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Katharine Russell would like to connect on LinkedIn. How would you like to respond?   Katharine Russell at RWWRA Publishing Confirm you know Katharine You are receiving Reminder emails for pending invitations. Unsubscribe. © 2013 LinkedIn Corporation. 2029 Stierlin Ct, Mountain View, CA 94043, USA.

Katharine Russell's invitation is awaiting your response

Katharine Russell would like to connect on LinkedIn. How would you like to respond?   Katharine Russell at RWWRA Publishing Confirm you know Katharine You are receiving Reminder emails for pending invitations. Unsubscribe. © 2013 LinkedIn Corporation. 2029 Stierlin Ct, Mountain View, CA 94043, USA.

Invitation to connect on LinkedIn

From Katharine Russell Sole Proprietor at RWWRA Publishing Greater Los Angeles Area I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn. - Katharine Confirm that you know Katharine You are receiving Invitation to Connect emails. Unsubscribe © 2012, LinkedIn Corporation. 2029 Stierlin Ct. Mountain View, CA 94043, USA

Invitation to connect on LinkedIn

From Katharine Russell Sole Proprietor at RWWRA Publishing Greater Los Angeles Area I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn. - Katharine Confirm that you know Katharine You are receiving Invitation to Connect emails. Unsubscribe © 2012, LinkedIn Corporation. 2029 Stierlin Ct. Mountain View, CA 94043, USA

New Blog Location

I have migrated all my stuff to a new blog. This one has a classic template and I hungered for features. Please find me at russellwrites.blogspot.com. Sorry for any inconvenience

--
Katharine A. Russell
russellwrites@gmail.com
russellwrites.blogspot.com
www.russellwrites.com

Twelve Actions To Take When You Return From a Writer's Conference

So you've just returned from The California Crime Writer's Conference, which was a smashing success, but how much of a success was the confab for you? Despite the fun we writers have at these get-togethers, published or not, we don't go to these meetings for our heath. Now is the time to sit down at your desk and capture the value of the investment you made in time and money and, I might add, time away from your manuscript, to attend this important gathering. Here are a dozen DO's for making sure you get everything you can out of the conference experience --

1. Run Your Pre-Conference Checklist. Of course you had a pre-conference checklist, didn't you? If you did not, you have learned your first lesson for your next conference. Your checklist should be based on a strategy built on your needs at your stage of the publishing process. I have a finished manuscript I have edited a half dozen times, a synopsis and a pithy query letter and am well into the outreach process, so I researched the agents who were attending the conference and developed a list of actions for the ones who match my project. I was following up with some people and making new contacts with others. When I reviewed my list after returning home, I saw I had accomplished all my agent-related tasks. I also had objectives about the sessions I wanted to attend and mentors with whom I wanted to catch up. I had to sacrifice one session, to interact with an agent I wanted to meet, but I thought this was a good trade-off. I caught up with an important mentor, Jerrilyn Farmer, updated her on my progress, and got some more good advice (no surprise there!). I also got her to autograph her new book with the divine Joan Rivers, Murder at the Academy Awards (Pocket Books).

2. Make a Detailed Task List and Start Executing. Before I left Pasadena, I started a list of follow-up actions and I finished the list at home the morning after the conference. There were agents who had requested partials, agents with partials who requested additional information, leads about other agents that came from authors at the conference, and a long list of web sites and blogs to check out, mentioned by various speakers and panelists. I will have completed my follow-ups within five days of the conference's close.

3. Evaluate Your Interpersonal Interactions. While your memory of the conference is fresh, think back over your interactions with the organizers, speakers, and attendees. What worked and what didn't? Were you comfortable introducing yourself to strangers? How did you start the conversations? Writers love words, but that doesn't mean they are good at small talk. If your recollection of some of those conversations is painful, because the exchange was awkward, you might want to hone your interpersonal skills. How to Talk to Anyone by Leil Lowndes (McGraw Hill) is a wonderful, easy-to-read book that can help you buff your cocktail party banter.

4. Determine Which Activities Were Most Productive. The agent cocktail party and agent-focused panels were the most productive sessions for me, because that it where my publication journey is focused now. If you are at an earlier stage in the process, these sessions would not be as wise a use of your time as, for example, a session on the rewrite. There were people in the agent sessions who were writing the first few chapters of their novels. Of course, writers must learn all they can about the agenting process, but there is a proper time for everything.

5. Decide Which Activities Were Least Productive. The organizers of the CCWC conference did a stellar job of creating meaningful programs, but not everything, albeit juicy with content, will suit your own agenda equally well. For example, I loved the luncheon talks, but when there is a speaker, table conversation must cease, and opportunities for dialogue are lost. Long speeches also eat up the time for audience/speaker interaction and trap listeners who are uncomfortable exiting when somebody is talking.

6. Evaluate the Competitive Intelligence. Although intimate conferences are not large enough to represent the book market, even in one genre, they can afford opportunities to assess trends and spot emerging opportunities. Moreover, you might get an up-close-and-personal look at a competitor who is marketing directly in your space. Let's say you are working on an embroidery cozy and the author of a quilting series is a panelist at the meeting. How well attended is her presentation? What questions were asked? Why do people like her protagonist? How long was her line in the book signing room? If she is popular, how is your work similar to hers and how can you differentiate your project in a bold, fresh way?

7. Evaluate New Marketing Ideas. Always gather up whatever is being handed out. Look for new ideas for marketing books. Agatha winner Hank Phillippi Ryan marketed Prime Time with a clever little lip balm. Since the protagonist in my mystery series is a bit of a klutz and a destroyer of silk blouses, I thought I might try to do the same thing with a diminutive vial of spot remover.

8. Write Down Cool New Writing Tips. One thing's for sure when you spend two days in the company of over 150 writers: you're going to hear new ideas about writing. Suggestions for breaking those pesky blocks. New tools, from software to research sources. Take the time to look back over your notes and pluck a few gems out of the scrawl. It's all about moving your writing to the next level. One of my favorites from this conference came from Carolyn Howard Johnson, the Frugal Editor. Carolyn suggested repackaging, repurposing and reusing material in different venues and different timeframes. If you have spent a lot of time researching and writing a piece, you should get as much mileage as you can out of your effort!

9. Write Down New Story Ideas. When people talk about their experiences, their stories often ignite memories of your own past experiences that could prove useful in a storyline. Or when they talk about the plot of their new mystery, the poolside scene makes you remember you were tossed in a half-filled pool at a wild party and you hit your head hard enough to need stitches. You could have drowned, but you didn't. But in the new plot forming in your head the bikinied gal drowns, unleashing a legal nightmare for the pool's owner and destroying the alibi of the hunky former lifeguard who snuck away from the party to commit MURDER. Make sure you write down all the ideas you had for new books, short stories and essays.

10. Document What You Spent. Even though you may not have published yet, you are a professional writer and you must treat what you are doing as a business. Pull all those receipts from the bottom of your purse, smooth them out and total up what you spent. Not everything will be a legitimate business expense, but it is important to get control of your conference behavior. I try to set a limit to how many books I buy when attending these conferences. I usually go over my limit, but because I set a limit, I don't go over by much. I also try to control my calorie intake and I bring my exercise togs along. When your book is published and you go on those book tours, you don't want to sacrifice you figure on the altar of your success, so develop those good behaviors early!

11. Compare Conferences. Take some time to assess the conference you have just attended to others. How did CCWC stack up in terms of value? Did the content warrant the expenditure It is important to learn which programs deliver the biggest return in terms of your particular objectives. In 2010, you'll have a prioritized list of meetings. Stick to your writing career priorities and don't be swayed by an alluring venue. I am sure that for the vast majority of attendees, CCWC was a very good deal!

12. Give Yourself a Grade. Okay, now we've reached the real bottom line. How did you perform throughout this conference opportunity? Did you arrive at the conference focused like a heat-seeking missile? Did you stick to your plan? Are you making good use of the ideas and contacts you brought away from the meeting? Remember, the biggest factor in capturing value from your investment in a writer's conference is YOU!

Kudos to Sisters in Crime LA and the So Cal Chapter of Mystery Writers of America for a great program, great eats and greater fellowship. Way to go!

A Food Group Laments

Lowly carb, the peasant of foods,

maligned by every diet book around,

I lie on the plate pasty and eschewed,

as praises for veg and protein abound.

While I am modest, homey comfort fare,

guys at the processing plant sap my fiber,

and now the slim misses pass me sans a care,

for fish, greens and organic cauliflower.

All I've tried to do without flourish is provide

good nourishment for pennies on the dollar,

and for my pains they've sent me down the slide

to the bowels of the food pyramid cellar.

Why I am the object of such foody hate?

After all, I did not supersize myself,

or insist I be bathed in hot transfat,

or altered to extend my life on shelf.

I pray for the day I am rehabilitated

like my friend the egg who was ostracized

for years because he was cholesterol-tainted,

now back from the gulag, by Rachel Ray lionized.

If your hips are broad, get to the Bow-Flex, gyrate,

Your abdomen protrudes? Do some crunches!

Stop blaming the humble carbohydrate

for those gargantuan guilty lunches.

Fighting in the Shade

"Why does he have to do that?" Frowning, my father turned from the window where he had a view of our driveway.

Mother set the table. "He said it's good for the engine."

"My ass." Dad sank into his chair and began separating the sections of the paper.

"You told your father he couldn't  drive anymore." Mother placed a knife next to Dad's elbow. "He's not driving, he's idling."

Dad lowered the front page and glared. "He's fighting me every step of the way."

"I don't know what else you could do after he backed into the tractor.  It was time." Mother returned to the stove.

"Tell him that. " Dad shook his head, his glasses sliding down from the crease over his nose. "And after that nonsense about the electricity. Ten days of carrying water from the well because he's too bullheaded to call and say the power's out."

I hunched over my art homework listening to the exchange. Dad forced Granddad to move in with us after the water hauling incident.

"He's fighting old age, Joe. Not you."

"Getting senile. And crotchety. Hell to live with." Dad rose and grabbed the poker to stir the fire.

"I don't know. His mind's pretty sharp. Know what he told Dr. Guyther yesterday?"

"That his son is mistreating him?" Dad jabbed at a log.

"He told Roy he was worried because he'd been dreaming in French."

"And what did Doc make of that?"

"After he stopped laughing, Roy told your father that most people should be so lucky, and to dream in French at eighty-five was remarkable."

"Hump." Dad straightened and headed for the archway. "I'm going to go pay a few bills before dinner."

"You've got ten minutes tops." Mother's voice bounced off the interior of the oven as she gauged the doneness of  the roast. "Kathy, go tell your grandfather to come in."

I shut my sketchbook and rose to grab my jacket. "Mom, what's senile?"

"Oh, it means that a person can't reason and remember as well as they did when they were young."

"Do you think Grandfather is senile?"

"I think your grandfather can out think most people half his age."

"Yeah, like that Thermopylae thing.  Nobody else's granddad does that."

"Exactly, now get."

I slammed the kitchen door and ran across the frosted gravel toward the rear lights of the '49 Chevy. A billow of exhaust wreathed my knees as I reached the vehicle.  Warm air infused with the smell of Grandfather's Bay Rum aftershave and the musty aroma of his wool vest greeted me as I settled in the cabin. "Mom says ten minutes."

"Fine.  This engine's running just dandy now." He stroked the dashboard with one arthritic finger.

"Grandfather, why do you and Auntie Agnes argue about dead Greeks? "

"My sister believes the Spartans were decisive. My view is that the Athenian navy mattered more."

"But how are you going to settle it? You two have been arguing forever. " I figured the people on our party line were mystified.

Been at it for over sixty years." He switched off the engine, his stubbled cheeks dimpling .

"And you aren't any closer to a solution?"

"As a matter of fact, we are." His cloudy eyes glinted from the moonlight. "One of us is bound to meet Themistocles pretty soon."

"Ah, Granddad!" I slid from the passenger side and skipped around to his.

He eased himself out of the car testing his legs and leaning heavily on his cane.

I put his other arm around my shoulders and we started our slow walk back.

"Mom says you've taken to dreaming in French. What about?"

"Actually, I was dreaming about Dieneces. He was one of the Spartan 300. When they told Dieneces there were so many Persian archers the arrows would blot out the sun, you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He said, good, then we'll fight them in the shade."

"But why not dream about the guy in Greek? Why French." I helped grandfather up on  the stoop.

He turned to me and the porch bulb backlit his whiskers and unruly eyebrows  like a halo. "Because I still can."

--

Alone at Christmas

Despite all the televised merriment, the Christmas season proves to be rocky emotional terrain for the elderly and for singles and survivors of just about any age.  Many such people have more friends and family members who have passed on than they can count among the living. Even for religious people, belief in an afterlife as a safe harbor and reward for loved ones cannot quell the overwhelming feelings of loss and longing that swell unbidden with every Christmas carol in the heart of the person left behind.

Every tree ornament is imbued with the memory of someone long gone. Every cherished cookie recipe.  Every worn Christmas stocking. The songs on the radio recall a happier holiday dinner or a trip home to a warm decorated house, now bulldozed or burned.

If you are young rushing from store to store, it is hard to imagine that a time will come when there is no one left for whom you need to buy a gift. I shop for nameless children for a local charity so I don't feel left out. In the department store, I stop at the men's counter, sniff the masculine colognes, close my eyes and remember better days. No point in buying any. All the men in my family are dead.

The holiday itself is a minefield of memories. There was the bone-chilling Christmas Eve we buried my uncle after he died of liver cancer. He wanted to go in the ground before Christmas Day because he didn't want to be a burden to anyone on Christ's birthday, so we stood on the hard ground in a stiff wind and said goodbye to him in accordance with his wishes. Or how about that first Christmas, Dad spent in the Alzheimer's facility locked ward where we were allowed to visit him ten minutes every hour.

So to many of us, the holidays are a time when it is not only difficult to find something about which to be cheerful, it is a period when it takes all your fortitude to stay on the rails of sanity and not go flying off into a snow bank of despair.

I find it helpful to avoid commercial Christmas as much as possible and concentrate on the bare facts of the Christmas Story. I remember an old barn on the farm where I grew up and imagine it as the manger. I stabled my horse in that barn and some of our chickens were kept there. My father also had his homing pigeons on the second level. Of course, there were mice and rats and hornets nests high in the rafters. If you were in the barn at dusk or after dark, the contented sounds of the old place would assert themselves. Rustlings in the straw, the gentle swish of my horse's tail, a pigeon's coo, creaking wood, a hen scratching her nest into shape, chortling as she worked, the flap of a barn owl's wing as he rose into the night. Simple, comforting sounds. Joseph and Mary would feel right at home.

The scene out the barn door is still. Black trees slumber beneath a quilt of stars. The moon bathes the field in a wan light that turns the dead grass silver. The wind provides the only animation, lifting the tree bows and tossing the leaves, which settle in its wake, as if it had never come their way. The stars are sharp in the velvet night. To contemplate them framed by the humble barn door is to be in perfect tune with the universe.

I am sure there were noisy places in Bethlehem. The interior of the Inn that turned Mary and Joseph away was packed with travelers who had been lucky enough to score a place to stay. Inside there would have been much merriment, raucous and strident as muzak at the mall. Loads of fleshy bodies too close together. Breath smelling of stale wine. Strangers rudely jingling coins and demanding refills. Altogether an awful place to give birth.

Far better the manger with its soft murmurings and the yeasty aroma of oats and corn. If you come into a world in a place like that, you can believe in peace and hope. Become their champion.

I go to the barn in my imagination to experience the real Christmas. It was not cheery in the manger. It was earthy and domestic, the only music, the noises of living things turning in for the night. The smells, not of potpourri, mulled wine and fruitcake, but of damp soil, warm fur and gently decaying straw.

In this plain atmosphere, I can feel my heartbeat join the subtle rhythm of the sounds and the silences, until I am one with this eternally recurring drama and, therefore, united with all the hearts that have gone before or will come after me.  In the calm of the barn night, the pain of loss and fear of loneliness slip into the earth and seep away. I know my place. And the stars don't seem so far away.

 

My Boston Standup Stapler #2

My rail is empty, empty, empty,

a void in the pit of me, hollowed out,

cored like a cooking apple.

A silo without a missile.

A chamber without a cartridge.

A cannon without a circus clown.

 

I cannot fulfill my purpose, purpose, purpose,

the only function I am true for, made for.

Like a retired steel worker I stand

on the ground, shoulders eroded,

squinting up at the unfinished skyscraper.

He and I need work to be. He. Me.

 

I burn to be of use, use, use,

to bite the wind with steel incisors,

to pincer like a horseman with iron thighs,

to stamp, fold and mutilate. Volumes.

To embrace the neat typed innocent pages

like an editor, sanguine stylus poised.

 

I want you to fill me, fill me, fill me

up to the gills where I breathe the air of action.

Feed me the blind rapture of accomplishment,

twine your pulsing fingers round me and squeeze!

Lift me high and use me hard. Oh, yes!

I am ready. Take me. Make me. Stake me.

My Boston Standup Stapler

Still and sleek you wait at attention,

Glistening black as a whale gone deep,

Common as beans.

 

But amid the paper clips, you tower, Rhodes Colossus,

Or Emma's. Legs arched, a Gateway to tidiness.

Head on, a Dubai skyscraper.

 

Your spine beckons with caterpillar segments,

My fingers caress your torso, then squeeze.

Inch worm motion.

 

You bite. Ka Cha. Ka Cha.

Paper-punching bureaucrat. Spring-loaded toady.

Tasting the pulp of Shakespeare. IRS forms.

 

Yet your narrow metallic threads unite in ordinary design,

Declaration, gospel, play, symphony, and oration. Poem.

Clasping the universe.

A Writer's Sonnet

Left Brain Right Brain

My office is a hideaway of sorts.
I go there to create lit when I can.
To steal a chunk of time from pending chores,
Crossing to left brain, twists of plot to plan.
But interruptions follow me inside,
Which make it hard to hunker down and work,
And when the day is done I can't abide
The paltry pile of output for my book.
I tell myself I had to pay that bill,
I toss and turn and wonder why I pro-
Crastinate? Failed procedure, quill or will?
But should I write by night like E. A. Poe?
Dawn comes. I rise and, fresh, seek out my muse.
My right brain grasps the fact 'tis I who chose.

Come Back

Come Back (after Dorothy Parker)

A mild and most bewildered little shade

Paces my darkened office all alone,

Stares in disbelief at the rug where he

Died, oh so suddenly last Tuesday morn,

Gone with one exhale as I composed with

My back to him, his head fell on his paws.

I typed away as he ebbed away. Soft.

Praying was my first thought when I turned. Spoke

Buddy? Buddy. Buddy! Then I knelt down,

The first mourning tears already falling

Touching the already heavy form. Eyes

Sinking back away from me. Please don't go!

I held him close. Done it a thousand times.

The loving heart that beat, "I'll never leave

You. Ever." Was still. Still, I hoped we'd be

Together years from now. Assumption dashed.

Opened myself to grief and pain. Only

Through this sad journey did I come to terms,

Accepting. Then I found that I could see

Him. His lanky silhouette in the night.

Buddy you kept your word! You have not left.

Earthy angel, soiled paws and frowzy ears

No Standard Poodle you, my dear. Noble

Friend. You must go, you know. To claim your wings.

All dogs go to heaven it is said. But

Before you fly, please promise that you'll come

Back. For me. When it is time. Okay?

Back. To lead bewildered, weary me. Home.

Roadrunner, Road Kill

I found that while grieving for Buddy Boutts, it was helpful to keep busy, and as part of my campaign to be occupied at all times, I did a lot of exercising. I didn’t just GO to the gym, I WALKED to the gym. Unfortunately, on the second day of this fitness marathon, I turned the corner and came upon the body of one of our neighborhood’s roadrunners. If you don’t live in this part of the country, you don’t know how pleasant it is to share your space with these handsome, industrious creatures. Their distinctive gait makes them look as if they are always in a hurry. I love to see them dashing along with a lizard draped in their beak. They sun themselves on the big landscaping rocks, bobbing and flicking their generous tails in a rich, but incomprehensible language only other roadies can fathom.  Their feathers look as if they are etched, so perfect, so chiseled out of desert colors.

 

Somebody ran my feathered neighbor down. The bird was lying at an intersection, a place where a driver should have been moving very, very slowly to honor the stop sign and round the corner safely. From the look of things, I think this driver accelerated to hit the bird. Gives a whole new meaning to the term, bad driver. May the curse of the roadrunner be on you, mister. May you run around in circles, never finding any rest. May all your meals taste like the desert sand. May your tongue feel like the skin of a lizard. May a demolition derby truck with those really enormous tires roll over you until your innards go splat.

 

I tried to condole with the roadrunner that lives near my house. I’ve been feeding him Vienna sausages because I understand he is a carnivore. He likes the way they roll down the driveway. Gives him a fitting chase, so he can feel the thrill of victory. When he gets one, he looks like he’s smoking a stogie. When I told him how sorry I was for his loss, he studied me for a moment and then gave me a slow tail flick. I think he understood and will pass along my sympathies to the others of his kind who grace our community.

 

 

For My Heavenly Buddy

Yesterday, our valiant Standard Poodle, Buddy Boutts, collapsed and died. He was only ten and my entire household is in deep mourning. Buddy was a rescue who joined our family in 2002. I am too emotional right now to write so I am posting an excerpt from a piece I did earlier this year, called Ode to the Pack, a tribute to all my rescued dogs. This was the part about Buddy, who now runs with the angels. It doesn’t do him justice, but it will have to do for now until I can get over my shock, grief and pain and write about this magnificent creature without getting tears all over the keys.

Buddy Boutonniere (a.k.a. Buddy Boutts)

The others said they didn't know I would get so big. They kept me in the yard and went away. The man who tended the trees gave me water, but he did not always come. I was thirsty so I chewed on the pipes that carry the water. They were mad when they got home. They took out the grass and replaced it with concrete. It burned my feet. But now, I live in paradise.

Your topknot explodes in every direction like the mane of a tenured professor. It shades your soulful Gallic eyes, rimmed in kohl and perched above that Cyrano nose, long as an alpine ski slope. Your great ebon nostrils flare as you drink me in. You sigh like a lover. I hug you to me and listen to your heart. I can just make it out over your pants of joi. An extravagant ear falls over my eyes and I marvel at the transparent magenta of the underside, edged by its ecru tendrils.

How could anyone call you Standard? Poodle Grand Prix is more to my liking. You are the very Vente of poodles. When you walk, your tail salutes as if you were on parade. When you run, you float above the earth like meringue. When you sleep, you drape your long torso and limbs with the grace and abandon of a Delacroix model. You chose the chaise lounge as your bed. What else? The plush rose velvet and satin pillows are your métier.

My sensitive boy. My artist in canine raiment. So easy to hurt. So capable of jealousy. Cher, you are too thin. You cannot live on love.

Rain in the Desert

The golf gods were kind today. They held off the rain until Bonnie and I finished eighteen holes. They did not, however, hold off the humidity, and we soldiered around dripping, clubs slipping in our hands, through the 30% haze. At one point, I think it was on fifteen, I looked down to address the ball and a big pool of perspiration flowed down into the backside cup of my sunglass lens, turning the grass into a viridian sea and the ball to jetsom. We desert rats are not used to such conditions.

When I returned home, I knew that it was going to rain for real because the pest control people arrived and sprayed all around the perimeter of the house. The rain is now washing all the pesticide away so the crickets should be happy. They always sound happy, but, then, how can you really tell with a cricket? Of course, there was that Jiminy Cricket guy, who just bubbled over with song all the time, but he was a natty dresser and had a steady job with Disney. He was happy because he had an agent.

Next came the heating and air conditioning expert to tell me what has gone wrong with two of my four units. Ah-ha, the report's just in; one has lost all its freon and the other's digital thermostat has gone to that great circuit board heap in the sky. The technician has been here for two hours and has begun humming. He's not as on key as Jiminy, but he told me he worked at an airport in his younger days. I think he has lost the upper register. Despite the occupational problems, he seems happy. I am beginning to think he has an agent too. He doesn't even mind going outside to look at the equipment in the drizzle. The meter is running. $ $ $

Do agents work in the rain? Or are they like taxi cabs? Poofffffff. Okay, it was a rhetorical question. I know, as a lowly scribbler, I don't deserve an answer.

The best thing that will happen today is that my solar panels will get a good cleansing. Tomorrow, assuming the sun returns to the desert, my little energy meters will be spinning at an accelerated pace. Not enough to pay for the technician's visit, mind you, but twirling in a positive direction. The number won't be as stratospheric as my handicap, but one wouldn't expect it to be, because that's at the level of the national debt.

High School Geography

I flew to Baltimore last week, the weather was beautiful and the pilot treated us to a perfect bank over Baltimore harbor. Behind me sat three teenage girls. I knew they were teenagers because they talked nonstop throughout our flight, through the movie, the safety orientation and all the announcements. It must be tough to be deprived of your cell phone for so long. Anyway, one girl looks down at the harbor and squeals, “Look, a lake!” There was a tanker and two container ships headed out to the Chesapeake Bay, and it is a rare lake that can support those sorts of vessels. The pilot cruised farther east and turned over the bay for his approach into BWI. The next girl says, “See, I told you Baltimore was on the ocean.” I thought about asking what high school the girls attended, so I could call their school board and suggest they just close the place now, don’t try to fix anything, just shut it down. We landed, disembarked and I forgot all about the teens. On my way to collect my luggage, I stopped in the restroom. The three girls had beaten me there. As I utilized a stall down the row from them, one girl announced she had shut herself in her stall and couldn’t get out. I looked at the lock in front of me. It was a straightforward slide button. As I exited my stall, I saw the other two girls huddled on the corridor side of the trapped teen’s stall giving her advice. If it takes three American high schoolers to get out of a toilet stall, how many does it talk to operate a voting machine? They had not solved the problem by the time I washed my hands and left the restroom. Our civilization is at an end.

 

 

Those Pesky Setbacks

I got up this morning and weighed myself, only to discover that despite my diet discipline yesterday, I gained a pound. Perhaps it is a change in the earth’s gravity. No such luck. Water weight? Always a possibility, especially for females. Fortunately, I have made progress writing and editing. Of course, if I had gone to exercise at Curves instead of journaling and editing my manuscript, I could have burned off more calories. We writers have to find a way to get more exercise while writing. I think Jefferson was on to something with his standup writing desk. If I had one of those, I could write while standing on one of those vibrator platforms or a twister disk or just march in place. I don’t think I have enough coordination to do Stairmaster and work my laptop at the same time. It is about all I can do to sit up straight in my ergonomic computer chair. I can type and chew gum or twirl hair around a finger, but that is about it. Sad, really.

 

My Web Page

www.rwwra.com

Welcome!

Hello and welcome to my blog. I was doing a blog for my dog. Skootch, and realized that if he could have a blog, I should have one too. Anyway, I am procrastinating when I should be writing the next chapter of my book, but then I would have to get serious. Maybe after lunch. Of course, I'm dieting, so lunch isn't going to take that long. It is hard to stretch out a can of diet drink, but I'll manage. Then I can wait for the mail to come. Who knows, an agent might be trying to get in touch with me. Yes, that makes sense. It is not probable, but it is logical . . .