Quickies

Miniblogs today. I’ll just ramble until I hit the word count. Select whichever ones appeal to you.

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First, the big news: is Stray Kitty back from the dead? He vanished abruptly last January, after coming to my door for breakfast for well over a year. I kept watch for three months before I donated my remaining cans of cat food to the ASPCA. Nobody’s seen him around since then.

Until now. Once again we’ve got a black-and-white cat back roaming the neighborhood. He’s been down at my end of the street, but seems to hang out more at the other end. Other neighbors have seen him, so it’s not just my eyes going bad. But is it really him?

Could be. Or not. The most popular theory is, somebody caught him last winter and was keeping him indoors. That’s entirely possible. I tried more than once to entice him into the house and out of the subzero temps, but he wouldn’t go for it, even when tempted with food. There was no way I’d get close enough to grab him without a net. Our hypothetical cat lover may have used a live trap. However, if this was the case, whoever caught him never informed the neighbors. If he was indoors, he must have escaped and returned to his old haunts. I haven’t checked the porch since March and nobody else was putting food out, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t frequent our end of the street.

Personally, I don’t think it’s him. I got an extended look at him the other day when I spotted him crossing the street. This cat looks smaller, definitely thinner, and doesn’t move the way Stray Kitty did. SK stalked like a scale-model tiger. He moved like a wild animal. This new version moves like a regular cat. I’m inclined to believe this is a descendant, a kitten or grandkitten. Stray Kitty roamed the streets for three years, and he’d never been fixed. There’s a farm on the other side of Route 272, so unaltered females would have been available.

Or this could be history repeating itself, somebody’s pet who got loose. Black and white cats with his markings aren’t exactly scarce. The only way to be sure would be to get close to him. Good luck with that.

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The new TV season is now well underway, and I haven’t watched a single one of the new shows. I’ve even dropped some of my returning shows. I’m pretty much down to Bar Rescue, The Flash, Supernatural, America’s Next Top Model and Project Runway at this point. I’ll switch over to Sleepy Hollow when Project Runway wraps up. Not sure what I’ll do when Grimm comes back. That’s scheduled opposite ANTM, and I don’t have a working recording device. As usual, there are only a few shows I want to see, and they’re scheduled for the same time. Somebody somewhere really wants to piss me off.

The only new shows I want to check out are Supergirl (CBS attempts to hop onto the superhero bandwagon), and Legends of Tomorrow, the superhero group show on the CW spun off from Arrow and Flash. I’m turning into a fan of Wentworth Miller, who always steals the show as Captain Cold. Somebody else must like him, because they put him in a Yoplait commercial that’s a hoot. I shouldn’t skip the commercials. A lot of time they’re better than the shows they interrupt.

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Speaking of superheroes, comics and TV, Tuesday’s Flash episode was loaded with Easter eggs for us long-time comics fans. Not only did they do a live-action recreation of the cover where Barry Allen meets Jay Garrick, the Flash from the 1940s, but they introduced the concept of parallel universes. The Flash crew discovered 52 possible alternate worlds, a nod to DC’s “New 52” company-wide revamp of a few years ago. Back in the ‘80s DC had so many alternate worlds they ran a twelve-issue maxiseries (Crisis on Infinite Earths) and destroyed all the extras. Then they brought a few back. Then a few more. Then they rebooted the whole thing and started over with the New 52. Which they’ve had to reboot yet again because nobody liked the new versions of the characters. I don’t know how many alternate universes they have now, or care. I know they’re trying to make Superman edgy. Like trying to get close to a stray cat, good luck with that.

Now that DC has officially undone Crisis on Infinite Earths, Marvel just had their own version and wiped out a lot of their parallel universes. Now they’ve rebooted and are starting over with a slew of new first issues. Their motivation appears to be to downplay the Fantastic Four and X-Men, because Fox won’t give back the movie rights. Comic books, once cheap, disposable entertainment for kids, have bloated into a corporate cash cow under the control of CEOs and stockholders. At one time I wanted to be a comic book writer. I’m glad now I didn’t go in that direction.

Hmmm … between me dropping TV shows and comics, I’ll have more time to write. If I learn how to draw, I can make my own comics. Who needs you, Time-Warner? I’ve got paper and a pen! Enjoy your day, folks.

In Memoriam

This week my new health insurance company sent me another ID card. I’m not sure why. I wish they’d send me a copy of my policy so I’d know what kind of coverage the American taxpayers are buying for me. At least nobody grabbed any more money out of my account. I guess we can call that progress.

Something else is missing, and it means more to me than an insurance policy or even corporations lifting bucks from my bank account. There isn’t anything I can do about it, either.

Around the middle of January Stray Kitty stopped dropping by for breakfast. For close to two years I could count on him showing up for his morning meal, and sometimes an afternoon or evening meal as well. I had to take the bowls off the porch after the borough sent me a letter to let me know feeding feral cats was illegal, but that didn’t stop either of us. He’d show up at the door and I’d feed him, then whisk the plate inside so nobody saw. In this manner I enjoyed civil disobedience and Stray Kitty enjoyed a full belly. No harm done.

On that day in mid-January when he didn’t show up, I simply shrugged it off. He’d skipped days before. Sometimes he’d miss the morning meal but turn up in the afternoon. I’d come home from the library or the grocery store and there he’d be by the door, probably wondering why I wasn’t in the house getting his food for him. More than once I went to leave the house and unexpectedly found him waiting for an afternoon snack. I’d put the plate out and then have to wait around until he was done because if I stepped outside the door he’d run off. Two years and he still wouldn’t come near me unless I had a can of Little Friskies in my hand. He wasn't the trusting sort.

He also had at least one other neighbor doling out the goodies, maybe more. We all knew his background. He wasn’t a stray by choice; he’d been dumped on the street by his deadbeat owners. We were more than willing to help him out.

At any rate, he didn’t come for breakfast that day. Or the next day. Or the next. Or the day after that. By the third day, I became concerned. It wasn’t just in the morning. The afternoon and evening drop-ins stopped as well. I didn’t find him on the porch any more when I came back from the library. The neighbors’ indoor-outdoor cat still stopped in every now and then, but of course he couldn’t tell me anything.

After over a week of no-shows, I asked around. The other neighbor who’d been feeding him hadn’t seen him either. A neighbor who put out boxes for him to sleep in said she hadn’t seen him in three weeks. He used to be fairly visible around the neighborhood. I’ve been keeping an eye out, but there’s been no sign of him.

It’s now been almost a month. I can only reach the logical conclusion, that he’s gone.

I don’t know what happened. There weren’t any black-and-white lumps in the road, at least not on any roads I checked. He might have gotten sick, or eaten some roadkill and picked up a parasite. He looked and acted healthy to me right up until the time he disappeared, though I thought his meow sounded funny. He might have had a cold. I think cats get colds. His fur was nice and thick, and he had plenty of houses and sheds to shelter under, so I don’t think it was the temperatures. Considering how often he stopped in for a handout, I can say with utmost confidence he didn’t starve to death. Not unless his gut got him wedged under a shed or something.

Maybe a dog got him, or one of the other stray cats. Or some kid in the apartments behind the mobile home park. I know he used to prowl down there. He may have changed territories, but I don’t think he’d simply abandon such reliable sources of food. It’s true: once you feed a cat, they’ll keep coming back, unless something happens to prevent them.

I like to think somebody caught him, and he’s spending the winter in somebody’s house, probably under a bed or a sofa. He wasn’t all that sociable, which may be why the deadbeats kicked him out in the first place. I wish now I’d tried harder to lure him into my house. I made a couple half-assed attempts, but he wouldn’t fall for it. I wasn’t that concerned. He made it through last winter, when the temps were even colder and we had more snow. I figured he could handle another one. Guess not.

So that’s the tale of Stray Kitty. I’m going to wait another week or two, give him a full month to reappear. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll take the remaining cans of cat food to the ASPCA or Petsmart or somewhere that can tell me where I can donate them. (I already offered them to the neighbor, but she said her indoor cats don’t eat cat food. She feeds them tuna. Why not? We fed our dog a mixture of dog food and table food, and she lived to be 16 and had all her teeth and was active right up to the end. Diet or just good genes? You be the judge.)

Rest in peace, Domino, whatever happened to you. I’m not feeding any more strays unless they let me pet them and they’re willing to come into the house. This also holds true for men. The cat didn’t have money, so he gets a pass. If some guy wants me to feed him, he’d better buy me a car.

One Day at a Time

And here we are, at the opening of yet another brand new year. Made your resolutions yet? Broke ‘em already? Welcome to the club. I too was once a part of the resolution crowd. January 1 would find me making lists of long-term goals and plans on how I would achieve them. For instance, if I start right now and lose a mere five pounds a month, by the end of the year I’ll have dropped sixty pounds. And my pants, because they won’t fit me any more. And I’m going to do it, just as soon as I eat that ice cream I bought the other day. I guess I’ll have to exercise now. Too bad it’s too cold to go outside.

This is why I won’t be making long-term resolutions this year. The only thing easier to make than resolutions are the excuses for failing them. The average wait time between the making and the breaking of my New Year’s resolutions is usually about a week. Sometimes a day, if we’re dealing with anything food-related.

For 2015 I’ll be taking a different approach. I’ll be using the addicts’ method and taking my resolutions a day at a time. I’ll be measuring my goals by days and weeks. By the end of January I’ll reassess and see what needs to be done. Then it’s on to February. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At the end of the year I hope to have several more books added to my backlist and maybe a few stories out. A steady income would be nice. I may have to look for a regular job. I’m going to put that one off until April so I won’t have to drive in ice. Big plus for the writing life: you get to work at home. Big minus: the TV and the fridge are sitting right there, calling out to you. Dumping even five pounds a month may turn out to be tougher than I thought.

To help me stay on track, I’ve got one of those desktop-sized calendars with my monthly goals and deadlines on it, propped up where I can’t ignore it. This week I want to finish the first draft of my WIP and start formatting that porn story. By the end of January either one or both should be in submittable form, and I should have a draft of something else under way. That one I want to have ready to sub to a publisher by the end of February. And so forth.

QUICK SIDE NOTE: Office supply departments are getting skimpy in the big stores like WalMart and KMart, so I went to a couple office supply stores to price those big calendars. The cheapest I could find was $8. Others were close to $20. Screw that. I found a large sketch pad at the dollar store and made my own with colored markers. Take that, Office Max!

I’m hoping these deadlines and highly-visible reminders help me deal with my procrastination. Recall, if you will, my methods for making a million dollars: either get a million people to each give you a dollar, or come up with a million items to sell for a dollar each. I’m using a combination of the two. My overall goal is a minimum of twelve books/stories out, one a month, and hope that generates some income. Definitely need to get over the procrastination.

It always helps to have some kind of consequence for missing deadlines. In the working world, it’s called getting canned. For those of us striving to be self-employed, it’s known as homelessness. The money I’ve been living on for the last couple years is starting to run low, so I need to step up my game and get serious about this writing thing. It’s either that or look for a job, and prospects aren’t too numerous in my neck of the woods. I’d move in with and mooch off my brother, but I don’t like my sister-in-law.

Besides, Stray Kitty’s resolution appears to be “eat more.” Half a can for breakfast isn’t enough for him now. He sticks around for seconds. Then he comes back in the afternoon for a snack. Talk about a moocher. Of course he’s a cat, so he’s entitled. So I have to work harder in 2015. I’ve got a mooching stray who won’t even let me pet him to support. It’s like having a kid or a boyfriend, just without all the basketball.

I realize this is Thursday, but I’m typing these words on Tuesday so I can schedule the blog to post New Year’s Day, when the library’s closed. I thought I’d get a jump on the New Year and start the New Week on Sunday, but … well, things got in the way. I’m already running behind. I’ll see about catching up on New Year’s Eve, provided I can stay up until midnight. Maybe I can teach Stray Kitty to type. Make him earn his cat food. There’s a resolution for you. Happy New Year!

Coming Attractions

Christmas already? Yep, next week this time it’ll be here. Hope you’ve got all your shopping done. I mailed my cards out the other week. Let’s see who responds. So far I’ve only gotten return cards from the people I was going to drop from my list. Next year I’ll mail out my cards on the 22nd so everybody has to scramble. Ain’t I a stinker?

I probably won’t be here next Thursday. For starters, it’s Christmas. Nobody goes on the Internet on Christmas. For another, almost everything’s closed, and since I still don’t have home WiFi I doubt if I’ll be able to find a place to set up and post. Lancaster County’s libraries are shutting down for both Wednesday and Thursday, in addition to the Ephrata Library being closed on Fridays. That’s three days I have to hunt for someplace to check my email. Therefore, screw it, says I. I’ll just find a funny picture on Google Images and schedule the blog to self-post Thursday morning. I myself probably won’t even leave the house. I’ve got gift books to read and eggnog to drink. If I’m lucky, some channel will run Die Hard, my favorite Christmas movie. Or maybe the library has the DVD. I’ll have to check before they close.

And why don’t I have home Internet yet? Because I had to use the money to buy mandated health insurance for 2015, or pay the massive penalties. Thanks for nothing, Affordable Health Care Act. I think I’ll get sick next year, just to spite the government. I wonder if hospitals have free Internet access?

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That’s Christmas. The library’s following the same shutdown schedule for New Year’s, but somehow that doesn’t seem quite as bad. For one thing, McDonald’s is open on New Year’s Day, so I can post my blog and enjoy my first Sausage McMuffin of the year. A friend of mine down in Valley Forge used to hold a New Year’s party, but she stopped around a decade ago. Since then I’ve been able to get a full night’s sleep (no more long drives home at 2 in the morning) so I’m no longer a zombie on New Year’s Day. I don’t even think I can stay up that late any more. Once you turn the corner of 40, all those new years start to pile up.

If I knew I’d be awake, I’d drive up to Falmouth (it’s near Three Mile Island. Get out your maps.) and watch them lower the goat from the flagpole. Stop your outraged protests. The goat’s fake. Here in my corner of Pennsylvania they drop all sorts of stuff, like red roses and white roses and Lebanon bolognas and giant M&Ms and a Hershey Kiss and a wrench (Mechanicsburg) and strawberries and fun things like that. Falmouth is known for its annual goat races, so they drop a goat. About the only place that doesn’t drop anything is Ephrata, so I have to go out of town. Looks like I’ll have to go out of town for Internet. Maybe it’s time to move?

Again, I’m not sure if anyone bothers to go on the Net or read blogs on a holiday, so I’ll have to decide whether I want to bother posting or not. Let me see if I can come up with a topic. I can always postpone it until Friday, when the Lititz Library will be open and people’s eyes will be properly focusing again. I could write about the perils of sleep deprivation. Sound good to you?

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New Year’s is when I usually make resolutions that I break within a week. This year I’m going to make an effort and attempt to send out at least one sub a month. Because I’m not that fast of a writer, I’m going to cheat and finish some manuscripts I already have started. I’m including self-publishing in this, so if I end up self-pubbing twelve porn stories that’ll satisfy conditions. Only things I might get paid for count. No more free reads from me in 2015.

First up will either be the porn story I never got a cover for, or The Mountain Lion King. Somehow I screwed up and actually worked on it, and now the first draft’s almost done. How’d that happen? One to two pages a day every day, that’s how. Slow and steady, people. That’s how it’s done. Once I edit, polish and type it up I’ll be sending it out to the group to make sure I have all the facts in our “universe” straight, and then it’s wrestle with formatting. If I can pick up the pace, it may be out by the end of January. I want to get a Talbot’s Peak story on the market fast—well, fast for me—to take advantage of any good press generated by Love to the Rescue. We’re starting to build a fan base. We’d better produce.

Right now it looks like the book after that will be a M/M shapeshifter story for Siren. Or vampire cowboys. Or porn. The year hasn’t even started yet. These things are still subject to change.

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Finally, Stray Kitty’s got company. My neighbors across the street have an indoor/outdoor cat who’s started coming around. Peanut’s friendly as all get out when you’re in his yard and his people are there. Once he steps off his turf he might as well be feral. But that was before. Recently he’s started coming up to me in my yard. That’s probably my fault. I made the mistake of giving him some dry food once. Now I’m his bestest buddy. Stray Kitty is not at all happy. The other morning I heard noise on the porch and there was Stray Kitty scrunched up by the door and Peanut prowling around the steps. I had to feed both of them, with separate dishes at opposite ends of the porch while making sure each cat had a clear escape route, just in case. At least Peanut lets me pet him. I don’t even have pets of my own. I should get a dog. And how is your holiday going?

Ick!

It wasn’t my fault, not entirely. I have no sense of smell. I also had mice. I kept finding the little poopy evidence under the stink, not to mention those big craters chewed out of my bananas in the morning. Why I didn’t put out traps, I don’t know. Never got around to it. Mostly, I think it’s that awful anticipation when you know you’ve set a mousetrap. You keep waiting for that fatal SNAP. So I moved the bananas out of reach and secured my trash and cleaned up under the sink and hoped the lack of food would drive Mickey to go elsewhere.

Which he did, after a fashion. I was only cleaning the space directly under the sink. I wasn’t looking in the opposite corner, where I don’t have anything stored. The other day I finally checked back there and found my roommate, dead. I guess my plan worked and he starved or something. He’d been under there long enough to dessicate. I didn’t know. I couldn’t smell him. I picked him up with a paper towel and put him in a plastic bag and put the plastic bag outside to wait for trash day. I also found where he and his buddies had been getting in and plugged it up. No signs of poopies since, so maybe the problem’s solved.

So where was Stray Kitty during all of this? Outside. The mouse was inside. I can’t coax Kitty into the house, so he was no help in this case. Anyway, he knows I’ll present him with a plate of food if he shows up at my door, so why should he bother hunting? The other day a squirrel cursed him out and he just lay there and blinked at it. It’s the stray cat version of government assistance. Work that system, Kitty!

As for me, I should have somebody with a working nose come in and sniff around my house, just in case. I’ve had skunks living under the house and wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t seen them. Can anybody recommend a good air freshener?

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The above story illustrates what happens when you’re on your own. After awhile you get blasé about stuff like skunks and mummified mice and spiders or any kind of bug. Maybe not silverfish and centipedes so much. Those things are just shudder-inducing. But shriek-inducing? Not any more. My days of shrieking over bugs ended a long time ago, if I ever even had those days. I don’t like spiders or the creepier bugs and I sure as hell don’t want them on me. But I just brush them off and maybe swear a bit. High-pitched screaming? Nah.

I don’t know if it’s inborn or what. People just don’t like anything has more than four legs. I think that’s why men were invented, so women wouldn’t have to get close enough to a bug to kill it. What do you do if a man’s not around? That’s why the broom was invented. I’ve got one specifically for cobwebs and crawly things on the ceiling. It’s not like I do housework or anything.

Anyway, men aren’t always such a help. When the family dog would get sick and yark on the rug, my dad would leave the room. All of a sudden she was my dog. Then, while I was cleaning it up, he’d make retching noises and laugh. Thanks, Dad, major male role model during my formative years. Is it any wonder I’m single?

And I’ll tell ya, I absolutely hate it when I’m sitting on the hopper and spot a spider climbing up the wall or a silverfish on the curtain. Being otherwise occupied, there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to sit there and glower at them and mutter, “Just stay there, goddammit,” until I’m done. Then it’s whip out the toilet paper and flush the buggers to Hell. At least there’s a measure of satisfaction.

That’s the way you deal with bugs. Kleenex is one of the best inventions ever. If the bugs are over a certain size, better get out the shoe. Then mop up with the Kleenex. Then compulsively wash your hands for at least a minute. Or maybe that’s just me.

For dead mice I recommend a paper towel or rubber gloves. Back in my other house, I used to find dead bats in the attic. I used a dustpan for those. I’ve never had to dispose of a dead rat. I suspect I’d use the dustpan or gloves for that, depending on its state of juicyness. Anything larger than that, call a neighbor or wildlife control. No reason you have to do everything.

If all else fails, get a man. Or a cat. Both will sit on the couch and stare at you screaming at that spider on the wall or that mouse on the counter, and neither will get up to help. They’ll just ask for another beer or another plate of cat food. If Stray Kitty ever demands a beer, I’m going to chuck a mouse at him.

Ye Olde Randome Stuffe

I’m going in a bunch of directions today, because none of the stuff I’m reporting on can make a full blog on its own. Together, though, they should make up an entry long enough that you’ll figure you’re getting your money’s worth. Wait a minute, this is free. Yeah well.

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Freedom of speech was fun while it lasted. The other day I tried to get onto my publisher’s website and discovered the library system’s onerous content filter is back in operation. Once again the system is determined to protect my innocent eyes from lascivious content, including the smutty books I myself wrote. I didn’t check, but I’m pretty sure the filter still allows people onto the site that shows you how to make pipe bombs. So sex is verboten but acts of terrorism are fine. Glad to see Lancaster County’s priorities are firmly in order.

This couldn’t come at a worse time, because—drum roll—I sold that book I was working on! It’s the smuttiest of smut, with a dominant woman who buys a pair of slaves for, um, personal entertainment. You know, juggling and card tricks and stuff. Hey, kids could be reading this. Gotta watch that content filter.

Anyway, I sent it out last Thursday evening and got the acceptance email on Tuesday. Siren’s nice in that regard; they don’t make you wait months and months for a reply. Some publishers don’t respond at all. “If you don’t hear from us, we’re not interested.” Yeah, well, you won’t be hearing from me again, because I’m not interested in you. I can publish books on my own now. Or I’ll be able to once I learn how. I think I’ll write straight-up porn and self-publish on Amazon, which skates right by the library’s content filter and has all sorts of nasty stuff right out there in the open for everyone to see. So there.

I wish I knew why descriptions of adult fictional characters enjoying themselves get so many people in a tizzy. And don’t try to tell me, “We must protect the children!” The children aren’t going anywhere near these sites. They’re playing video games that let them blow stuff up and save the world from the zombie apocalypse. You know, practical life skills. You keep your hands to yourselves, you zombie menaces! We’re watching you!

# # #

Having finished a book, I’m now faced with the usual problem of having to start another one. Looks like the winner this time around will be a Talbot’s Peak book, which means self-pubbing because not all the characters or concepts are mine. I was able to bypass that with Jessalina’s Pets because even though the initial post appeared on Shapeshifter Seductions, it’s not set in our fictional town and doesn’t use any characters created by anyone else. Ditto for one of the M/Ms I’ve got on the back burner. I transported the main characters to Philadelphia and created a whole new background and supporting cast. I can’t do that with this one. Better familiarize myself with formatting.

I’m not that concerned with the text of the book. It’s the cover that’s got me worried. In spite of working in the typesetting industry off and on for several years, I don’t know the first thing about fonts and typography and Photoshop and creating a cover. I’ll probably have to pay somebody to do that. This is why I’m still subbing to regular publishers. I’m just here to write the book. Let someone else worry about all the technical crap. That’s what they’re gobbling down half the royalties for. Dammit, I knew I should have taken art classes when I was in school.

I wonder if I have Photoshop on the laptop? I’ve got a ton of programs just sitting on the hard drive that I never even look at because I bought this for Internet and email and to serve as a typewriter. I could probably be a publisher if I knew how to work this stuff. Maybe I can teach myself. That’s what the library’s for. It isn’t for researching erotica publishers any more, that’s for damn sure.

# # #

Let’s start the learning curve by attempting to make a link. If I did this right, you should be able to reach the blog post that became Jessalina’s Pets by clicking here. If I didn’t, it’s at October 9, 2013. I’m going to miss paper when it finally goes out of fashion, even though typing on a computer is so much faster and easier. And nobody cares if you make mistakes because you can correct it on screen. I guess that guy from the Monkeys, whose mother invented Wite-Out, doesn’t get royalties any more. Them’s the breaks, fella. Time marches on.

# # #

I put food out for Stray Kitty this morning and he let it sit again. A neighbor told me he doesn’t like fish, and this had tuna in it. Talk about picky. I hope he likes the taste of no food. I’m sure somebody else will slip him something, or else he’ll catch a bird or a squirrel. We know he’s not fishing in the creek. And I’ve reached a decent word count, so we’ll wrap on this finicky note. See you next week!

Loose Ends

As of this writing, I’m just about done with the final read through of my latest book. Some time later today I’ll be sending it off to market. Will it sell? Will it bounce? Will I tear out the rest of my hair while I’m waiting? Watch this space.

You’d think by now I’d be used to waiting. I submitted a book to Harper Voyager’s last open call, back in October 2012. A little over a year later I got the rejection letter. Some poor folks are still waiting for word. For their sakes, I hope the word’s good. I sent the same book to another SF publisher’s open call in December 2013. So far the wait on that one is six months and counting. Welcome to the life of a writer.

I’m beginning to see the appeal of self-publishing. You write your book, polish it up, get yourself some cover art, upload it and you’re good to go. If you want to publish another book the next day, you can. Yes, you have to deal with the editing and covers and promo and all the other stuff publishers do, but for some folks cutting out the wait time is worth it. Higher royalty percentages and monthly royalty payments only sweeten the pot.

I may be dealing with this shortly. With one book off to market, I need to go to work on something else. One of those somethings is a Shapeshifter Seductions novel that I’ll have to self-publish, for a number of legal and moral reasons I detailed in a previous blog. If and when I finish the thing, I’ll be sure to detail the journey here. Forget sales. I need ideas for blog posts.

This is what most writers do while we’re waiting to hear back from publishers: we write another book. Or watch TV. I get a lot of inspiration from TV, so I can call it research. Wonder if I can deduct that on my taxes?

# # #

For those of you worried about Stray Kitty, stop. He’s slimmed down a bit since I stopped putting the bowls out, but his pickiness hasn’t changed. The other day he showed up at the door so I gave him a can of food. Fifteen minutes later I went out to get the dish. The food was still there. So was Stray Kitty. He sat there and waited for another ten minutes until I finally got rid of the offending food and gave him another can. He ate that one. The next day he didn’t show up at all. I guess he found better food elsewhere.

Keep in mind Stray Kitty lives on the street and has no food bowl to go home to. No home, for that matter. This is an animal I’ve observed eating dead cicadas. And he expects me to cater to his taste buds? I’ve come to the conclusion he was some poor woman’s lazy mooch of a boyfriend in a previous life. Karma finally put him in the proper body. Cats have it great, even strays.

# # #

Just remembered another drawback to traditional publishing: the dreaded query letter. I usually lead off with what amounts to a blurb, to catch the editor’s interest. I’m sure you’ve read those blurbs on the backs of books; they help you decide whether or not to plunk down your money for it. Ever try writing one? It’s a stone bitch. Try boiling down a 1000-page novel into a single paragraph. Or a single sentence. Not that it can’t be done, and done well; Snakes on a Plane is pretty self-explanatory. But this is your story, your people and plot, and now you have to distill all those writing hours and all that blood and sweat on the page down to the attention-catching highlights. It’s a whole other mindset from fiction and a tough one to master. Some e-publishers want you to write your own back cover copy. Sales could depend on how well you do this. Can’t we just write the damn book and be done with it?

Ditto for the synopsis. Let’s see you scrunch your startling plot twists and brilliant characterization into a 300-word overview. What do you put in to make it sound exciting, and sellable? How much should be left out? Doing a synopsis for a romance might be a little easier. You don’t have to mention all the sex scenes. The genre makes those a given. Just synopsize the rest of the plot and you’ll be fine.

I’ll bet writing synopses for porn is incredibly easy. “Jill meets Marcus at a party. They go back to his place and have sex for 5000 words. Then Marcus’s roommate Ramon shows up and they break out the handcuffs.” Hey, I think I’ve got my next story. Self-publishing, here I come!

Civil Disobedience, TV Predictions, and What the Hell's That in My Toothpaste?

I just finished editing a draft, so scattershot entry this week. We’ll start with an update on Stray Kitty. The Borough says I can’t legally feed him any more. I say, what the Borough doesn’t know won’t hurt it. I gave the bowls and the cat food away to a neighbor with indoor pets. That doesn’t mean SK’s going without. I still keep a couple cans of Fancy Feast on hand. If I see him or if he comes to the door, he gets fed. I give him about fifteen minutes and then bring the dish in. No evidence, no fines.

I recently learned my other neighbor who was feeding him has similarly gone on the sly. She puts food out around 5:30 am and takes the dishes in around 7. If the word has spread as I think it has, I’m sure anyone else who’s been feeding cats is also taking precautions. I don’t see Stray Kitty as often as I used to, but I notice he doesn’t seem to have lost any weight.

I haven’t seen the big gray tabby since I stopped putting the bowls out. He was fending for himself long before I started offering food, so I’m not worried about him. Maybe when next winter rolls around I’ll look into finding some outfit that’ll catch the kitties and rehabilitate them or relocate them to a better environment. Then we won’t have to defy the local government.

I haven’t seen any skunks around yet. I’m not feeding them either. They’re on their own.

# # #

Supernatural wrapped up its ninth season Tuesday night, and I’m proud to announce I successfully predicted the big twist cliffhanger (SPOILER ALERT): Dean dies and is resurrected as a demon. I’ve been hoping for Evil Dean as the Season 10 big bad for some time now. They have 23 episodes to get through next year, so we’ll see how long this lasts.

Here’s how I’d write it: we need some kind of plot to take up time, so what the hell, let’s spring Michael and Lucifer from their cage in Hell. Battling them should take up most of the season. Then towards the end Sam cures his brother (a “demon cure” was introduced back in Season 8), which completes the trials (also introduced in Season 8) and closes the gates of Hell. That would be the perfect way to wrap up the series, if that’s the way they’re headed. Guess it’ll depend on the ratings. The actors have said they’re willing to continue for as long as the show stays on the air. It’s a steady, well-paying job in a bad economy. Can you blame them?

I’m not sure what they’ll do with Castiel. He lost his grace in the Season 8 finale and became human, then stole another angel’s grace in Season 9 and powered up again. Now that grace is fading, which could kill him. Unless he finds another one, or recovers his own. He might be forced into vampirism, stealing grace from other angels to keep himself alive. Maybe he’s the one who frees Mike and Luci, hoping to suck up their graces. Or maybe he’ll explode again. He does that a lot.

Next season could be the end of the line for my favorite show. I’d better start writing now, and pile up ideas while it’s still on. The book I just finished is the latest in a string of works inspired by the show. What am I going to do when it’s gone? I may have to look for a job.

# # #

The other day I bought toothpaste, and not my usual brand. This one was on sale, and is designed for us older folks with sensitive gums and thinner enamel. The first thing I noticed was a difference in taste. The old farts’ toothpaste doesn’t taste as good as the cool kids’ toothpaste. Why not?

Fearing the worst, I dug up the old tube and checked the ingredients. That’s where I found this beauty: “sodium saccharin.” Say what? Isn’t sodium salt? Isn’t saccharin a type of sweetener? That’s right, folks, your toothpaste is designed to appeal to your sweet and salty taste buds. This is so you don’t object to putting it in your mouth twice a day. I hope the fluoride cancels out any negative side effects.

Here are the “inactive ingredients” you get in your average tube of Colgate: water, hydrated silica (isn’t that wet sand?), glycerin, sorbitol, PVM/MA copolymer (sounds like a building material), sodium laurel sulfate, cellulose gum, flavor (type not specified; mint?), sodium hydroxide, propylene glycol, carrageenan (Huh? Whuzzat?), sodium saccharin, titanium hydroxide. Quite the chemical laundry list there. Happy Googling.

The question also arises as to why, if soft bristle toothbrushes are the only ones you should use, manufacturers even bother to make toothbrushes with hard bristles. Why not make all soft ones? Somebody at a dental convention once asked this question of a toothbrush manufacturer, and never quite got a straight answer. Maybe the hard bristles are for scrubbing out toilets. Maybe that’s what the carrageenan is for.

Isn’t there a leaf you can chew that does the same thing? What did Native Americans do?

I’d like to point out that nothing on that list prevented me from needing a root canal a couple of months ago. So to hell with toothpaste. I’m going back to writing like mad while Supernatural is still on the air. Enjoy your Memorial Day!