Megaputer, a Good Month, and Be My Guest

Just a few Sunday ramblings on some writerly topics.  On a side note, before I start: couldn’t we petition the OED to make “writerly” a word?  I mean, aren’t writers a huge percentage of dictionary users, if not the majority?  If you can have made up words like “sexting” and “staycation,” why not a word that would actually be useful?

Anyway, enough rambling.

• I got my birthday present from my wonderful wife a month early: a new laptop.  My previous computer was a ten inch or so netbook, which is fine if you’re  not going to do much with it.  Since we don’t have a desktop anymore, that was my only computer, and, nice as it was, it was definitely lacking. This one is not only ridiculously fast by comparison, but it’s also friggin’ huge!  At 17.3 inches, it’s almost twice as big as the netbook.  I can see websites the way they were meant to be seen, including my own.  I can actually see the fake books now!
• It’s been a very good January for Sanguine Musings.  I received three blogger awards and participated in a crapload of blogfests.  More importantly, though, I went from 36 followers on December 31st to 95!  Almost 60 in less than a month.  I don’t know how good that is in the grand scheme of the Blogosphere, but to me, that’s amazing.  Four months ago, when I started this blog, I stared at my one follower (me) and wondered how anyone would want to read this little blog of mine.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am to each one you of who reads my crazy ramblings.  I want to do something in honor of (hopefully) turning 100 soon, but I can’t think of anything.  I tried the blogfest, but didn’t get a lot of interest, and all my writing books (the goods ones, anyway) are too tattered and worn to give away.  Any suggestions?   
• As I mentioned, I’ve entered a lot of blogfests and have really spread myself thin.  Not only have I been deficient in commenting on others’ entries, but I think I might have missed another blogfest altogether.  If there’s a blogfest out there I signed up for and missed, please yell at me in the comments and I will at least stop by and comment on the other entries if not post one myself. 
• I would love to have someone guest blog here from time to time.  I think it’s nice having different voices be heard.  Plus the “Sangui-nation” is growing, and in my opinion there’s no better group of bloggers out there .  It could be a good way to generate readership.  I’d also love to do a guest post somewhere; I’ve been eagerly awaiting an offer, but now I’m shamelessly throwing myself out there.  Anyone interested in either offer, my email is stegermedic(at)gmail(dot)com.  I’ve also got a load of other ways for people to contact me on my Full Contact page.

No Fear Blogfest Entry, Finally

All right, it took me a while, but I’ve finally got my No Fear Blogfest Entry.  The blogfest is hosted by Dominic at Writes of Passage.  It’s a stand alone story based on something I wrote a long time ago.  Probably not worth the wait, but here it is.  Hope you enjoy.

 

The heat slammed into Alex like a bus as she stepped through the door. She heard the flames, somewhere downstairs, by the sound.  Where she had to go.  Though outside the sun sparkled in a cloudless summer sky, Alex could barely see a foot in front of her.  Fear clawed at her, and she pushed it down.  She couldn’t leave, not yet.  Not without what she’d come back for.

“Peach!” She choked on the word as smoke filled her lungs.  That cat would be the death of her, she’d always joked; she didn’t want to be proved right.  She felt her way through the suffocating black smoke to where she knew the couch would be and grabbed the afghan which hung over the back. She threw it over her shoulders and head and with one hand, covered the lower half of her face like Bela Lugosi.  Peach!  She screamed inside her head; words were impossible now.  Peach wouldn’t be up here anyway; she’d be downstairs, hiding.

The stairs protested madly but held up as Alex felt her way into the basement.  Her hands guided her as she squeezed shut useless eyes. She’d sprung awake to the shriek of the smoke detector.  She had been ironing clothes for her job interview tomorrow before curling up with Peach for one of her frequent mid-afternoon naps.  She was sure she turned it off; certain of it.  She rolled out of bed still not fully conscious of her plight. Her legs thought for her, and carried her to the door.  Only when she hit the sidewalk did the true weight of the situation hit her.  And that was when she went back.

She didn’t know how the catnip wound up in her hands, and she didn’t care.  On hands and knees now to keep most of the smoke above her, she frantically spread the kitty pot on the floor.  Alex prayed the scent would coax Peach out, but it was a fool’s hope.  Peach was a coward even by feline standards, though not any less brave than Alex herself had become since Bobby left.  She’d been a gift from Bobby, but Peach had attached herself to him much more than to Alex.  After Bobby’s…disappearance, the cat disappeared, too, under the bed, behind the furnace, and even inside the woodwork somehow.  In her own way, Alex had been doing the same for weeks now. Only recently had the two neglected girls begun to bond, held together by grief.  Alex stared at the catnip as if they were magic beans refusing to grow.  Nothing.  She had to get out, no matter how much she loved Peach.  The smoke was unbearable, and her head was level enough to know that if she stayed, she was dead.

She turned toward the stairs and heard the sound.  Even over the din of the blaze, she recognized Peach’s cry just as she reached the bottom step.  She turned back and saw Peach peeking out from behind the water heater.  She look terrified as she staggered hesitantly toward Alex.  Alex crawled forward, trying to meet her halfway.  She dropped to the floor and Peach curled up next to her.  It was getting harder to think, and nearly impossible to breath. She wouldn’t leave without Peach; she was all Alex had left, all of Bobby she had left.  They were together now, though.  In the din of her mind, she thought she heard voices from above, men’s voices, urgent.  And footsteps.  The fire department.  She would be alright, or Peach would, at least.  Curled up in Alex arms, the cat couldn’t be missed.  Alex smiled.  Now she could rest.

No No Fear I'm Afraid

A lot of you might be stopping by to check out my "No Fear" Blogfest entry.  Well, it won't be up today, sorry.  I'm more qualified to post a No Sleep entry.  I got home from work at about 6:30 and I have to leave again at 5pm (about four and a half hours from now), and it doesn't look like I'll get to bed before then.  I'll have an entry, but it won't be until tomorrow at the earliest, probably later.  Sorry.  And thanks for stopping by.

Come Love on My Hotness (Blogfest Entry)

This is my entry in the Simply Hot Blogfest hosted by Erica and Christy at their self-titled blog.  The rules of this blogfest are simple, share a photo of your favorite mug, the one with sentimental value, or the pithy sayings, or just general awesomeness.  The one that you reach for every time you grab a cup of coffee.  The one you’ll actually wash just so you can use it.  The rules are simple, but I can’t follow them.  Because that mug is currently sitting in pieces somewhere in a landfill.

That coffee cup was decorated with colorful (both verbally and physically) loved-themed Shakespeare quotes.  It was one of the first gifts my wife gave me when we started dating.  I loved that cup, both for what it was and for what it meant.  Then my teenage son got a hold it.  It’s not the first cup or beer mug or other dish that I treasured for whatever reason that he or his brother destroyed out of carelessness.   I’m trying to make sure it’s the last.

Oh well, just a cup, right?

Anyway, these four generally share the role of drinking-coffee-while-writing cup these days.  The Henry VIII cup was a gift from an ex-girlfriend, so not much sentimental value there; it’s just an awesome cup.  The wives “disappear” when you put hot liquid in the cup.

The Ohio cup is from my wife and my first road trip together.  The Van Gogh cup is from the Art Institute of Chicago.  She took me there on my birthday.

The Lincoln mug (the Gettysburg Address is on the back) is from a save-my-sanity getaway trip to Springfield my wife made me take during a particularly stressful week.  I’m a big fan of Lincoln, and that was a fun day soaking up history.  It also reminds how much my wife looks out for me.

That’s it.  Hope you enjoyed.  Check out others here.

The day the music…got made into a blogfest

Just realized I forgot to link this, sorry.  This is hosted by Alex J. Cavanaugh.  Of course, since half of the interwebs seems to be participating, you probably already knew that.

I wasn’t going to enter this blogfest, nut then I decided to.  Okay, not much of a story there.  Anyway, that’s why I haven’t plugged it at all.  I’m not much of a music guy; I listen to music because I like it, not because it’s cutting edge, or the next big thing, or so obscure even the band itself hasn’t heard of it.  So if you’re looking for “cool” or “hip” or “groovy*,” keep looking. 

Also, I don’t intend this to be a “best songs ever recorded” list.  These are songs that stand out for me, songs I can listen to over and over again and still miss when they’ve stopped playing.  I could have included fifty more (no Stones? no CCR?) on the list, too.

Here’s the list (in alphabetical order):

1. “All Along the Watchtower” by Jimmy Hendrix – Hendrix and (songwriter) Bob Dylan at their very best.  What’s not to love? 
2. “American Pie” by Don McLean – An obvious choice, I know, but it’s obvious for a reason: it’s good.
3. “Anarchy in the UK” by the Sex Pistols – Sometimes you just have to listen to Angry. 
4. “The Day I Tried to Live” by Soundgarden – Yes, I was into Grunge in my early twenties.  You should have seen me work the flannel.  Still love Soundgarden, and this is their best.
5. “Jack and Diane” by John Mellencamp – growing up in a small Indiana town pre-cell phones and internet?  Yeah, I can relate.
6. “Like a Prayer” by Madonna – What?  It’s a good song.  Leave me alone.
7. “Refugee” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers – I could have filled the top ten with Tom Petty.  I chose one, his best.
8. “Whiskey in the Jar” by Thin Lizzy – I love every version of this song.  This one’s the best.
9. “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane – It’s about Alice in Wonderland!  It’s about drugs!  Stop, you’re both right!
10. “Won’t Get Fooled Again” by the Who – It’s a shame the Who have been coopted by the crapfest known as the CSI franchise, but this is still the best song by arguably the best rock band ever. 

I’m going to try to attach a playlist to the right with these songs.  Don’t be shocked if it doesn’t work, though.

*Actually, I might be able to pull off “groovy”.

What it’s Like to Live with a Writer: Significant Other Blogfest Entry

** My entry for the Tessa’s Birthday Bash Blogfest is here. **

 

Today is the Significant Other Blogfest, hosted by DL at Cruising Altitude and Talli Roland.  My wife, Kristy, has commandeered my blog for today to talk about living with a writer.  Please make her feel welcomed.

Also, these are 100% her words.  I didn’t edit anything.

   

 

What it’s Like to Live with a Writer

What a question! I have to say that I love the fact that my husband is so intelligent and creative. However; I don't care for the doubt that he has in his capabilities to do what God has given him the incredible talent to do.

Dan will come home after working a twelve hour shift as a paramedic, and work on an article for the Southland Voice for about four or five hours. Then finally take a nap before going back to the grind. Yet he still finds the time to take care of our family and edit his novel. Sometimes he finds a cranky spot and wont let go until he has exhausted himself. This usually lasts until he has some time off. Then he is able to write and let himself escape into his separate little world.

I have always told my kids that reading a book is like watching a movie in their heads, so I suppose for Dan writing is like putting his movies into words. That escape from life for him is a must, even though he would beg to differ, because as I said earlier he does not have the
faith in himself that I do.

Birthday Blogfest (Don’t Worry Not Mine) Entry

 

This is my entry for the Tessa’s Birthday Bash Blogfest hosted by Tessa at Tessa’s Blurb.  The rules are to write a story with either a birthday, presents, candles, or cake.  This is an excerpt from The Wind Maiden.  There’s no birthday or cake, but there are candles and a gift.  It’s fairly self-explanatory, so no setup.

 

Everyone was safe, the bombing had stopped, and they would eat tomorrow. All of the big concerns were taken care of; she could afford to be upset over the little things. Tears welled up as she spoke.

“I would have won today. I was right there.” She sat down at the table opposite her mother and poked absently at the melted wax of the candle. “I hate this place.”

“This is your home, Sweetie.”

“Lucky me.” She walked across the tiny rectangle that comprised the flat’s main living area.

Thea’s mom got up and put her arm around Thea in just that right way that only mothers seem to know.

“Don’t touch me; I’m gross,” Thea protested.

“You’re my daughter. I love you even when you’re gross.”

“That’s not funny!” She broke away from her mother and stormed into her room. In the darkness Thea leaned against the door and waited for tears never came. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she spied the soft rise and fall of the coarse blanket in the bottom bunk. She promised Joss she would win; he'd understand, of course, but he shouldn't have to. She walked over to the table where she had set Joss's drawings the night before. The pictures had been moved, and in their place sat an unassuming grey box. A handwritten note attached to the box read, “Theadne, love Mom.”

Without opening the package, she knew what she’d find inside. She lifted the box, and the weight confirmed it. She gripped the unexpected gift in her arms, and stood motionless in the dark room. Her eyes turned toward her brother; he did not stir. She wanted to wake him, to show him the package, to recount the bombing and the shelter and everything else. She wanted to unburden herself of the emotional rock slide that had buried her spirit. Instead, she let him sleep and snuck out of the room, closing the door behind her.

In the front room again, she leaned back against the wall, not taking her eyes off the modest grey box cradled against her chest. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her.

“Well?” Her mother asked. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Hey. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. Go on; let’s see what you got,” her mother said, as if she didn’t know.

Thea slid off the box and stared down at the running shoes wedged into the tiny space, one opposite the other. She put one hand under the tongue of each shoe, shaking them free of the box which dropped to the floor. The dazzling white of the brarr’s hide gleamed even in the soft flicker of the candlelight, the only color the unmistakable four-point star of Brandt Athletics, the premiere sports apparel manufacturer in the Supremacy. These must have cost a fortune. Her mother didn’t just buy her a nice pair of shoes; she got her the best. The shoes blurred as tears welled up in her eyes.

“They’re not that bad, are they?” Her mother joked. Thea let a short, harsh laugh escape her lungs, but denied anything more. She didn’t want to laugh; she could find nothing funny about her life right now. She hugged her mother, hiding herself from the world in her mother’s embrace. Thea wanted to tell her the shoes were perfect, but she couldn’t find her voice. She was sobbing now; she wasn't even sure why; she just knew she couldn’t fight it.

“There’ll be other races, Sweetie.”

That was it; there wouldn’t be. Since she could remember, she had possessed a gift for speed. She wasn’t dumb, but by no means was she a brain, either. And if you did not start out smart, the pitiful Taldorot educational system would not get you there. With her slender, bony frame and sharp, angular features, she would never fit the Supremacy ideal of beauty. All she had was her gift of speed, and that was no small asset. Sports were big in the Supremacy. Very big. The most successful athletes in the State became superstars, and the masses were always looking for the next great speedster. Qalonians had long been known as the fastest runners in the Supremacy, and Thea knew she could outrun them all. Now she would never have the chance.