm sure I knew the name of this place at one point). It was a wonderful version with a few odd bits of modernization thrown in (someone impersonated Elvis at one point and Kate was carried off to her honeymoon in a Volkswagen Beetle). Our seats were far enough from the stage that I couldn't connect to the performance as much as I would've liked, but it was fun all the same. Afterwards, some friends and I got all fannish and took pictures of the house that Kate disappeared into when she was done signing autographs. The house was right across the street from the theater, talk about a nice commute.

The second day, we did all of the usual touristy touring of famous Bard locations, but the biggest even of that day of the trip was the play we saw that night. We saw Faust in The Swan, a very close and cozy theater where even the worst seats are pretty much right up against the stage. Our drama teacher had talked a bit about this version of the Goethe story, and I think we were all pretty excited to see what was the fuss. Also, of the four plays we saw on this trip, I think this was the one with the biggest names. Not that I remember those names, or that I even really knew them at the time. Still, I remember it being billed as the spotlight play of our trip.

Little did we know what we were in for.

The play started out well enough, though I didn't know the story very well and felt a bit lost. This did not help when they started in with the nudity. At first it was a demoness-type, and that seemed appropriate. Then it was poor Gretchen, and, from what I remember of the story, that seemed appropriate too, though I did start to squirm. But when Faust himself got totally nekkid and did this standing spread-eagle thing, I spent the rest of the play examining my watch and shoes and cursing the intimacy of The Swan. Nothing against the actor playing Faust, but I just felt uncomfortable watching him after that scene, especially because I knew he wasn't circumcised. Seems a bizarre thing to know about a stranger as they perform a play.

I think there might have been some parental flak about that play.

The third play that we saw in Stratford was once again in the large theater. It was Richard III. We had nearly the worst seats in the house. Mine was particularly bad as the woman sitting next to me kept falling asleep and drifting over into my seat. Also, this was a very traditional performance of the play, and the colors were all very drab, and everyone was so far away that they turned into white and gray and brown blurs.

Aside from the RSC plays, there are three incidents that stand out in my memory from this trip.

I'll get the bad one out of the way first. In the nine years that I lived in Germany and traveled all over western Europe, I was never once treated in any ill fashion for being an American. Except for once in a fish-and-chips hole-in-the-wall place in Stratford-upon-Avon. Now, I traveled as smart as I could, always trying to speak the language if I knew it, acknowledge and participate in the customs when appropriate, modify my clothing and behavior so as not to bring unwanted attention to myself, interact with nationals in as respectful and courteous a manner as possible, etc. In this food joint, however, I was with two others from our group, and I think one of them was wearing her letter jacket (stupid, stupid, stupid; why not just slap a sticker that says "AMERICAN TOURIST" on your forehead and be done with it?). Still, we weren't goofing off or being loud or anything rude. I ordered my meal, saw that the lady behind the counter was putting salt and vinegar on the other orders before mine (they were locals), and asked for the same. She shoved my little container of food at me and said, "Do it yourself."

The second little vignette is just that: little. My upstairs neighbor and best buddy, Matt, was on this trip, and we managed to set some time aside to share dinner in a pub in Stratford. Just the two of us. No chaperones tapping their watches, no hordes of fellow travelers yukking it up all around us. I think we also imbibed in a local brew. In addition to it being great food with great company, the meal further solidified that comfortable feeling the town exuded, which I sorely needed after my fish-and-chips experience. It was wonderful to eat while traveling and not feel distinct and separate, to instead feel like a regular. I wish I had been able to do more of that sort of thing during my trips in Europe.

The third and final Drama Trip moment that I will never forget happened in London. It was a foggy night, and me and my intrepid friends were crossing a bridge to join up with the rest of the group. As we started out on the bridge, someone looked up and saw a small, silver, flickering object. That someone got all of our attention, and we all studied the thing as we walked. At first we were just curious, wondering what the hell it was. Then fatigue and general high school giddiness clicked in. We decided it was a UFO. We managed to convince ourselves enough of this possibility that we even took pictures and tried to figure out how one went about reporting an alien sighting. We reached the other side of the bridge at this point--and that's when we saw some lone soul flying a kite. A small, silver, flickering kite.

Next week: Since I'm thinking England and plays, I'll share the story of my trip to London in 1996, just after I graduated

DREW-BEE-Ohhhhhh!

Andrew has discovered two new sounds: oooooo and ohhhhhhh. He loves to make these noises. He'll even get into volume contests with you if you start aping the noise. And of course his face just looks adorable when he does it. We're trying to get good video and better pics of it.

I would think this sound cuter if he hadn't made it constantly while he was supposed to be napping this weekend. Although, to be fair, he did a lot of things while he was supposed to be napping. Such as standing up in his crib so he could gnaw on his railing or experiment with all the fun buttons on his mobile keypad or knock his bibs and burb cloths to the ground (they usually rest peacefully on the shelf-top of his attached dresser, which is supposed to be beyond his reach; ha). Sometimes he laid down quietly in his crib and only occasionally uttered his "ohhhh" while kicking his stuffies. Sometimes we'd only hear the ribbitting of his stuffed frog to know he most certainly wasn't sleeping.

I think, though, that his favorite time to make these two sounds is when Momma says, "Andrew, no," as the munchkin is heading for unauthorized destruction and mayhem. He'll stop whatever it is he's not supposed to be doing, look at me, and very cutely round his lips and say, "Ohhhhh." Or he doesn't stop and look at me but continues what he shouldn't be doing and says, "Ooooo," like he realizes he's just found a new toy.

I much preferred it when he favored the "mum-mum" sound.

Bad Move, SciFi

Well, SciFi recently announced that they won't be carrying SG-1 anymore, but they'll still show Atlantis.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Between the absence of SG-1 next year and the apparent decision to run Battlestar Gallactica off from the new episode runs of Stargate, I now have no reason whatsoever to watch new episodes of Atlantis. I wonder how well their ratings will do next season when SG-1 is no longer a part of SciFi Friday. About the only way SciFi can redeem itself in my eyes is if they do indeed bring back Firefly as was rumored last year.

As for SG-1, the official word is that they're going to shop for a new network. Hopefully they find one that's not a premium cable channel. Well, by the time the next season airs, we'll be in a position to afford premium cable.

Late Check-in

Sigh. We were all set to have a great three-day weekend. A stroll down the Pearl
Street Mall so Drew could people watch. An early dinner at the Melting Pot to celebrate Mark's recent success at the local poker tables. A relaxing holiday during which I was hoping to get some extra writing time. The weekend even started out really well with Friday's mail. Mark received his PhD diploma so he can frame it and point to it to get underlings to call him "doctor." And I received just about the nicest, most encouraging form rejection letter possible for the publishing business. (Yes, Carson's Learning was not accepted to the Interstitial Arts Foundation's anthology, but the form letter asked me to submit again when they were ready for their second installmant of their anthologies in 2008.)

Then Mark got pretty darn sick in the night and spent all of day either barfing, passed out asleep, or sitting on the porcelain throne. Seeing as how I'm still not close to 100% yet after finishing the second round of antibiotics and dealing with the stress of this week's meeting, it was not the ideal time for him to be out of commission. Somehow I managed to keep up with Andrew despite the fact that he barely napped and seemed to have found some sort of mythical source of unlimited energy. (By the way, he's got a fifth tooth popping through now; one day we'll get a very clear picture.)

The weather was pretty foul today, so the stroll down Pearl Street was going to happen even had Mark been healthy. We've had to cancel our Melting Pot reservations as Mark gets green just hearing the word "Jell-O" at the moment. I'm still holding out hope for Monday, though, at least to garner me a good nap if nothing else.

Even with the craziness of the week, I got my minimum word counts in every night but tonight (and even managed an extra 600 words last night; now that SciFi Friday and Monk & Psych are all in their breaks, I might start scheduling writing on Fridays--though that will only be for this month as October brings the return of Battlestar Gallactica on Fridays). My health is improving still, and I should be very much my usual self by next weekend if not sooner.

Oh, and the meeting with the pres went very well. There was a lot of panic as we had serious technical difficulties in our review and ended up being late to the meeting as we tried to straighten them out (good news there is that I'm low enough on the totem pole that others get the black mark for that...I think). In the group critique session that Teresa Nielsen Hayden ran at my first convention, she asked if I had ever sat in on executive meetings before (I think the dialog and tone of a scene in HD--that I have since cut--didn't ring true for her). Well, now I can say that I have, though the DDJ is a smaller company than Eugene's in HD.

That remdins me. As I've been sharing the story with co-workers and hearing the "wow, how did you do this at your age" comments from the docs, I've put the entire urosepsis (and, indeed, all of the strange and plentiful health issues of the past almost two years) into a category of research for my writing. I can now write a very tense birthing scene, an accurate if mild ICU scene, and describe what it's like to have in-home health care. And so much more. Too bad I don't write medical thrillers. :)

Long-awaited Drew Pics

Not one, not two, but three whole pages of new Drew pics! Watch Drew take in Rocky Mountain National Park! See his adorable baptismal outfit! See his teeth (well, you can kinda see them in one of those pictures; have to look hard; them things are hard to catch)!

Pardon the Silence

Huges meeting with the head honcho at the DDJ today, been preparing all week and haven't had time during day to post, and I practically never get time at night on normal weeks. Didn't post over the weekend because I had just been started on another course of antibiotics (damn bug is persistent and still lingering in my bladder, apparently) and was both tired, worn out, stressed, and irritable. Didn't feel like sharing that with the on-line world. Regular posting should hopefully resume tomorrow, though the DDJ is still going to be insane after this meeting and the antibiotics and other stressors will still be there. So who knows...

Eureka

I'm actually regularly taping a show so I can watch it later. I haven't done this since The West Wing. Eureka airs during my writing group, and I make it a point to tape it so I can watch it when I get back, even though I know SciFi will re-air it later that night and on Friday afternoons. I don't want to take the chance that they won't re-air it.

The concept of the show intrigued me: average guy is the sheriff in a town full of mad scientists. The pilot was a bit busy as they tried to pack a lot of the "townies" and the culture into the two-hours in addition to the basic show plot. That and the actors either mumble a lot or the show doesn't do a whole lot of voiceover in post. But it was still pretty fun.

The next two episodes were even better. We're slowly getting to know other elements of the town and the characters, and the story of each episode is a good mix of fun science and sleuthing. I really enjoy watching the characters interact. Especially Henry. Actually, that might be more the actor than the character. I've loved everything this guy has been in that I've seen. He brings such an honesty to his roles. Eureka's also done a great job of twisting the "computer as character" gimmick that Star Trek started. In Eureka, the computer is the sheriff's house, and she's very needy as well as a bit too helpful.

I'm still on the fence on the whole "Section 5" series arc/plot that they're developing. There are times it seems intriguing and times it seems a bit over the top or cheesy or just beyond the rules of the world they've set up. But it does keep the conflict going from episode to episode, so it's working on some level.

My only confusion with Eureka is the show that airs just before it, actually. SciFi has done so little promotion for Dead Like Me. It seems like a fun enough show from the little scraps I catch before Eureka. It really makes me wonder why it got such a raw deal. They don't even promo Dead Like Me during Eureka or during the SciFi Friday lineup. Very confusing.

The Perfect Novel

I have come up with an idea for the perfect novel. Of course, I have no recollection of the particulars of said novel. Did I mention that I had this moment of creative genius while I was in the hospital? And that this spark of writerly brilliance occurred over the course of my worst night? Yeah, so feverish delirium + percocet + morphine + fenergan + antibiotics = savant.

Seriously, I remember piecing together a novel in the semi-conscious breaks during my one night in med/surg (where I was at my least lucid). But I have absolutely no memory of any details that would help me write said novel such as characters, plot, theme, you name it. As far as I know now, the idea went something like this:

I introduce this character, someone flawed yet sympathetic. Then I totally put her in some serious trouble, something that hasn't been done before. As she's fighting to put things to right, she royally screws up and probably has a dark moment in which she questions everything. But eventually she finds a way to fix things, and she's grown and learned something along the way.

I really wouldn't be surprised if that's what I came up with. Not so much the perfect novel as it is a recipe for your basic novel.

Regardless of what the idea was, it carried me through the next day and made the transition from med/surg to the ICU less scary. I often came back to the thought of my perfect novel that day, telling myself that when I got out of the hospital, I was going to write the pants off that thing. By the next day, during my Adventures on Ambien, I realized that I didn't have any clue as to the specifics of the idea anymore, if I ever did, and I think that's what made that day particularly rough fro me.

Maybe one day I'll reconnect with this perfect book. Maybe I won't. But I will say that a nebulous, flawless novel is a bit better for a drug-induced flight of fancy than having Captain Malcolm Reynolds of the spaceship Serenity tell me to get up and pump my breasts. Note to self: always mix percocet with morphine, never take alone.

Goofing Off, Writer-style

So last night I stayed at my writing group longer than I had intended. My health is still a decent bit from 100%, and I had pushed myself a bit too hard at work earlier that day. I had meant to stay at group for an hour and then go back home for bed. But my writing group is fun, and I was enjoying getting into the meat of the pieces that were brought. So I stayed an hour longer than I had planned. I was getting ready to leave then when the group convinced me to stay because the next piece was only three pages.

Well, by this point, we were all a bit punchy. The jokes were zinging left and right, giggle fits were looming on the horizon. It helped that it was a really good piece that we read. If it had required more work, I'm sure we wouldn't have had the attention to spare much beyond critiquing the writing. But we did have the attention to spare.

Thus we were able to have a good time with the usual evil of "eyes resting on the floor" instead of "her gaze lingered on the floor" or something. It's a common writer mistake and one that very often makes it into print because, while it may be incorrect and physically impossible for your eyes to be resting on the floor or traveling up someone's body without severe pain and, well, blindness, everyone knows what you mean. Doesn't make it any less of a mistake, of course, but it's easy to overlook.

While most of us were making fun comments about locomoting eyeballs, though, one brave soul was endeavoring to provide serious feedback about part of the piece. The part involved a letter, and the critiquer was curious as to whether the writer had created the letter herself or if she had found it in her research and it was actually source text. Unfortunately, our intrepid writer responded by saying, "Yes, I made it up. It came out of my head."

I think I waited a beat before saying, "Do you have writing coming out of your other body parts?" We all giggled and carried this a bit further until I made the inevitable comment. "Well, if you think this writing is good, you should see the stuff that comes out of my ass!"

Yes, yes. Very clever. And had we been just a group of pals joking it up, it probably would've stopped there. But because we're writers, I no sooner had said the line than I followed it up with "Oh, that's fun. I gotta work that into a book somewhere." And then someone else said, "Wait, that's totally something that Travis would say," referring to a character from someone else's work-in-progress that we had reviewed that night.

Even low-brow humor isn't just low-brow humor for writers. Sure, we'll laugh at it, but we'll also be matching it up to our writing somehow. So be careful with that ridiculous knock-knock joke or bawdy limmerick. It just might come back to haunt you in print.

Where in the World was Kellie Hazell: Prague, 1992

See my previous posts: East Germany, 1988, and Berlin, 1996.

The travel agencies that catered to the American military in Europe had a particular type of trip that must have had a clever name but that we called the "shop till you drop" trips. They were bus trips to one of several nearby cities. You'd sleep on the bus, tour and shop during the day, then sleep on the bus back home. If you've ever tried to get a regular night's sleep on a bus, you understand why this might not be the most enjoyable traveling experience. But the trips were a big success for the single military member or the young couple, and, of course, the occasional odd family such as mine.

In the summer of 1992, the four of us grabbed one of my uncles and my grandmother and went on a shopping trip to Prague. Or at least I think my uncle was there. This is one of those "memory is fuzzy" moments. We stuffed the six of us into a car, drove to a bus pick-up spot, the bus drove us to a coordinating center for several of these trips to various cities, and then we got on our bus to Prague. The bus was garishly purple, and that led to the moniker for this trip: the Purple Bus Ride from Hell. At first I thought my seat was comfortable, but shortly after we got underway, I managed to find fault with some funky footrest thing. It was a long night.

We had breakfast at some special place. We did a bus tour. We saw a couple of sights. Then we were turned loose on the shops to buy crystal and the other items that were fairly cheap in the city. At some point during the day, we went up to either a castle or an entire older, walled city on a hill. There was some changing of the guard. There was a great view of the city. There was Franz Kafka's house. I think I had just read The Metamorphosis, so I was tickled by this sight. I also remember it the clearest as I had a picture taken just outside his door. (Good ol' Franz was very, very short.) And then we piled back into the bus for the return trip.

Believe it or not, this was the part of the trip that I'll never be able to forget.

I actually slept well at first. The customs stuff at the border woke me up, though I don't think we had to do anything. I could be wrong there, as I think I remember my mother and father being annoyed or saying that someone was being overzealous or something. I slept fitfully after that. A commotion at the back of the bus woke me fully. I couldn't understand what was happening. There were some exclamations that were pretty muffled by the time they made it to me at the front of the bus, but a lot of people seemed to be going or looking back there.

We made an unscheduled stop at Nuremburg Air Base (I think), and everyone got off. I think this was the point where my mother explained to me that someone was sick. An ambulance showed up, although it was a German one, not an American one, which was odd because I know we were on a military base because we were sitting in front of a Burger King and something else that was specific to the military bases at the time. It's possible that this base was closed or closing to the point where it didn't have an emergency services hospital, but that doesn't seem right either.

The paramedics (or whatever the German equivalent is) boarded the bus and brought the sick man off the bus. He wasn't moving, he wasn't conscious. They put him in the ambulance and tried to work on him a bit there. That wouldn't have been a problem except German ambulances have fairly big windows with about three-quarters of frosted glass. I remember watching the paramedic bobbing in and out of the clear portion of the glass as he performed CPR. I don't know how long the ambulance stayed there, or how long all of us stayed off the bus watching. It seemed like a lot longer than it probably was. I'm not sure anybody really slept for the rest of the trip home.

I found out later that the man had just stopped breathing on the bus ride. There were three nurses on the bus, and they took turns doing CPR to keep his body alive until we could stop. I'm not sure anyone ever found out why a healthy man in his thirties just up and died on that bus. And due to the whirlwind nature of the trip, it's very likely that only a couple of other people on that bus had even talked to him the entire day. I wrote a story about it for my ninth-grade English class. I probably still have it somewhere. There was a little blurb about the death in the paper, which I feel in retrospect I should've cut out. At least then I might remember this man's name and who survived him. It seems odd that I was in such close quarters with a man who lost his life in my presence, and I can barely recall what he looked like.

Next week: Stratford-upon-Avon, 1995, definitely more up-beat

Best Medicine

The six days I spent in the hospital weren't fun for a number of reasons. But the best part of every day there was the few minutes each morning and evening when Mark brought Drew to say hi. I wasn't able to hold Drew at all (he's so curious and grabby that my IV wouldn't have lasted for a minute with him in my arms), and he was more interested at all the new sites than puzzling out who the crazy lady in the bed was. Still, I couldn't help but smile whenever I saw him.

Part of the reason I was so miserable the last two days of my stay was because I felt well enough to be home and wanted to be home so I could see more of my smiling guy and actually put my arms around him and hold him while he drank a bottle. The world of difference I felt between my last day and the hospital and my first full day at home was probably due almost entirely to Drew.

It was the hardest thing to spend all of last week at home and not keep Drew home with me, but doctor's order are doctor's orders, and there's no way I would've been able to get as much rest as I did if I had been chasing after the Drew Monster all last week.

We have lots of pictures of our little guy, but most of them are digital (the perils of having a digital camera and no printer). I wish we had printed more pictures so I could've put Drew's somewhat toothy grin on the little tray by my bed. Maybe that would've kept my fever's down or something. It certainly would've made me smile more.

The Odd Sunday Check-in

Still not back to 100%. I've only been up for three hours today, and I'm ready for a nap after doing simple grocery shopping. I go back to work tomorrow, but I'm not sure I'm going to make it a full day. We'll see. Other than the energy levels, though, I feel fine. I've got several follow-up appointments this week and next, and the docs will give their Final Word on how I'm doing after the recent medical insanity. One of the follow-ups includes an ultrasound of my kidneys. Fun.

In non-health business, I've done a lot of reading and TV-watching this week. The books were OK, but nothing that really absorbed me and Did It for me. It'd be nice to read a really good book. I've got a hardback that I picked up that I've been shying away from even though I really like the first chapter. Sounds silly, but I was reluctant to heft such a tome this week. I'll probably get over it, though, as I really want to get into a good book and that one seems to be the most promising.

As for my writing, I did manage to get a good bit done this week. About 4K. And I should have the energy to write more today and tomorrow as well. I need 5K more by tomorrow night in order to be fully "caught up" to my minimum goals after the hospital stay, but I'm not going to push myself to make it. If I get there, I get there. If I don't, it's OK. Health has to come first at the moment.

So that's been my week. I wish I was a bit more healed, but I'm hoping that getting into the swing of my regular life will trigger the rest of the energy to return. Some times that's what it takes.

The Details of the Recent Medical Joy

Remember that kidney stone that was so funny ha-ha back at my six-week postpartum check-up. Yeah, not so funny anymore. Apparently I passed the stone recently. I didn't feel a thing. Didn't notice anything that could be remotely odd that would have indicated the stone had left my kidney and wandered its happy route out of my body. Unfortunately, the passing of said stone made conditions perfect for a little E. coli (not the icky one you hear about people dying from due to bad food) to wander into my bladder. Again, I didn't notice anything. My body is still protesting that whole pregnancy thing and is taking its sweet time letting everything get back to normal. The bacteria had a grand ol' time in my bladder and decided things looked even sweeter in my kidneys. That's when I finally noticed something. Back pain. Unfortunately, I attributed this to severe menstrual cramps. Then I got a fever and a terrible headache and started vomiting. Finally, I called the after-hours line and they told me to get in to the ER.

The ER docs quickly diagnosed me with a kidney infection, pumped me up with some antibiotics (took them forty-five minutes and three techs to get the IV in me), and sent me home. Things only got worse the next day, so back we went to the ER. They admitted me to their observation ward (IV was amazingly a one-stick deal this time; that nurse is my hero), and the round of chills to fever to headache to backache continued while they kept up with the same antibiotic. Sometime during that stay in the observation unit, they realized that the infection had found its way into my bloodstream and there was evidence that the lovely little E. coli were already starting to chomp away at my red blood cells.

This concerned me. So much so that I don't think I shared it with anyone. The destruction of my red blood cells, that is. I mentioned I was septic to Mark and family, but I think I kept the image of munching bacteria to myself. I'm not sure what I told to whom, though. That whole fever and drugs thing.

So they transferred me out of observation and into their med/surg wing. I got a new antibiotic, and by now the docs were closely monitoring whether the antibiotic was actually doing its job because the last one hadn't been. Unfortunately, this wing was so busy, that I got very spotty treatment. It took them four hours after I vomited and started spiking a fever before they came in with anti-nausea meds and Tylenol. Therefore, I understandably got worse during my one night in med/surg, and they transferred me down to the ICU the next day.

In the ICU, they gave me another antibiotic in addition to the second one that they started in med/surg. And they put a cooling blanket underneath me to prevent more spiking temperatures. They also put these odd cuffs on my legs to massage me and prevent blood clots. They made the mistake of giving me Ambien to help me sleep one night. I've never been so out of it. If you called on Wednesday of last week, don't believe anything I said. :)

The ICU nurses were great. I particularly enjoyed my night shift nurse. She took very good care of me. She even tried really hard to keep my glasses from falling into a pool of my vomit. Wasn't quite fast enough, but she did get them all cleaned up for me afterward. She's also the one with whom I made a pact to get an IV back in me after my first one "fell" out. We made said pact after four techs had given it a go, one of them with an ultrasound machine to help her find the veins (she stuck me twice without success). We made this pact even after some idiot from the ER tried to stick me in a vein that already had seven pokes all in a nice row from the course of blood draws over several days (when he stuck me there, I came off the bed screaming and crying). And she got the IV in me in one try.

By the way, it is ever so much fun coming home from the hospital looking like a junkie. Both of my arms are black and blue.

Once it was Friday, I was pretty much out of the woods, except for the whole concept of an oral antibiotic I could take so I could go home. I mentioned that the E. coli was resistant to the first antibiotic they tried, and that it took two separate kinds to actually start making progress in my bod. The new problem was that the primary candidate for oral antibiotic was a derivative of a drug I was allergic to. So I was watched closely Friday and Saturday morning while on the pill antibiotic, with a steady saline drip through my IV to keep the vein open just in case things took a dive.

At last they discharged me, and now I'm at home, trying to get my energy and appetite back (I don't recommend this particular diet, but I did lose 10-15 lbs over the course of this illness). I'm hoping that this is the last of the crazy medical dramas in my life for a bit. I was pretty scared for a bit there last week, and I think Mark and a few others might have been biting their nails, too. I'm ready to be healthy for a while now.

Pressure

Mark's phone interview went well. Now it's back to a waiting game to see if they want an in-person interview. I'm thinking they will, but I'm not exactly the most objective person around. Mark's feeling a bit antsy now that he just has to wait. He really likes this company, really likes the positions they have open. This job encapsulates just about everything we're looking for in this job search for our family goals. That's a lot to be waiting for.

I'm trying my best to keep him calm and relaxed about it. It's hard, though, because I really want him to get this job so I don't have to work and we can settle into Arizona. But I'm setting that aside as best I can to keep him sane so he can still keep up the job search and follow-ups so we get him launched in his career. The point isn't to get the perfect job but the best job for his career that is available. But when that perfect job is sitting right there, and he's a step closer than he was toward getting it....

Keep sending those happy thoughts and keep those fingers crossed.

This Period of Silence Brought to You By: Urosepsis

OK, so why hasn't Kellie posted in over a week? Kellie was in the hospital from last Sunday until this past Saturday. Yup, six days. Fighting a kidney infection that had made its way into my bloodstream. And the little bacteria bugger was resistant to the first couple of antibiotics they tried, and then of course, I was allergic to the next couple on the list that would work. And on this went for six days.

I'll have a much more detailed report of the whole affair a bit later in the week (I've been ordered to take the week off and recover). Of course this latest round of medical bliss has completely wrecked my brand spanking new writing plan. But I do have some really good news that's come out of this bit of non-posting: Mark has a phone interview tomorrow with his top choice company. Send happy thoughts for him and maybe a few for my continued recovery, eh?

Regular blogging to resume next week.

Yet Another Writing Plan

Last week I got frustrated with my writing. Frustrated in the sense that I knew I was good enough to be published right now, at this very moment, except that I didn't have a completed novel of publishable quality to get published. In the odd logic that permeates such frustrating moments (and keep in mind I was having a bad week at the DDJ and was irked that I couldn't spend the time on my writing that I wanted), I decided to go ahead and pitch the Velorin series to the Luna line without a finished first book. No, I didn't go right out and act on said piece of insanity. I let it stew. I discussed it with Mark. I considered all of the various problems that could arise if I did this--and it was very telling that my only option that would not land me in some sort of trouble was if the pitch was rejected.

So I put my frustration to better use and formulated a do-able schedule that would allow me to finish a draft of SoZ by the end of the year (with hopefully enough wiggle-room to accommodate the insanity of moving, whenever that should hit). It involves committing myself to at least 1000 words every time I sit down to write. This shouldn't be a problem in that I tend to write 1,200 to 1,500 words in every session. But to put the goals in writing, with the expected weekly goal of at least 3000 words (I get three nights to write each week) and the expected monthly goal of at least 12,000 words, should help me make steadier progress. I know where I'm going with the book, I have an outline of everything I've already written, I have a plan for getting where I want to be by the end of the year. I am going to stick with it.

Also on tap with the writing is to make a similar plan for getting my two short stories out in the world. Right now they're stalled because I'm unsure of the turnaround time at the magazines I'm shooting for and with the uncertainty of our move.... I just have to analyze my options and make a decision. As for my other writing ideas, I'm going to put them into a reward structure for meeting my 12,000 a month goal. Also, all writing business items (such as the blog), will be taken care of one night a week to prevent me from wasting my other writing time doing post in advance and such. By putting aside a specific time for that every week, I should limit the distractions and such that would prevent me from meeting 1K a session or even writing SoZ at all in a session.

Marketing that Goes Too Far

Getting to your audience is a vital part of developing your writing career. You can write the best damn book in the world, but if it's not getting into the hands of people who want to read that stuff, you'll crash and burn. That's why writers need to develop some method of promoting themselves (websites, con appearances, newsletters, etc.). Sometimes it can go too far, though. Or just be so transparent as to be annoying.

Case in point is the recent re-release of a book originally published by a small press: The Expected One. Riding on the last gas of the DaVinci Code hype, the marketing for this book takes things one step further. I don't know how the story came out (publisher put this info in a press release? author created her own press release?), but it caught and spread to the point that even the booksellers were using it as a marketing ploy to get folks to buy the book. This novel is about the modern-day descendent of Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ, which puts it right in the Code pack, but the publisher or author or both are trying to distinguish it by making it known that the author herself thinks she is the descendent of Mary Magdalene and Christ. Maybe I'm too cynical for thinking it, maybe it has nothing to do with selling books, but I heard this and thought about how I could hype my books with similar tactics.

For all of my SF books, I could claim to see the future, and that my books are basically transcriptions of my visions. For all of my fantasy novels, I could claim that they are loosely based on my experiences in my past lives--you know, sort of like a Million Little Pieces semi-fictional memoir.

Nah, too much effort to try and keep all the stories straight or be ready with an explanation any time I might slip. Too much effort. I'd rather put that energy into writing really good stories that don't need gimmicks to sell.

Where in the World was Kellie Hazell: Berlin, 1996

Last week I posted my first installment of the "Where in the World was Kellie Hazell" series: East Germany and East Berlin in 1988.

As mentioned in that college-paper interview, I went back to Berlin in 1996. Instead of driving, I took the train. (About half of my European adventures were accomplished via train; I miss that transit system.) And I went with my then-boyfriend instead of my family. I think we were on the faster-than-average train but not on the fastest available. I tried to find a distinction between the former West and East Germanys similar to what I had observed before, but I couldn't see it. There was no drastic change in the color scale, there was no sudden difference in building style. Maybe the disparity of those elements was much more prevalent right up against the border during the times of the Iron Curtain? Times like these I wish I hadn't been so young during that time.

I said it in the interview: the only real distinction between East and West Berlin was the shocking number of construction cranes dotting the eastern side of Berlin. The wall was only there in memorialized slabs, and the sterility of the border on the former East Berlin side of things was all but gone. I found it oddly disappointing that there wasn't still a bigger stretch of it left so I could see the past and the present and the future in greater relief. That and I really wanted to chisel out a piece of the wall with my own two hands.

We only had part of a day to explore Berlin. I don't remember much about the trip aside from a few scattered images of the train ride, standing in subway stations, those cranes, and the Brandenberg Gate. Last week I talked about how you could only see it from a distance, and even then it had the garish Berlin Wall marring it in the background. But on that trip we could walk right up to it, and the only thing detracting from its history and beauty was the marketplace of cheap tourist souvenirs that had sprung up at its base. Ah, how perfect a juxtaposition of memories: the cold, cruel leaching of color and life from the communist era against the chaos of capitalism in its most opportunistic venue. I should've bought a T-shirt.

I wish I could remember more about this trip. Berlin has so much history and beauty; surely we had enough time to see more than I remember. But it was 1996, I was a senior in high school. I spent most of that school year in a disconnect, eager to "get on with my life" and experience college and take the next step toward my dreams. There's a lot that happened that year that I only half-remember or remember as if it happened to someone else. I had the ridiculous notion that that year had to be perfect because it was my last year of being a child. I never daydream about reliving my youth, but there are times that I wish I could whisper some advice in my younger self's ear, namely, "Pay attention here."

Next week I'll detail my journey to Prague in 1992, when it was still the capital of Czechoslovakia.

Drew's Favorite Toy

No toy is as much fun as the box it comes in. In Drew's case, no toy is as much fun as those items in the house not meant to be toys. The Boy is amused for long stretches of time by things like remote controls, stacks of paper, and DVD jewel cases. But his absolute all-time favorite toy-that-is-not-a-toy is his humidifier.

It's a sweet number we got to keep his little nose from drying up. It's got twelve different settings that you can cycle through by pressing one button. It's got a "filter quality" gauge. It's fairly quiet.

A couple of weeks ago, Drew discovered that pressing a button on this device will make some lights flash and turn the blower on. He further learned that continual pressing of said button made the device flash more lights and change the timing and intensity of the blower. The first time he made these discoveries, he was not so thrilled. But he kept going back to the humidifier. Now he squeals every time he turns it on and makes the blower go. He talks to the humidifier. He leans on it while standing. He bounces around it. He does his index finger thing to it. He smacks it with the flat of his hand.

He loves this thing.

I wonder if he'll accept a newer model humidifier in place of the Super Ninja Power Morph Tamagachi Elmo (or insert over-priced, way too friggin' expensive, extremely loud, over-hyped marketing ploy here) that he'll be wanting for Christmas in three years.

Gone Baptizin'

There wasn't a post yesterday as we had relatives and friends hanging out with us, waiting for the big event of dunking Drew's head in a baptismal font. And then Drew treated us to a lavish meal and celebration afterward. He's a generous one, is my son.

Seriously, the bapitsm was very quick but not quite that painless. There was a miscommunication with the time, so Drew was sedate and curious when we arrived, but by the time the priest had everything prepared, the Drew Monster wasn't at all calm. It's been a long time since I've had to hold on to him while he squirmed non-stop. He also spit up in the middle of the ceremony, so any pictures of him past a certain point will show a nice yellow stain on his otherwise pristine white outfit. By the way, he looked absolutely adorable in that outfit. Thanks, Gramma Robida! Despite the extreme restlessness and rather frequent and loud babbling, everything went well.

My week was a bit nuts with preparing for yesterday and trying to keep my sanity at the DDJ. The week caught me by surprise. I was so caught up in getting Mark through his thesis and defense that I kept telling myself the baptism was later, not to worry about it. So when all of a sudden it was Monday and we had relatives coming soon, I was thrown off-kilter. Didn't help that I got a great writing idea on Monday, wanted to immerse myself in it, and was forced to sit through work. I hate it when I have weeks like that. Most of the time, I'm pretty good at finding a way to get some of the writing done and still get all my work done. But the "sudden" craziness of the week kept me from doing that. And then, of course, I didn't get any time to write in the evenings (family comes first, no matter what my job is; if family is visiting, then my evenings are spent with them; if I didn't have the DDJ, then I might've been able to work out some writing time even during the visit, but that's an idea for when I dont't have the DDJ in the future).

So not a bad week, more a mix of extreme frustration at work and fun with family and friends when not at work. Still, I'm looking forward to this week, now that I don't have any curveballs that I know are coming. The ones I don't know are coming are easier to deal with, actually.

SciFi Friday is Back! Well, Kinda...

The bliss that is the 'gates has returned, but it feels a bit lonely without Battlestar Gallactica (I really don't understand the logic behind putting BG up against the major networks' Friday night line-ups; not that I don't think the show can hack it, it just seems odd; it's also a gamble with its core viewership since the 'gates will be in reruns in October when BG starts...*sigh*).

At any rate, I'm very much enjoying SG-1 as always and looking forward to this season of Atlantis (which surprised me). I love that Valla is a primary cast member now, should make for some interesting moments between her and Daniel. Daniel, by the way, has arced in such a great way. Some of last season, and so far all of this season, there's been this great sense of "been there, done that, and it was fun, but let's move on to the new stuff" attitude from Jackson that I just adore. It acknowledges the weight of the past nine years of adventure, acknowledges that not all of that weight is hard to bear, and acknowledges that there's still so much more to do and it will be Good. It's this attitude alone that makes me think SG-1 can run for another 200 episodes. As for the Ori, isn't it about time we got a complex and dangerous female Messiah? Maybe there have been others running around on TV and in books and I've missed it. Maybe I see the Orisei as something special because of the child-parent dynamic they've used. Regardless, I like this character and the conflict she brings.

As for Atlantis, I unfortunately missed the end of the last episode. I really hope that they didn't destroy Michael. His character and what he represents (the good guys doing something really bad not once but twice in trying to defeat their enemy, as well as a conflict-laden connection with the enemy itself) is fascinating and pretty damn good drama. I hope that's a focus of this season. If it is, I'll be hooked. If it goes back to Shepherd and His Lady Loves like it was last season, I may stop watching the show all together. Joe Flanigan is not hard to look at, but his exploits last season had a distinct Marty Stu pall (for those of you not familiar with that term, try Mary Sue or Jack Ryan).

But it's always nice to have new stuff on SciFi Friday again. Good to see what the genre is doing and where it can do better and where it can do worse.

The Constant Learner

It's been an odd week, as I'll talk more about in Saturday's "check-in" post. Luckily, I've had some fun things to keep me occupied when my brain wanders into the icky territory. The first is the great series of virtual workshops that Sheila Kelly is doing (first installment, second installment). Sheila is great at sharing what she's learned and making valuable information very accessible. Plus she's giving away great goodie bags for folks who comment. Why is she doing this? Other than the fact that she's a great person, she's very much aware that lots of folks in the writing world are at the Romance Writers of America national conference. She's pretty vehemently against conferences as the social things they are, but definitely likes the idea of sharing knowledge with other writers. Hence, she's doing the workshop. Great fun!

The other item that made this week interesting (and difficult) has been a sudden idea I had for a story that requires me to research Chaucer and the Canterbury Tales. I remember vaguely studying this in high school, and my memories of the content are just as fuzzy except that I recall there being some naughty elements to the tales. As I started fleshing out this particular idea, I dug into the wealth of information on-line about the tales and Chaucer himself. I never thought I would find literary and rhetorical analysis fascinating, but I'm really enjoying myself. I don't think I would've enjoyed it nearly so much if the sorts of essays and themes I was finding didn't mesh so well with the idea itself.

These two things represent what I love most about writing: you are constant learning new things. Other writers share their wisdom and experiences, putting things in a new light that refreshes your own perspective or gives you something new to chew on. And new ideas make you dig deeper into things you glossed over in school or were forced to read or whatnot. Writing means you get to be a student for the rest of your life, and I love that.

And Now, Deep Thoughts...

When I started reading and writing stories for pleasure, I inherently focused on story. In fact, whenever I came up against a heavily used or relied upon trope (Merriam Webster is telling me that "cliche" works just fine, too), I'd get pretty annoyed. I read a lot of mysteries until late in high school when suddenly all I saw was a formula loosely connected with some story elements. How is that a fun way to spend my free time? I studied formulas day in and day out in school. Why would I want to read them? When I got serious about writing, it wasn't to trot out tropic themes and elements, it was to tell a story I wanted to share or read myself.

I've come up against tropes twice that I can think of. The first time was as a frequent visitor to the Melanie Rawn Bulletin Board. Someone decided to go off on the Exiles series because it wasn't really fantasy. His argument could be summed up in how the books didn't follow standard epic quest tropes. I thought that was a very odd argument to make. Why deride a book for not adhering to a formula? Wouldn't you want to judge the book on the merits of the story it told? But the argument must've stuck with me, because when I sat down to puzzle out Velorin, I looked to tropes. OK, I'm gonna need a map of my fantasy world, and a creation story replete with gods, and a journey by some average folk to save the world from destruction. As I got deeper into the story that wanted to be told, though, I turned each of those tropes into something different. (Well, maybe not the map; I consider that a functional part of the book, like page numbers; but wouldn't it be fun to find a way to turn that convention on its head? I feel another story brewing....)

The second time genre tropes hit me over the head was at my first writing conference. I was told (by an unpublished writer) that Human Dignity wasn't science fiction. It was a tech thriller or something. And I thought, "Um, but the majority of it takes place fifteen to thirty years in the future, and it has fictional science things such as nanotech and flying cars." I happened to get the opportunity to ask Teresa Nielsen Hayden if she thought my book was SF (she had read the same ten pages the unpubbed chick had as part of a workshop). I think she said something along the lines of "Don't worry about that, that's my job. Just write a good story."

That's the same basic line I was told at Forward Motion, and I'm very glad that I've had those experiences. Who really cares about genre boundaries and definitions so long as the story is compelling and well written? But apparently there are those who think otherwise, and enough of them to drive the marketing practices of categorization. I guess I'm lucky that I'm looking and listening and reading elsewhere.

Similar to what TNH said to me is this essay by Anna Genoese. The driving force behind that essay was a reaction to frustrations she heard from authors who want to publish their gay romance novels. She discussed market definitions and realities and the challenges of trying to create an audience, but in the end she said to write an amazing story and the publishers would go for it and figure out how to market it.

Recently I've found a couple of "movements" that work to challenge genre boundaries and definitions, and it's got me thinking more about how tropes fit into my writing.

Right around the beginning of the year, I happened upon the Interstitial Arts Foundation's call for submissions. Reading into the foundation's mission, I found this essay, and it got me thinking about Carson's Learning and the classifications of all my ideas in general. By the time I had finished my revisions of CL, I tried to figure out how to label it. I think I came up with something like "an erotic psychological thriller standalone installment of an epic military SF space opera." And yet it was none of those things, as well. I had a sense of that back in January, which is why I set about getting CL ready for this anthology. As I've looked deeper into the IAF and works they recommend as representative of the label "interstitial", it seems that they are more geared toward works that flit between literary and commercial classifications. And that didn't seem quite right for anything I've written or anything I want to write (with the possible exception of Human Dignity). I most certainly have a commercial voice. Still, I think CL would be great for their anthology.

A few months later, I caught wind of a group blog by a gaggle of writers called Deep Genre. They started their blog with a few definitions of what exactly (or inexactly) the term "deep genre" means. Reading through those entries, I put together my own definition of Deep Genre. Deep Genre is a work that doesn't take genre tropes for granted to tell a story, rather it examines those tropes and twists them into something the same but different. For example, a space opera that requires faster-than-light travel to get the characters around to fulfill the plot might turn out to be about the damages FTL does to the human body (there was a Star Trek: TNG episode that explored something similar in that it showed the "environmental" impact of warp travel; I'm also thinking of the CS Friedman book This Alien Shore as a work that twists the FTL trope). This can be dangerous because the work looks like standard genre fare for a decent amount of the time, but turns out not to be so standard by the end, thus potentially disappointing genre fans who want genre tropes to be genre tropes and not elements to be re-examined. The trick, as mentioned many, many times above, is to tell a compelling story.

To sum up: genre may have been a marketing ploy, it may have developed into a comfort zone, it may have a grab-bag of expected plot devices and characters, but genre is not absolute; it can be overcome, it can be re-defined. Readers will journey far and wide with you if you make it worth their while.

Where in the World was Kellie Hazell: East Germany, 1988

About this feature: As a military brat, I've moved a lot and seen a lot. My dad's job took us to Europe for nine years and gave me the opportunity to become a world traveler at a very young age. This series of posts will chronicle some of the more memorable trips.

Believe it or not, there's already a piece of this trip immortalized on the Internet. My ex was a photog for The Observer (Notre Dame's campus paper) and someone on the staff decided to do a piece about student perspectives on the 10th anniversary of the fall of the wall and my ex kindly supplied my name. Actually, now that I look at the date, I think we were still dating at the time. This is where my memory gets foggy, as I seem to recall doing this phone interview in the spring, but it was clearly the fall. All I know for certain is that I had a major biochem exam the next day and somehow managed to grab a brownbag dinner from the dining hall and gave the interview between bites with my notes and textbook spread out all around me on the floor. And the interviewer (probably the chick who wrote the article, but I really can't remember) was somewhat testy because she wanted me in the paper's offices to do a "proper" interview and snag a photo.

Seriously, the article was pretty cool, got front-page billing (including a quote from me right above my fellow Ramstein High School grad Luis Matos's smiling mug; he was the lead in a play of The Metamorphosis, he rocked, and this is coming from me who had to sit through countless rehearsals and performances on the sound crew), and was generally a fun little bit of egoboo for me. Even if the interviewer never managed to understand my status as a military brat in a foreign country. Rereading this thing, it comes off as if I'm a German national at times--which, if you were to believe the gal from one of my freshman year mixers, was true (no matter how many times I tried to explain the facts to her, she kept introducing me by saying, "She's from Germany"). The interviewer also doesn't get that there was also a wall--OK, so a hefty duty, Big Ass Fence with lots of nasty levels of barbed wire--along the border between East and West Germany. More than a couple of times, she tweaked quotes and used description that made it seem as if there was only a wall in Berlin. I also had that whole "little bit of knowledge" syndrome in some of my quotes about the tenor of the nation: I had taken a couple of classes in German language and culture at Notre Dame. Never fear, though; in the same volume, they also had a bigger article or three using quotes and analysis from the expert profs on campus.

But I'm not writing this about an article that's been the top Google result for my name for the past seven years. This post is about my trip through East Germany to Berlin in 1988.

As the article mentions, my dad had to go to a class before we could travel to East Germany. I'm not exactly sure what the class entailed, but given the nature of my dad's job and the mission of Hahn Air Base in general, it was probably in-line with the signs posted around the base hospital that said certain folks couldn't take certain drugs that might cause them to blurt out things they shouldn't. All I know for sure about the class was that it gave my dad a binder full of very explicit instructions and directions for driving from the East German border through to West Berlin. The instructions included pictures of each road sign and appropriate gas station and the time in which we had to complete the drive or else folks would come a-lookin'.

The first very tense moment came when we were at the border between East and West Germany. We couldn't roll down our windows. We had to press our open passports against the glass and wait. I remember getting a very stern "be still and behave" speech from both Mom and Dad. It wasn't pleasant. When we were through, the relief was short-lived as my mother kept that damn binder open in her lap, trying to stay as on top of directions as possible and the usual beauty of the German landscape abruptly changed from rolling green hills and valleys to yellow and brown fields and gray, drab buildings. We didn't stop anywhere along the route. At the border into West Berlin, there was another silent, passport-against-the-window check, but I rebelled against the intensity of the moment. I had been listening to a mix tape on my Walkman, and sought out some sort of release by replaying A-ha's "Take on Me" over and over while imagining the cute border guard falling hard for me and risking all to escape the evil government (don't remember if I called them communists or not--I probably lumped them in with the USSR; although it's just hitting me now that East Germany called itself the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, which translates into the German Democratic Republic, while West Germany called itself the Bundesrepublik Deutschland, which translates into the People's Republic of Germany; doesn't the latter sound more like a communist regime to you?). Of course, I tried not to stare too intently at the guy as I didn't want to draw any attention that would get us in trouble. I think after the eighth run-through of "Take on Me", I fast-forwarded to Wham's "Freedom" and conjured a significantly lighter day-dream that still amounted to this poor border guard falling helplessly in love with me.

Yes, I was ten. Hush, now.

We spent a day sight-seeing in West Berlin, and another day in East Berlin. That border wasn't nearly as tense, or maybe I was overloaded with serious situations and shrugged off any intensity. Might've helped that this time there were MPs within spitting distance along with all the trappings of the military lifestyle I knew so well. The trek through East Berlin was actually more interesting to me than West Berlin. Can't say why. Maybe because it was so different and yet so similar to the culture I saw everyday in West Germany? It only got a little weird when we stopped for lunch in a big square/plaza. That's when I noticed the East German military duo hanging around. I didn't quite put two and two together at the moment, but it still put an odd spin on the rest of the day, and I was happy to get back to the hotel in West Berlin. I'm not sure if my parents told me then or when we were home that we were followed and watched by the "bad guys". It puts a very odd, Clancy-esque pall over the trip.

As for actual monuments that we saw, I only remember three. The first is the Wall. I remember thinking that it wasn't all that impressive. I had built it up as something much more melodramatic and imposing, and it turns out it was just regular, old, spray-painted concrete. You could walk right up to it on the West. On the East, you had to admire its uniform gray paint job from a distance. I don't remember the bullet holes that Luis mentions in the article, but I'm sure they were there. The second monument I remember was a TV/radio tower thingy in East Berlin. I just remember it was tall, and we went up in it, and then we came down, and we might have gotten a snack at the base. At the time, I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that we should put it on our sight-seeing list, and I still don't. I'll see about tracking down some info on it, if I can remember anything else about it. (Here's the Wiki article on the TV Tower. Apprently it might have had some sort of "We are bad, we are awesome" symbolism for the East German government. I don't remember the thing rotating.)

The third monument that I remember from this trip was the Brandenberg Gate, or, rather, what we could see of it from a distance. It was pretty much right up against the Wall in East Berlin, so you couldn't actually go near it. I hadn't seen a whole lot of castles and ruins and monuments in my European adventures at that point, but I had seen enough that it struck me as remarkably unnatural that such an impressive structure would be for all appearances abandoned by the people whose ancestors had created it. I think that sight alone is what really drove home the whole concept of physically dividing a nation and a people. I distracted myself by playing with the pretty cool pen I had bought (I still have it, actually; it's a smoothed, thin piece of wood housing a cylinder of ink).

I don't remember much of anything about the drive back to West Germany, save that as soon as we were out of East Germany, I didn't so much as breathe a sigh of relief as I drank in the beautiful colors and scenery of the country that was kindly playing host to my family.

The next summer is when the Iron Curtain got rusty and riddled with holes and East Germans literally poured out of their country first into Czechoslovakia, then into Hungary, then into Austria, then into West Germany. I cheered for them and shuddered at the memory of that trip. And then it was November 9, 1989, and the Wall became a stage.

Next week I'll detail my return trip to Berlin in 1996.

Watch Out! He Can Bite Now!

Two of Drew's teeth finally cut through this weekend. Of course, you can't really see them just yet as they slowly drop. But he's gotten very good at biting his spoon during feeding, an act made much easier by the fact that it's both an upper tooth and a lower tooth that have popped out. The attitude change was amazing, though. He laughed and smiled and grinned and had a ball this weekend, much more like his usual self from before the teething business started a couple of months ago. He's also ravenously hungry, as if the teething also kept his next growth spurt at bay.

In other Drew adventures, I promised a tale that prevented me from posting last Tuesday. We had a diaper blowout. Big time. And we didn't notice it right away because he was playing in his ExerSaucer. This gave Drew all the opportunity he needed to spread the joy of said diaper blowout all over himself, the ExerSaucer, and Mark (when he unwittingly picked up the Boy). It's a peril of parenthood that you will get covered in more of your child's disgusting substances than you care to think about. Drew's subsribed to the equal opportunity school of thought when it comes to getting his 'rents all messy, and he's been kind enough to do so when both parental units are around so both Mark and I get to take care of the clean-up.

That's the news on the Drew-front. He's getting baptized this Saturday, so be sure to read next Monday's post on who the little guy deals with that.

Overheard in a Bookstore

Right around my birthday, I was in Borders for one of my many book runs thanks to the generous gifts of my family and friends. While I was puttering around the romance section to look for a couple of authors' new books, I heard these two teenie-boppers (or maybe they were college pukes--give me a kid, and I suddenly lose all perspective on age and general categorization skills) come up to the romance section saying something along the lines of "Gah, who would ever read romance?" I wanted to turn around and say something quippy or biting or ironic or witty or whatever. Instead, I just ignored their general rudeness (I mean, you're welcome to have whatever opinion of any genre, but is it too much to ask that you have the class NOT to deride groups of readers when you're standing right in front of a member of said group?) and went about my business. Sometimes I am way too nice.

It got me thinking, though. Comments like that usually roll right off my shoulders. I've developed some decently thick skin during my four years of critiques. So why did this one bother me? Oddly, I have my critique group to blame. Sometime over the four years of meeting every Tuesday (or every other Tuesday, as we did for a bit), that particular store has come to have a feeling of home for me. Everything from the color schemes to the basic layout to the neon sign hanging over the door. I walk into that store, and everything feels comfortable, like I'm visiting with relatives. It's a little strange. Other stores feel stuffy or overcrowded, like I'm in a rich person's house, and the idea of leaving an imprint of my ass on one of the chairs makes me uncomfortable.

But I suppose that just spending every Tuesday night in a bookstore doesn't give me the right to rail at a couple of idiots. It may feel like home, but it's not.

Back on the Horse Next Week

A series of errors prevented both Tuesday and Thursday posts. For the Tuesday fun, stay tuned for Monday's Drew Monster post. For the Thursday fun, send a bouquet of flowers to the DDJ. We're mired in some unknown circle of hell, and I find myself tearing out my hair. Now I understand how folks studying quantum mechanics must feel. I wonder if they mutter, "If I only had this variable, I'd have a universal theory of everything in nature."

As for the writing, I'm trying to piece together an outline for everything I've written in SoZ so I can do some revisions and get back on course for the rest of the novel. Live and learn: as I write novels, I will outline behind me. There's a lot more I can include on an outline as I finish each scene/novel.

All in all, another good week. Should be back on track for regular posting and writing next week.

...And Really Bad Eggs

Actually, there's not a bad egg in Dead Man's Chest. The second Pirates movie manages to combine all the fun of the first movie with some serious character arcs and dark plot elements. By fun I mean things like a three-man swordfight that starts on a beach and ends in a rolling water wheel. Yes, I said in. By dark I mean things like romantic tension in unexpected areas and a very desperate Commodore Norrington. (I'd like to take this time to predict that, depending on whether Disney Disney-fies the third movie--which it really didn't feel like they did in this one--that things are going to end well but badly for that man.)

It's a bit confusing in the beginning, setting up the whole Davey Jones bit, and it took a very long time to understand that it was the East India Trading Company being set up as the bad guys. Chances are this isn't as confusing as I remember, but there was a lot to see and absorb in the first thirty minutes. I'm taking that as some unspoken advice on SoZ, by the way.

As a very random aside, I'm very happy to see that Mr. Bloom seems to have put on weight since Troy so he no longer resembles a walking twig who looks good with scruff.

It's going to be very hard waiting for the third movie as they ended this in true second of a trilogy fashion with a cliffhanger. But it's definitely a must-see this summer in the theaters. Really. The swordfight I mentioned above alone is worth the cost to see on the big screen.

Dream a Little Dream

Last summer, I posted my dream-shots for providing enough money so I could quit my job after Andrew was born and never work again. As expected by that oh-so-rational part of my mind, none of them panned out.But they were still fun to think about, and anytime I can con convince that rational part of me to try some of that power of positive thinking or imaging therapy, to do my part to influence the collective subconscious, I take advantage of it. How easy it is to bring my rationality over to the Dark Side depends on how strong my gut instinct on a particular issue is.

For example, my gut wasn't really telling me much about that previous round of dream vocalization, but the rational mind saw that there wasn't really any risk involved and it made me look at things in a healthier way. So the rational mind did a little shrug and my closet mystic took over.

Another example: my goals for 2005. Sometime at the end of 2004 or the very beginning of 2005, my gut started screaming that 2005 was going to be big. Every instinct in me started clamoring about Big Things Afoot. I set up my writing goals accordingly, thinking that the Big Stuff was about my writing. And then the Drew Monster showed up. 2005 was certainly a big year, I just misinterpreted my intuition.

When I started putting together Carson's Learning for the Interstitial Arts Foundation anthology, intuition began whispering. It started as a small sense of "You should do this." As I completed the project, intuition was shouting "This is your big break." I remember a great dinner out with Mark after I had finished the primary revisions. I detailed my dream to him, the step-by-step analysis of the possibilities that my gut insisted could happen. Since then, my rational mind has teamed up with my inner critic and pulled me down from the rafters, leaving me with a happy feeling of possibilities regarding CL and with the knowledge that the worst that could happen would be rejection.

Now that I have not one but two short stories under my belt (I finished another one this weekend, just a couple of words over 2.5 K; I'm so jazzed), I'm starting to hear my gut again. Nothing specific, just a sense of a lot of things clicking into place. It's enough to let my intuition override the tag-team of my rational mind and my internal critic. But this time, instead of posting all the details of my particular dream for CL and these other short stories and my writing career in general, I'm just going to give them a public nod and keep them between me and Mark and my journal. I'll know if the CL part of the dream takes steps to turn into reality some time in August or September. As for the short stories, I'll be submitting those probably by mid-August. Who knows when I'll hear back about those?

Believing in dreams is important. Trusting your instincts is important. Acknowledging your intuition is important. Hopefully doing all those important things will twist everything into motion.

Houston, We Have a Bleeder

Ah, the adventures of locomotion. Yesterday morning, Mark very generously gave me some extra shut-eye. I was deep in a dream when I heard Andrew cry, so I incorporated said wail into my dream and carried on. Next thing I know, Mark is holding out a screaming, bleeding baby, telling me to investigate the bleeding while he cleaned up the carpet.

"Huh?" doesn't even begin to describe my confusion.

Drew was crawling and took a very light header into the carpet, but he managed to hit his lip just so and start gushing blood. And, of course, he was wearing a white onesie and had drooled blood all over it, so the little tyke looked like he had gotten into a serious battle something sharp and pointy. Confirming that it was just a lip wound was a challenge, though, as Drew is very vehement in preventing anybody from touching his face. He twists, he squirms, he strains his head from side to side, he kicks, he pushes away with his grubby hands. I think he was more upset about all the fingers in his face than he was about the actual boo-boo.

But the bleeding did stop and Drew went on his merry way, crawling about the apartment while gripping one of his two prize possessions: any slip of paper or the small stereo remote. Sometimes he will make off with both. I really wish I knew why he has such a fascination with paper products. I suppose I should be grateful that at least now he doesn't immediately put all paper products into his mouth.

Dr. Robida, I Presume

Pardon the silence. Keeping Mark sane this week during the countdown to his defense was a job in and of itself, and it didn't help that the DDJ elected to increase its insanity level this week. It also didn't help matters that my brain chose this week to dither on whether or not to revise Velorin before continuing on. And I got not a lot of good sleep. Crazy, crazy week.

But it's over and Mark passed his defense with flying colors. Lots of high praise got tossed around during the obligatory champagne and cake session afterward. Much use of the word "doctor" too, althought he's not officially Dr. Robida until Aug 12th, the official summer graduation date. Still, we're all callin him "Doc" for kicks. It's hard to believe that he's really done, that these six years are finished but for the getting of a "real" job. I'm so very happy for Mark and really proud of him. Now it's time for him to be the major breadwinner and let me live my life of writing bliss and luxury. Ha.

Now I can focus on the blog, my writing, and sorting out the DDJ better. Normal blogging should resume this week.

The Little Drama King or "I Want my Mum-mum!"

This picture fairly well encapsulates how Drew and I spent last Wednesday--except he wasn't always sleeping. Yup, the Drew Monster spent pretty much all day in my arms, very often moaning his discomfort. While it was true that he had a low-grade fever, some congestion, and teeth trying to push through his gums, he also had Tylenol and teething rings. By the time he was moaning almost as an afterthought while doing his index finger exploration of my thumbnail and hand, Mark and I suspected that little Drewbie may be developing his Momma's penchant for the dramatic. We fully expected him to flop onto his back, hand to forehead, and utter his first words: "Oh, I can't possibly go on!"

Or it could be that last Wednesday was the first day he made known his "only Momma can soothe this teething pain" attitude. Since that day, every time I've left the room, Drew has looked around for me, started to cry, eased himself to his knees, and crawled off in search of me, babbling "Mum-mum-mum-mum" through his tears.

Regardless of whether it's high drama or the first signs of Momma-clinging, it's clear that this teething business is having a pronounced impact on the Boy's moods. His top two teeth are right there, the tiniest bit of gum tissue remaining as a barrier, and the bottom two teeth aren't too far behind (actually, they could be just as far along; Drew doesn't like to let us look at them, but boy do we get a good look at those top teeth every time he hollers when we try to wipe his snotty nose). Here's hoping those teeth pop out this week.

Moving Checklist

Or, rather, a non-specific general hoard of info that is related to hauling our butts to wherever it is we're going to be going next. That's what we're putting together this weekend. All in the hopes of helping us feel a little less like the world is spinning out of control underneath us. OK, so all in the hopes of making me feel like the world isn't spinning out of control, but Mark admits it'll help take the edge off of things for him too. If I weren't trying to juggle writing, a day job (and the seemingly unlimited permutations thereof depending on the job that Mark gets), and that whole motherhood thing, I think this bout of uncertainty would be easier to take. Or if I only had to juggle a job and motherhood. Or just writing and motherhood.

Wait. Since when did three things get to be too much for me to handle while dealing with the insanity of a move? I'm an Air Force brat, for cryin' out loud! Geez, I must be losing my touch.

Another good blogging week despite Drew's day of being sick and my general "I hate it when I can't plan to the end of the year" malaise. Also a decent writing week as I finished a draft of my first ever, real, honest-to-God short story, and I also made some good progress in Velorin and have a nice sketch of the next few chapters floating around in my notes.

So, good week overall, with the more and more frequent moving insanity. Next week's check-in will involve much celebration as by then Mark will be done with that whole PhD thing. Be sure to read that update for all the tales of jubilation.

The Soundtrack, Too?

A few weeks ago, I got a little huffy about the recent Pride & Prejudice movie, but I commented that the soundtrack was gorgeous and I was going to snag it.

And snag it I did, only to discover that the choppy pacing that plagued the movie also visits the soundtrack.

It's only 41 minutes long. Yup, that's right. And because it's got some fancy schmancy pianist and orchestra creds, it also costs a bit more than the average CD. Most of the tracks are 1.5 minutes long or a bit longer. You get brief moments of rapture and joy in delightful piano and orchestral pieces, and then they abruptly end. Or they're done long before you want them to be. "Liz on Top of the World" is an excellent example. It's such a gorgeous piece of music, and it's a startling 1:42 in length.

As if the super short tracks weren't bad enough, there's also the issue of the tracks being out of the order in which they appeared in the movie. Good-bye continuity and mood and theme and...sigh.

To top it all off, they didn't include a shot of the fab proposal scene in the CD insert. I didn't expect it, but it was such a great scene and they both looked wonderful and would it have been too much to ask to have had just one quick snapshot in and among all the other pictures they stuck into the insert?

Sigh. This movie was such a disappointment on so many levels.

Blogging the Commute (Not Live), Part 4

Read the previous entries of this feature: My current drive to work, my current drive home, and my various Tucson commutes. This is the final part of "Blogging the Commute." It's been a blast for me detailing all the neat aspects of my current back and forth from home to the DDJ and wandering down memory lane to recall all the fascinating scenery I've had to good fortune to drive or be driven by as I get to where I need to go for the daily grind.

I lived in Germany for nine years, between the ages of nine and eighteen. My father was stationed at two different Air Bases, and we lived in three different villages over four and a half years before moving on to the base itself (and if you think your current apartment ain't all it's cracked up to be, I could spin stories of something infinitely more like a can of sardines). While we lived in villages, though, we still attended the Department of Defense Dependent schools on the bases themselves (not military school in the sense that you would think of it, but not a public or private school, either; very hard to explain if you're not familiar with the military). We were bussed back and forth to school and home. It's been ten years since I've seen the routes, and fifteen since I traveled any one of them regularly, but there are still a few images that stick with me.

Now that I think of it, the only memory of the first bus route left in my noggin is of waiting for the bus at o' dark-thirty--and it was really o' dark-thirty. That's the odd thing of living at the latitudinal equivalent of Nova Scotia {Prince Edward Island}: it does get mighty dark mighty early, and stays mighty dark fairly late. And it's too bad as we lived in a very nifty little nook in the German countryside.

My next route was pretty nifty. One of my strongest memories of that route is after we wove our way through the towns, picking up the horde, we turned onto the main drag that would take us to the base. It happened to be a very foggy day, and instead of snow, inch-thick ice crystals had collected on everything. It was like driving through clouds, through heaven, everything around us dripping in white with traces of the mundane colors peaking through. It was a great, dreamy moment, and I think that was one of the first times I felt transported and wondered how I could recreate that.

But the regular route itself was fairly otherworldly. Our bus stop was by a fabulous old oak tree along the main drag of Buch (a great village I've linked before). As I mentioned in that post, my bus route took us into a valley and right past the ruins of a fortress. Out of the valley, the rest of the route was a meandering path through several more villages of various shapes and sizes and content. It was always a neat drive to just stare out the window, getting lost in the comings and goings of so many closely located yet unique and distinct communities.

Actually, the most interesting part of getting to my house in Buch wasn't on the bus route at all, now that I remember. Instead, you could see even more interesting things taking the more direct route from our village to the base. Or, rather, from the base to the village. The first thing of note was a military post that looked like a few buildings in a forest clearing of the side of the road. I believe it was called Metro Tango, but that's trusting the memory of a twelve-year-old. I have no idea what went on here, as we primarily drove past it, and I don't think we ever went into the post. Not too much further down the road was another military post, slight bigger, called Wueschiem, I believe. We did wander into that one, primarily because it had a little shoppette, I think. The one thing I remember about that posting was that there was a secured area separated from the rest of the post by a double fence, within which MPs strolled with dogs. I have a slightly better of what went on here, and you might, too, as I describe the next thing I remember about the drive to Buch. Turning off the main road, we start to get into some dotted farmland, quaint barns and rolling hills. There was one barn in particular that caught the eye: on the road-facing side, someone had painted a giant cow stepping on a nuke with another pierced by one of his horns. Getting the drift of what went on in those military areas now?

The last bus route was the best, though. Not only did it twist and turn through some towns and villages, it also crested a valley to present the most gorgeous view (which I've also linked previously) and climbed into and out of another one, also impressive. In fact, the valleys were tight enough along this route, that you could emerge from a forested road to find yourself at the base of something beautiful that stretched seemingly forever, with houses and such sprinkling the road and the valley's top. The bottom of one valley was cut by a stream that had a few ponds that pooled out of it and looked mighty inviting on some of the muggier spring and fall afternoons. There also, if I'm remember right, seemed to be evidence of history long gone peaking out of various nooks and cranies in that valley's floor. I wish I could remember it better. It might've been my imagination. But the best part of that bus ride, beyond a doubt, was cresting the valley that overlooked Neunkirchen am Potzberg. It was absolutely magnificent. It didn't hurt that I could see my house, or that I could see the hillside down which my friends and I had run and sled and explored, or that I could look at some of the patches of thick trees and know that they hid a horse pen in one spot and someone's summer home grounds (upon which us kids had shamelessly trespassed in good weather). It really didn't hurt that a castle sat on top of that hill and just put a lovely romantic spin on everything.

In short, all of my bus routes lent themselves to my sordid day dreaming tendencies, which in turn have lent themselves to my current writing tendencies. One day I'd very much like to wander through those routes again, stop the car, get out and wander and actually touch the sights that fill my memories of going to and from school. I'd like to show Mark. I'd like to show Andrew. There's a lot to see in Germany, but those three routes could probably show a lot about German culture and history, all while avoiding the tourists. Some day.

I hope you enjoyed this feature. The next mini-feature will be a similar recall of some of my more memorable travels around the USA and Europe. Sort of a "Where in the World was Kellie Hazell" thing. Hey, that might even be the title! Hopefully Part the First will be ready to go on Tuesday. I'm thinking I might start out with a real humdinger of a trip: East Berlin when the Wall was up.

Look, Ma! No More than 3.5K Words!

I write this with Drew grousing in my lap. Seems Ol' Pukey decided to follow last night's fireworks with generally longterm fussiness associated with a feaver (low-grade). So it'll be a quickie post.

Gentle readers, you may not believe this, but I have written a standalone short story that came in at 3,494 words first draft. Finished it Sunday night. Needs some revision, but nothing horrible. And, even more unbelieveable, this story is completely standalone. No epic connections, no to be continueds, no further stories for the characters. I'm extraordinarily proud of myself and happy with the end product. I'm also trying like mad to see if I can shake another such idea out of the muse and build a backlist of short fiction to keep ready for submission. And to see if I can do a better job of not sacrificing progress on my bigger projects in the creation of said backlist.

But, just thought I'd share my litterally little accomplishment.

Happy Independence Day!

I was all set to post my fourth and final installment of "Blogging the Commute (Not Live)" when I realized that it wasn't a Saturday but a holiday, namely the 4th of July. I will post the last segment on Thursday.

As for our fourth, we went to a coworker's BBQ and ske-daddled as soon as the rain started spitting (plus, it was past the Drew Monster's bedtime and he needed a bath due to his partaking in the splendors of the backyard at the BBQ. As soon as we got into the car, the rain came down in sheets and buckets, necessitating a run into the house which soaked everyone. Drew was not amused. And he let us know it by projectile vomitting all over his crib while I was making a mad grab for his bath stuff. Funny how everything stops moving (except for the stomach contents) when something like this happens. Time seemed to stand still as not only the crib slats but his bumper and fitted sheet and the duster and the carpet and the rubbermaid container filled with shoes he's never worn just became covered in the evening's portion of mushed squash. And then I felt a little warm and looked down to see my blue shirt and jeans had turned a strange shade of green. Amazing how well that "yellow and blue make green" rule works.

So while Daddy cleaned up the mess in the room, Momma cleaned up herself and the boy--who was screaming by this point. Once everything was all shiny again, I bundled up the boy and held him in the rocking chair and Daddy read a quick story until the Puke Meister was all but asleep. Now he's out for the count and the parental units are hoping that the evening's stomach shenanigans were due to the freakish/alien sound and feel of the rain, or maybe the result of a swallowed piece of grass or somesuch that Momma couldn't quite keep out of Drew's mouth. Hopefully he'll sleep though the fireworks, which are set off not too far from our place.

At any rate, Happy Independence Day! Be safe and stay out of the path of the mouths of babes! :)

All I Want for Christmas, and my Birthday, and the Next Christmas, and...

It's hard to tell if Drew really wants that telescope, or if he was just fascinated with tearing the 'scope catalog Mark got to shreds. That look on his face is so expectant, though...

The long awaited next round of Drew pics is up. There are lot of him gettin' mobile. Hopefully the next batch will include some pics of him with teeth. We keep feeling a couple of bumps on his gums that make tooth-poppage seem imminent, but his smile remains stubbornly all gums. Sigh. At least it doesn't seem to bother him too much anymore.

Oh, we did manage to get some great video of the Drew Monster doing his sit and spin on his own. Mark was waiting to get some more video and pictures built up before sending out another CD, but I know one Grandparental unit is already chomping at the bit for the sit 'n spin vid, so we may have to amend that plan.

The Great Marriage Debate, Phase the Next

At some point, I think all the furor over the sanctity of marriage will switch to something like this and this. (Have I mentioned lately that I love The Onion?)

Sickly Check-in

If I hadn't have gotten sick this week, I would've finished a short story. As it was, I only got halfway through (1.5K words or so). Work was a zoo, and it's only going to get worse. Things were little more sane on the homefront once the thesis was handed in. And another good week of blogging despite everything. Now we've entered July and I can't help thinking what's going to be going on at the end of this month. Hopefully Mark will have had some interviews if not some offers by then.