One Year, Five Books

Nothing makes an author antsier than being without a contract. I haven’t found myself in that situation in a long, thank you, God. Because there are a zillion people out there vying for the limited number of contracts available, most authors have a tendency to say yes to every one that comes along. Steady work is GOOD.

Lately, I’ve found myself blessed. I’d already gotten a three-book contract with Grand Central when Harlequin offered a two-book deal for their Romantic Suspense line. Woohoo, I said to my agent, then my husband. Then the next day, surprise! Another offer from Harlequin, for a Christmas novella for Romantic Suspense. Woot woot, I said to my agent, then my husband.

I woke up the next morning and immediately felt a rush of delight. Contracts for six books! Belated Christmas/Happy New Year to me!

Then it hit me: five of them are due in a year. Wow.

I’ve written five books in a year. I’ve actually written seven in one year. But that was a long time ago, when I was younger. I’ve gotten comfortably (read: lazily) settled into a routine where I write two to three books a year. Can I kick it into high gear and get them all done?

The first thing I did was scribble out a calendar, covering every week for the next year. Then I figured how many weeks I need to write each book and added in one or two extra. I also had to include time to write proposals (a synopsis and chapters) for the second books on the contracts and, of course, a little sanity time. I’ve never done this kind of time planning before. My usual method was to schedule deadlines equally, giving myself, say, three months to complete each book. The first two months would pass with frequent reminders to myself that I’ve got a book due soon, then I would write madly for three to four weeks and finish it just in time to overnight it to New York. I always promised myself that the next time, I would do it in a more reasonable fashion, but I never did.

This year “reasonable” is the only way to do it.

Though I dunno. As I write this, it’s the second day on my 52-week schedule, and all I’ve written are blogs . . .

 

It’s Raining!

Where was all this glorious rain in June? July? August? Usually I’m not one to complain about rain, especially since the lakes are so depleted from the drought. However–our ranch is flooding already. The black gumbo land was saturated before this stretch of rain. The creeks are full–(now that perp should have tried running through this fast deluge!)

I’m almost afraid to look out the windows. Uh, Don–Where are the keys to the boat?

Just Tripping Along

Since I discovered that I have flat feet and got orthotics, I mostly wear New Balance shoes. (The pedorthist said they’re about the only brand made to accommodate my feet. Wow, he knows how to sweet-talk a woman, doesn’t he?)

 

My first pair were plain white leather. They rubbed my toes. They weighed a ton. My feet felt as if they were in a sauna.  Besides, who wants plain white shoes? So back to the store I went, where I tried on every single pair of New Balance walking shoes in stock, transferring orthotics, which are made to really fit — no slipping, no sliding, no ease of removing. Nothing worked for me.

Then I saw them. They were running shoes, and I’m not a runner. But they were lightweight.  They had mesh everywhere to let my toes breathe. And they weren’t plain white. In fact, there’s no white at all on them!

I was in love. I bought them and have worn them every day since.

The only thing I don’t get is the laces. The walking shoes had normal laces. The running shoe laces are about a mile long. I have to make great big floppy bows, which I then trip on at least once a day. (And trust me — I don’t need any help tripping.)

Just as a lot of brand-new writers are convinced that published authors know the secret handshake that will get them published, too, I’m sure runners have some sort of secret shoestring tying method that they only share with other runners. They see me tripping along with the laces flopping, and they share a smile because they know the secret and I, obviously a poseur, do not.

That’s okay. I might not be able to walk the walk or talk the talk, but I’ve got the shoes anyway.

 

Follow Up to What’s Going On?

As I alluded to in my earlier post about running from police, things heated up Friday afternoon/evening. The foot chase was within shooting distance of our house. We called our friends to come over, our neighbors gathered in our yard. We watched with rapt attention. The lights from all the cruisers turned the twilight into a feast for the eyes.

We knew the ‘actor’ was in the creek–that’s another stupid to add on his list! He is so lucky it isn’t spring when the moccasins are balling. And dusk is when the feral hogs, bobcats, and coyotes begin to prowl.

What I still don’t understand is why he stayed around this area from the manhunt early Friday morning. Even if he’d walked in any direction he’d gotten away.

I was sorry that we didn’t get to see the K-9 unit at work–that’s my favorite part of COPS. Or that our own canine units didn’t get a chance to bark.

What I see as a big flaw with this day long hunt is that the people who needed to know what was going on were not informed. I had been outside all day, in my pasture, shop and garage. He could have come up to me at anytime. (I’m glad I’m not clueless nor unarmed.)

 

Gone to the Dogs

Y’all know how I am about my puppers. Our lives pretty much revolve around them. We tore out all the carpeting in the house because of them.  (Five male dogs all marking their territory. ‘Nuff said.)

We arrange our schedule around them. How long can we stay away from the house? Only as long as we can reasonably expect them to keep their little legs crossed. When do we feed them? There’s no exact time for this, but Lucky lets us know when we’re late by puking his guts out.

Even our furniture choices are basied on them. We’ve lost a couple of sofas and a boatload of cushions to them. currently our seating options in the living room include one ratty old pine sofa that no one but Bob will sit on, a wicker chair and my recliner. Notice the “my.” I picked it out. I bought it. I carried it home from the store. The dogs are allowed everywhere except in my recliner. So where do they want to sit? Right.

Do you know it feels to explain to our pretty little alpha female that is my chair? Mine. She needs to get up.

And all she does is look at me, then yawn before snuggling in deeper.

I could train them, I know. The problem is, I can’t train Bob, and he not only lets them get away with everything, he encourages it. So . . . yeah, we’ve definitely gone to the dogs.

 

 

What’s Going On?

If you’ve listened to the news at all, you must have noticed there’s a lot of stupid going around. What is going on? Let’s steer a big ocean liner off course. Let’s bring a loaded gun through airport security. Let’s build a fire in the woods during a drought. 

My favorite stupid move is to run from the police (I’m talking about on foot–I despise high-speed car chases.) Most of the law enforcement agencies have dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs who live to chase and bite.  And for what it is worth: I have 2 big dogs–one sounds like she’s going to eat your face, the other is mentally challenged so he’ll probably would.

 If there’s anything stupid going on in your world, please share!

Clearing The Clutter

In my attempt to downsize, I’m being forced to clear the clutter. That means transferring pictures to CDs, thumb drives, then deleting from the old desk top. What I didn’t count on was my lap top with the most recent pictures coming down with a virus. I have no back up for those. My bad on that.  It is amusing that I’m more concerned with the pictures than I am the few stories I’ve written there.

I’ve sent my faithful friend with Don to the computer doctor, along with thumb drives. “Save the pictures!”

Guess it is time for an external hard drive to make an appearance.

Making Cold Cereal Hot

I start most mornings with hot oatmeal and lukewarm coffee. But since discovering almond milk (thanks, Meg!), I’ve been alternating that with blueberry cereal lately. This morning, thinking that hot sounded good, but so did blueberries, I decided to follow the advice of a commercial I see from time to time: just microwave the milk, then pour it over the cereal. Voila, hot cereal.

Imagine the face of a small child whose parents have cruelly given him a sour pickle just so they could laugh at his reaction. Yuck!

My blueberry cereal is little chunky pillows of straw with blueberry flavoring on one side. When they were flooded with warm milk, several things happened: the pillows of straw fell apart; the blueberry flavoring dissolved; and a thick gluey substance formed in the bowl. I ate what I could force down, then pushed it aside to take to the house later, and I swear, it turned to cement.

To quote my grandkiddo: “No! Not yummers!”

Confused

Last week was my time to visit doctors! Yes, doctors and the dentist. In Cozumel, I had a little run in with some rocks. I can totally relate how a turtle feels when on its back. Was glad that only my pride and wetsuit got shredded. Or so I thought. Went to a PA at the end of November because of numbness in my left arm. She pronounced that I was okay–muscle strain.

The pain in my shoulder and now thumb have continued. Back to my primary care doctor. X-rays taken and read. Hmmm–small bone spur in shoulder and a separation at the base of my thumb. The bones are not in alignment. Off to the orthopedic surgeon. He looks at the X-rays. Nothing wrong with my thumb other than severe arthritis and the bones aren’t as in line as they should be. Here’s a thumb brace to protect the joint. Okay….great.

Me:”What about my shoulder? It hurts.” Dr: “You shoulder fine. Nothing wrong.” Me: “But it hurts.” Dr: “Pinched nerve in neck. Go see a neuro.” Me: “Will you clear me for diving?” Dr: “Sure, just don’t carry anything heavy.”  {{{head shake}}}

I feel like a hamster with a bum limb on a self-propelled wheel. Might as well grab on with the good claws and hang on.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

I’m writing this a few days in advance, but I don’t need to know what the weather is like when you’re reading it to know that, baby,  it’s cold outside.  (One of my favorite songs. I love the live version with Louis Armstrong and Velma Middleton.)

Once upon a time I was a hot-natured woman. I wore shorts and short sleeves all winter. Didn’t own a heavy coat. Turned down the thermostat and turned up the fan at night to sleep under a sheet.

Then I lost over a hundred pounds and I got cold. Permanently. The perfect day for working out in the yard? 95 degrees or warmer. The ideal temperature for me? 85 degrees. Anytime it gets below 75, I have to put on a jacket. At 50, I’m wearing two long-sleeved shirts under that jacket. When the wind chills drop below 20, I’m miserable. Thermal shirt under flannel shirt under down coat, gloves, ear muffs, scarf, and I still get so cold that I hurt.

But this winter’s passing fast. It’s already mid-January. All we’ve got left is this month, February, part of March and part of April. I can feel the heat waves coming.