Category: Uncategorized

Look, we’ve talked here before about how the lockdown affected people. I think it was part of the reason the left was so insistent on the lockdown, and why they still don’t want it to end.

People are not going out and seeing other people, catching snatches of conversation, seeing the expression in people’s faces. Instead, they’re relying for all their news on an increasingly more deranged MSM and an increasingly stranger social media. (Some of the banned words on FB don’t even make any sense.)

Even I who am mostly anti-social but rely on my one day out a week, and who haven’t been getting it in far too long (do you know how hard it is to schedule things like the zoo ahead of time when we’re also in the middle of various things like the Great Office Move of 20, and don’t know what crisis will happen next?) am feeling cranky and impatient and, frankly, horrified over the bilge being thrown at us by all these megaphones.

Look, it’s nothing new. I had a preview of this in writing circles last decade. These people really, really really treat Marxism as a religion and view their inevitable ascendancy as set in stone. The future will approve of them! Young people are all revolutionaries!

This is all crap. Fables. It’s a Christian heresy, but frankly the Cathars and all the other early Christian heretics are looking on in awe, at how little it takes to get a heresy going these days.

Part of the problem is that the cult has started being disproven. If you read about how cults fall apart, members become more strident and insane and often homicidal or suicidal.  This is what we’re seeing. 2016 was the discomfirmation of prophecy for them. And they can’t handle it. It’s like the day for the end of the world was set, and then no UFOs showed up to blast away the heretics.

All we’ve seen since then is a meltdown because they can’t abandon the stuff they’ve believed all this time. They’ll be left without an identity if they do. On the other hand, they keep raising the ante, and nothing goes the way they planned.

And that last is what you should remember.

You see, there are generations in revolutions. It is probably the reason the USSR disintegrated when it did.

When the philosophy animating the revolution or the revolutionaries, at least, is completely at odds with the way reality actually works, corrosion sets in.

The revolutionaries that seize power have to be sane enough and in enough contact with reality to seize it. It doesn’t matter if those revolutionaries seize power with an AK or by pretending to be completely average people until they have some power over institutions.

But once they are in power, they see preserving the revolution — the ideological bend of their change — as more important than anything else. Because if they lose power, everything they did was for naught, and they’ll not only fail but be exposed as failures.

So they hire mostly for ideological compliance. These people won’t be as competent as they are, but then they also don’t need to seize power and/or slide in under cover. They have power now, and keeping power is easier than acquiring it.

But those second wave people hire third wave people. At this point no disguise is needed, and rewards come mostly for being vocal in support of the revolution — whatever the revolution and whatever it dictates.  This is how we get the arts and literature and news today, where you stare at the supposed journalists on TV, or throw the book against the wall, and wonder how in heck anyone can be that stupid and have that position in the public eye. You wonder how it’s possible for people to actually produce movies that make no sense whatsoever and aren’t even fun to watch. You wonder about someone who was a candidate for vice-president and who is not — unlike Biden — obviously senile, but who says America invented slavery.

The point is, by generation 3 these people are — to be charitable — ass clowns, for whom mouthing the cult chants is the source of all that’s good.  They don’t really get what they’re supposed to do — note editors thinking their job is to “educate” the public — or what they’re there for. They just know the slogans.

They manage to have careers, and pass for normal and even stellar human beings, so long as they have a captive (or in the case of the US, complicit) press that covers up all their issues and makes their every little achievement sound wonderful.

And yes, the people who are in charge of most things right now are third generation, since the left took over most positions of power in education, entertainment, news reporting and even government bureaucracy.  Which is why we have people like Biden who were never that competent, and who were, to put it mildly corrupt, but who manage to have a life of power and influence.

It’s also why the corruption now starting to come out, the bloody stupid stuff that happened under the Obama administration isn’t surprising. Infuriating, yes, but not surprising…. except perhaps for the utter and absolute pants-on-head craziness of the things they did and tried to do.

It’s like the Russia! Russia! Russia!  which had nothing at its back. The only reason the left could hope to win that coup was their belief that the media could convince us all they were right.  And they tried…. oh, boy they tried.

But the internet, and people being able to communicate and realizing they weren’t alone, and that, yeah, the mainstream narrative really was crazy, had long since eroded their Media-created shield of invincibility.

Take a deep breath. I know it’s been insane.  I know we went from fake scandal to fake crisis, ad nauseum, and it’s stupid and you just want it to stop. I mean, it started right after the 16 elections with attempts to “contest” them that made no sense.

But what you have to remember is that none of those attempts worked.

And they couldn’t work, no matter what the media told you. Their play was on the hope Trump would get embarrassed and quit. Which tells you how out of touch with reality they are.

This latest insanity? It’s not even the third generation. The would be revolutionaries are the kiddies that the people in power have been encouraging.  They are very pampered; most of them have no clue where money comes from; and they’ve been indoctrinated with nonsense since the cradle.

They are, in one word, pathetic.

While this is an attempt at the cultural revolution, remember that the people in the cultural revolution were first or at most second generation revolutionaries. They still knew what they were playing for. They’d seen violence against them.

This is not who we’re dealing with. We’re dealing with the unleashed tantrum of the last ten years of college insanity.

These people are cowards and mewling bullies. Yeah, they’ll attack as long as they’re convinced they have the upper hand.  But they really can’t take any resistance at all.

Am I saying the left is inoffensive?

Oh, hell no. They retain enough levers of power, and they have enough — more these last few months — audience in the media to cause a lot of havoc. And yes, like the rest of you I’m worried about vote fraud. 18 was crazy and blatant enough, with polls open for weeks afterwards, under an “emergency” order, until they got the result they wanted, for instance. The fraud in this upcoming election will be epic. It will also be visible. Very visible. And when you’re running a reject from the cast of the Walking Dead, I don’t think people are going to buy that he won, much less in a landslide.

Yeah, they can do a lot of damage, and not just by setting fire to things and beating people. They can seize the country, however briefly.

BUT–

But they can’t really seize it. Not all of it. And if they seize it they can’t run it. Not even for days.

They can’t win.

Yes, we can lose. But that’s if we give up and we inflict that wound on ourselves. I’d say that’s what the Wuflu panic and the lockdown were all about. Making people lost enough, confused enough to put up with that.

But we don’t have to. Just because they broke the fire alarm, it doesn’t mean the fire isn’t raging. Just because they force people to mouth agreement, doesn’t mean people agree.

There is immense rage building in this country, my friends.  Not the rage of kiddies on the streets, breaking things and hurting people; no. This is the rage of quiet, solid people, who work hard — if the shenanigans of the left haven’t destroyed their jobs — and just want to live a normal live, and who’ve been subjected to instability and insanity by a bunch of cultists.

They might not say anything — who really needs to have their spouse and kids attacked? — but they are angry.

And their anger, right now? Fights on the side of the freedom lovers.

Be not afraid. This is not the end. This is not even the end of the beginning.

This is not the time to despair.

Lift that torch high. You can always get the pitchforks later….

*I thought this was a good one for right now.  You might also – SAH*

There is a funny thing that happens, when you find out that everything you have ever known is a lie.

I’ve watched friends go through this when they found out they were adopted, or that their parents really weren’t their parents (well, okay, usually the father) or that their parents weren’t the people they thought they were (by which I mean, say, discovering that one of their parents had a criminal record, or even that their parents had never actually got married.)

I’ve never had a revelation of that magnitude, or that personal.  I’ve had a lot of small ones over the times, as I discovered that things like teachers’ interpretation of history were not “true.”  They were usually just someone’s interpretation, filtered through what was fashionable at the time: and given the time I was in school, that was usually Marxism.

Of when I started correlating things in my head and realized that things like Chariot of the Gods couldn’t be true.

All my revelations came in slowly, on a drip, and not on matters closely related to me.  This means that, though you could look at me and see where most of my opinions and interests (not all.  I’ve always been a bookish person) have changed since my early twenties, there was never a break, a moment where I wasn’t myself.  There was a continuum.  It just so happens that I started out as an indoctrinated socialist twerp, (even though I was always anti-communist, and suspicious of socialists, I didn’t realize how much of their philosophy permeated everything I was taught in school.  Heck, I’m still having these realizations and I’m past fifty), and ended up wherever I am now, I guess the party of “leave people alone, don’t hurt them and don’t take their stuff.”

Therefore there was never a period of acting out, rebelling against everything, and generally being a crazy woman.  My friends who had their reality “ripped” from under them and rebuilt, sometimes in minutes, usually had one of those periods: a “I’m going to go to India and learn Yoga” or “I’m now a Vegan and my assumed name is  zityhgmn, pronounced John.” And sometimes, btw, they would hysterically deny what they’d just found.

In the end, they returned to being more or less the people they were before.  But sometimes there were very odd years, there in the middle.

Why this is is important: mostly because it can help us understand what society is going through and what lies ahead.  It’s an imperfect analogy of course — all analogies are imperfect — mostly because people aren’t cultures.  And yet, if you kind of squint and abstract to the highest points, people and cultures are remarkably similar, though most cultures blame like crazy teen people, and some — I’m looking at you Europe — are remarkably emo, sitting in their rooms with the lights off, having bad relationships, and engaging in self-harm.

The point is that all cultures change all the time.  The idiots on both the left and the right who think culture is genetic have issues with this concept, but if cultures didn’t change, all the time, very gradually (just like people change all the time, very gradually) we’d all be hunting gathering and living in small family groups/tribes.  (Actually most of us wouldn’t exist.  The lifestyle wouldn’t support it.)

But some cultures change suddenly and traumatically.  What we did to Japan, ripping out everything they ever believed in, and substituting an arguably far less toxic (or at least dangerous) culture is one example.

This seems to have very weird effects, as it does in people.  On Japan, it seems to have had the effect of such civilizational loss of confidence that they might go extinct from lack of procreation.  If they don’t, at some point they’ll return to something like what they were before, though the details will be wildly different and integrate the change.

The same thing goes for WWI, which sort of ripped the ideas that Europe had of itself in itty bitty bits, and remade them as something else wholly different.  Europe is in that emo funk because of it, and exaggerates its crimes and embraces anything different, because everything different must be better.  It seems to be wearing off though — not very clear, yet, but there are rumbles — and if it does, it will be suddenly, as it is in people, and Europe will become more or less what it was before.  Maybe more so, in fact.  It might embrace previous versions of itself with a fervor it never had before, because the emo phase has been so bad for it.  If this does happen (and again, it already seems to be) there’s going to be a shock (and awe) heard around the world.

But the same thing applies to groups within a culture.  All of us, (except maybe the very young, here) started out living in a world where there was a single integrated media, and the media companies were more or less controlled (by choice, I want to emphasize) by a group who all thought the same, and who had become decidedly Marxist early on.

Since the entertainment companies were the same, the… lie, for lack of a better word (it wasn’t so much a lie because most of the people propagating it weren’t conscious of lying.  They were simply watching the world through a distorting political theory) came at everyone as a seamless whole.  For instance, the ideas that capitalism was inherently bad for people, or created mental illness, probably first dreamed up in USSR think-tanks, was propagated through slants on news, through story lines in movies and books and even through songs.  One of the times I remember seeing the story line was a soap opera where a worthy character who has done everything right kills himself for lack of money, and his son becomes a “righteous communist.”

This “unified voice” has started to break down.  In fact, the propagators of the “universal truth” that isn’t, are getting fairly drowned out, and, in their despair, sounding more and more obviously biased and crazy.

To most of us this is funny to watch, because we came of age under the unified lie, saw something that we couldn’t ignore and popped us out of it, and this led to little by little emerging from and rejecting the vision behind the lie.

It was so gradual that we changed without fracturing.

This isn’t true for people who are right now exposed to dissonant “truths” and consciously or not starting to realize there is no one thing “all right thinking people believe.”

A lot of the behavior we’re seeing right now is the result of that dissonance.  They’re starting to suspect everything they know is a lie, and most of them are embracing it with twice the fervor and also acting more than a little crazy.

Some of them are already in the advanced stages of this, and landing on the other side with their opinions flipped, but their behavior exactly the same, and just as tiring and annoying to sane people.

And some think their world is coming apart, don’t want to admit it and propagate myths of prison camps and genocide, just to justify their horrible feelings of anxiety that they can’t admit is based on the shattering of former beliefs.

This explains why it feels like everyone (including people most of us thought were sensible) seems to have lost their minds.

It doesn’t help to either get to the other side, or stop the crazy.  This thing is a process, and takes its time.  Also, the news is never going to be unified again (though many seem to want it) and the trickle will continue.  Only believe it or not, that trickle was too rapid for most of them.

We’re just going to have to let them scream and slam their room door till they come out of it.

But perhaps having a comparison and a handle to the situation will make it easier.

Be not afraid.  And carry on.

There is a Ray Bradbury story in which a woman lies dying in an upstairs room of her family home, while around her her family life goes on.

In the story he describes dying as resuming a dream which — presumably — was there before the birth.  The woman is trying to recall that dream and bring it to mind again.

I’m not dying — at least not that I know of — but this morning, while I did the absolutely essential stuff left undone because of painting and flooring this weekend, I found myself thinking of that story and of “resuming the dream.”

When I was first married, and lived with a book on my right hand while doing every day things, I tried to talk to my mother in law about books.  She said “Just wait till you have children. I too used to read all the time, then I had children.”  Years later, with toddlers around my ankles, she said “Wait till they go to school and you have all the stuff the school sends home to cope with.  Then you’ll know you no longer have time to read.”

Needless to say this never happened. When I was profoundly concussed, I read very slowly, but still read.  I also have been known to read either fanfic or comics through the times when I can’t cope with much mental strain. But I still read.

I claim no great virtue  for this. It’s entirely possible — almost sure, in fact, that reading is an addiction, akin to taking drugs. I do it because I can’t help doing it, not because of intellectual curiosity.  Perhaps it is how I cope with ADD. Because without something to anchor me, I get nothing done.

On the other hand something did slow down while I was raising the boys.  No. Not writing. Since I was first published and put under contract when Robert had just turned 6, I actually did more writing in the last 21 years than before.

No, what I let go was “the dreaming time.”

I might have talked about before — I’m sure I have, but I’m not going to look for the posts now — about how I coped with a highly sickly childhood (mostly because I was born premature I think, but who knows?  Like me, older son seems to have been born with Neanderthal ear canals, which means we catch ear infections at the drop of a hat.  He was a sturdy, busy little boy, but got horribly sick with ear infections often and without warning (Yes, we might have/should have put tubes in, but the ear canals are so peculiar it took a recent visit of his to a specialist to show that WOULD have been beneficial.  Probably would still be for me (I catch ear infections as a toddler does.) but each of the surgeries would run around 15k and both of us have more immediate priorities for our spending. Anyway, who knows how susceptible that rendered me to other stuff.)

Because, even though of course there were antibiotics when I was a kid, in the sixties, Portuguese society hadn’t adapted to them, I used to be isolated from every other kid (and adults not in the family) whenever I was ill.  That was how societies, pre-antibiotics, avoided contagion.

Before I could read, I spent a lot of time in the only bedroom in the house (which was my parents’ but dad traveled during the week, so I slept with mom. I don’t remember — if I ever knew — what arrangements they made when he was home over the weekend, and I was ill.

Sometimes I wonder how different I would be if my parents weren’t the sort of people who pay cash upfront.  I.e. I was born in their 10th year of marriage, but they still lived in the shotgun apartment made out of storage rooms on the bottom floor of grandma’s house to accommodate them on their hasty marriage.  The reason was simple: they were saving to build a house without mortgage.

This meant a myriad of little savings and pinchings, like buying meat scraps normally sold for dogs, and then making it into “11 things stew” (Stew with whatever she could find on sale. Mom’s joke being that it always took eleven things.  But you know, wilted veggies the grocer would just give away, or day old cornbread fried and added on top, or–) Weirdly none of this affected me, probably because mom really was adept at this sort of contriving.  That she insisted on cutting down my brother’s clothing for me DID affect me, because in Portugal at that time it wasn’t normal for girls to dress like scruffy boys.  But admittedly the scruffy was MY fault, and at any rare like the boy named Sue, I have a certain appreciation for what it did to my character.

But what affected my future self most was the fact that the bedroom in which I spent easily 8/10th of the year had no window.

I was — barring illness — a very active little girl. (Clumsy as heck, which means my activity mostly consisted of walking all over and finding things to make or do.) And have I mentioned ADHD? (Which at the time they had no name for.)

When well I would engage in RPGs of my own design (LARPing, really) which was difficult with only one person, but I played all the roles. And I rode my tricycle a LOT.  (That tricycle was a tour bus to exotic — any place not the village — locations, or a shuttle among the stars or a time travel machine.)  I also followed grandma around, because she did entertaining things.  I was rarely still and at rest.  In fact, when I calmed down, people worried I was getting sick.

Which brings us to….

When I was in bed, in a windowless room, with not much to do.

Sure, sometimes I had visitors, like my brother, who was very patient and read me stories.  (Even now in English, I still hear Uncle Remo’s tales  in his voice.)

And I had legos.  I remember building fantastic constructions all over the bed, though mom hated it, because sometimes pieces were forgotten under the covers.

Because I had inherited a lot of pieces, in disjointed sets, from brother and cousins, I actually didn’t know what any of them were supposed to be, so I used pieces that were designed for cars to build houses.  I built very odd looking cities, and trains, and then imagined the lives of the people who lived there.

Actually, imaginary people were most of my entertainment, without or without the help of legos.

On the bedside table of that long ago room, there was a little wooden mushroom house (I find it weird NO ONE in the family knows what happened to it, and I seem to be the only one who really remembers it.  Mom seems to, but she says she has no idea where it went.  And my brother doesn’t remember it at all. OTOH I don’t remember some things he’s been trying to trace from our childhood. Perhaps it’s a Mandela effect thing and we grew up in different parallel worlds?) with a black top, and a yellowish stem, on which someone had painted a little door and a window.

In fact, it was a box, of course, and I have no clue who thought to make it into a “house” or in fact, what crazy friend gave it to my parents.  I know it was a weeding gift, because I asked them where it had come from.  I also have no idea why mom kept it, except perhaps that because they were so poor they kept EVERYTHING.  I know it was in the bedroom because that was where mom put things she had no clue what to do with.

I remember imagining at length the people who lived in that little house and what their family life was like.  I imagined they only came out at night or when the room was empty.

In fact “tiny little people” who lived in various parts of my room became a constant thread in my imaginings until I realized you couldn’t have people that size and retain intelligence.  I’m glad I didn’t realize it earlier. It would have defeated my imaginings of tribes of little humans in the garden, battling the lizards and the snails. (Is this a universal human dream? It appeared so often in early SF/F)

Then there was “other worlds”.  These were both in space and “in other places.”  I never really had a concept of fantasy till my teens, when I read the first fantasy stories, but I had a concept of different times and parallel worlds, though I didn’t call the later that, and had no immediate explanation for them, again, till I read science fiction.

Because I had no window, I imagined one, and looked through it at other worlds, the imaginings sometimes so vivid it was hard to tell from reality.  And I imagined their ways of life, and their language.

Later, even though I had a window, I retained the dreaming habits.  We moved to the new house when I was six, and I was only really sickly for another two years.  Pre-puberty and puberty were good to me and I was fairly healthy (for me) until my mid- thirties. (I wonder if it means that the issues were always, at their root, auto-immune, as that seems to follow this pattern.)

And I started writing some of the worlds and the stories.

Yes, one of them — though a late one, in my late teens — was the DST world.  An earlier one was the multitude of worlds and the peculiar form of transport in what will hopefully become (if I live that long) a vast interweaving universe called Schrodinger Worlds.

Anyway, all this is in the name of: Recently I became aware that some of my friends who are very successful in indie publishing despite doing “everything wrong” as it were, are in fact writing worlds they dreamed of when they were very young.

Perhaps there is some special force to those worlds, some feeling of universal “must exist.”

I have recently finished The Pursuit of the Pankera (thank you for recommends) which deals, to an extent, with that very idea, the idea of tapping or linking with some great universal dream/existence.

Also, recently, my friend John Ringo made a joke about “Was that guy who dictated a book to me exaggerating the truth to make a good tale?”

The book he was talking about was The Last Centurion and I had in fact that morning, at breakfast (the poor man endures a lot) made a not quite in jest comment to my husband about whether the overreaction to Winnie the Flu was driven by a feeling that in a world “next door to ours” the “plague” was far stronger and more horrible?

I know John is not the only one to have this sense that a book was dictated to him. (Ask me about A Few Good Men, where I was metaphorically socmob — standing on the corner minding own business — when suddenly two bad dudes were in my head and telling me their story (If you don’t know what I’m referencing, it’s the studentdoc side and it’s very funny, at least when you’re not crying.))

It’s all very confusing, in that way things are confusing before they’re explained or fully understood.  But there seems to be some reality to these things “dreams are made on.”

And there seems to be a special force to much-dreamed (or occasionally dictated) fiction.  Not just in terms of “it seems to sell” — though I’m not an idiot, and I value accolades in the only form that matters — but in terms of “it must come through.”

Then there is the concept that some stories/dreams can only be told/brought to life by the right person.  I know, for instance, when I’m visited by someone else’s muse, but I’m often helpless to write it. (Though if 2020 hadn’t been so far a stone cold bitch, I’d already have started the book that John’s muse attacked me with, and sent it to him for his touch, so we can collaborate.  Yes, I’ve talked to him about it.) Most of the time it’s a matter of “I’d love to read that story, and I wish I were the right person to write it.”

So…. All this to say, I find myself standing now on the edge of maybe, perhaps, having interior silence (and exterior. The house being quieter helps) enough to restart the dreaming.

And like Bradbury’s character I pause and thing “Now, where was I?”

 

 

Book Promo

*Note these are books sent to us by readers/frequenters of this blog.  Our bringing them to your attention does not imply that we’ve read them and/or endorse them, unless we specifically say so.  As with all such purchases, we recommend you download a sample and make sure it’s to your taste.  If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. I ALSO WISH TO REMIND OUR READERS THAT IF THEY WANT TO TIP THE BLOGGER WITHOUT SPENDING EXTRA MONEY, CLICKING TO AMAZON THROUGH ONE OF THE BOOK LINKS ON THE RIGHT, WILL GIVE US SOME AMOUNT OF MONEY FOR PURCHASES MADE IN THE NEXT 24HOURS, OR UNTIL YOU CLICK ANOTHER ASSOCIATE’S LINK. PLEASE CONSIDER CLICKING THROUGH ONE OF THOSE LINKS BEFORE SEARCHING FOR THAT SHED, BIG SCREEN TV, GAMING COMPUTER OR CONSERVATORY YOU WISH TO BUY. That helps defray my time cost of about 2 hours a day on the blog, time probably better spent on fiction. ;)*

FROM MARY CATELLI:  The Dragon’s Cottage

 

When the dragon does not come for the annual maiden to devour, the knight Theodore sets out for adventures, hoping to find what the dragon is doing.

He finds more than he thought he would.

FROM KEN LIZZI:  Warlord: Falchion’s Company Book Three

DEATH FROM ABOVE

Captain Falchion, of Falchion’s Company, has reached the pinnacle of the mercenary profession. But that only means the jobs become more challenging. When the Wagon Circle threatens invasion, Falchion finds himself leading the defense. Fighting a nomadic army of armored wagons is hard enough, but the Wagon Circle possesses a secret weapon: Griffons. Facing the Wagon Circle, the combined efforts of its sorceresses, and the missiles and fire bombs of griffon riders might be too much for Falchion. Does he truly want to be a Warlord?

Warlord concludes the Falchion’s Company series.

Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.

So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.

We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.

If you have questions, feel free to ask.

Your writing prompt this week is: Tooth

*For the previous chapters, please go here. These are posted first draft, as the brain dictates to the fingers which are remarkably stupid. Eventually it will be cleaned up and fixed just before page is made secret/taken down and the book is published. At that time I will take lists of typos or volunteers to proof read. For now, it’s written in a hurry, usually an hour before it goes up. And, let me remind you, it’s free – SAH*

*And this week, I’m sorry it’s so late (besides skipping the last week) but we’re engaged in the Great Office Move of 20.  Today we emptied my office and painted and killzeed the floor.  Tomorrow we install wood flooring. Wednesday, Dan moves his office in and next weekend we killzee and put flooring down in his current office.  After which, we move the household management office there AND we can then paint and killzee that office (Our cats never actually got in there, but the previous owner’s cat did) and put in wood floor.  After which I get to have an office again.  Yes, other than installing the flooring all of this is in the name of us working in the same floor during work hours. Meh. Deal. Okay, now for the chapter.-  SAH*

Comfort

It was dark and Albinia was tired.

They’d run madly through the forest, leaves and twigs poking up through her indoor slippers and catching at her gown.

And then she stumbled, and Lord Michael put out a hand to stop her falling.  for a moment they stayed like that in the dark.  She realized she couldn’t hear the sound of pursuit.  There was no way that wolf could be chasing them without making any sound.

“I don’t hear it,” Lord Michael said, with a kind of gulp, as if he were trying to get air in , as though he too were breathless after their run.

Albinia shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her, and said, “I don’t either. I don’t think it…. it is following us.”

For a while they stood.  She could hear him breathe, but all she could think of was how much her legs hurt.

“We…. should find a place to…. spend the night, until the light comes up.”

She had a moment of fear, wondering whether the light would come up.  Her heart thumping, she wondered if they were in some unnatural land, where the light would never come, day never break.

“I believe it’s just night time,” Lord Michael said, his voice hesitant. “I can’t …. be absolutely sure, but it doesn’t feel like a place of night.” He sounded very tired too, and not just physically.  “Perhaps…. He said, we can make a bed of leaves or–”

He stopped because there was a sound like a child screaming.  his hand which had let go of her arm came back again, and held her wrist. Albinia wondered if it was meant to reassure her, or if he was seeking reassurance.

The cry sounded again.

Memories of early childhood when they’d visited Albinia’s grandmother who had a lake filled with swans came to Albinia, and she said in relief, “It’s a swan.”

The cry echoed again, and then Albinia felt a beak against her leg.  It wasn’t done hard or viciously, but more as though calling her attention.  And then she heard the sound again and Lord Michael said, “Ow.”

She felt him move power, and the light came on again, a witchlight, soft in glow.  Albinia knew how to do it, of course, but she also had been taught not to use it unless in absolute necessity because it used a high level of power and would make you very tired. By rights Lord Michael should not be able to bring the light up, as tired as he sounded before he did.

But the light was enough to see a very large swan.  It seemed completely unsurprised by the sudden light, and in fact — though it was impossible for a swan to do such a thing — Albinia had the impression it was smiling.

It flew near the ground, ahead of them, a short flight, then stopped and waited.

“I think it wants us to follow it?” Lord Michael said.
Albinia forebore to say “Obviously.”

“I sense no evil from it.”

Albinia also didn’t, but all she did was nod, and the two of them followed the swan.  After a while, through the trees ahead they saw a sort of glow.

“If it’s a spun sugar cottage remember how the story ends,” she said, mock-sternly, mostly to distract herself from her own fear.

“This is not fairyland,” Lord Michael said. His voice sounded very odd.

The swan led them nearer the light.  As they got close they realized it was the tower they’d seen from a distance,a ndn the light shone through a window on the bottom floor.

The swan opened the door. Albinia was sure of it, though she couldn’t see how.

It went in, and they followed it.  But when got in, it was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, they were in a tidy room, with a fire burning.  On the table there was a warm pot of soup, and a loaf of bread.  There were two beds made up, one on either side of the room.  Candles burned on candlesticks on the table.

Albinia hesitated.  “You are sure this is not fairyland?” she asked Lord Michael.

“Absolutely,” he said.  “I was kidnapped into it, you see.”  He said it very simply, like he might say that he’d spent some time at a country estate. “And had to be rescued.  I know fairyland.”

“This is good, because I am very hungry,” Albinia said, having just realized it when she smelled the soup.  It smelled like the beef vegetable soup her brothers used to make.

She realized, at the last moment, that there were three bowls set out on the table.  And then she heard light steps down stairs, a door opened next to the fireplace and a familiar voice say, “Al, I’m so sorry. I had to got put clothes on, or it would be quite shocking to receive you.”

Standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a brown suit, with white shirt and neatly tied cravat was a young man four years older than her.  She knew this precisely because they shared a birthday.

“Geoffrey!” she said, and ran into her youngest brother’s arms.

 

 

 

 

This has been a year of goodbyes, most expected and welcomed — I mean, I’m going to miss older son and his wife, but it was time for them to fly on their own — some expected but not welcomed — Euclid was at least a year old when we got him in November 2000, so we knew the time was coming — and some of them sock your gut out of the blue, like losing our car one fine Saturday afternoon, with no warning because a gasket seems to have disappeared.

Notice I include the car, not because I think it’s animated — though one wonders sometimes, if some object that’s been really close to us for most of our life partakes some bit of the things it participated in — but because their loss or change over disrupts our basic pattern of life.

The first for us was the loss of the car — Old Blue — my birthday gift for my 35th birthday, back then an almost-new (almost for sure corporate fleet) blue expedition, which saw us from the-kids-in-car-seats to the kids rarely riding it, because they have their own cars and lives.  Which transported construction materials we should never have put in it, carried the fragiles through three moves, served us on weekend trips, and generally was as much a part of the Hoyt family as our pets.

Yes, we knew a 20 something year old car would go soon. We were hoping for another year.  Or some warning. Or something. Instead, it stopped on the highway on the way to downtown Denver, and was suddenly empty of oil.  Starting it to move it to the side finished killing the engine.

We got some trade-in value when buying the new one, and as it was being taken away, the lines from the Cohen song “And now you’re gone, and now you’re gone, as if there never was a you” ran through my head.  Which surprised me, as did experiencing grief at the loss of a car.

But of course, it wasn’t the car. It was the loss of a bit of the kids’ growing up, and my memories.  You see, we move so much, that that car had most of the continuous memories of our raising the kids.

Even now, four months later, I look for it in the parking lot, before I go “Oh, right. Not that car anymore.”

Someone asked why we’re so fond of Pete’s Kitchen on Colfax which is, granted, just a greasy spoon. Well. Mostly because it’s another place where the memories of our life with the boys are unbroken. (Another place used to be the Embassy Suites in the tech center (because cheap on weekends) which younger son thought was “our house in Denver” when we lived in the Springs.  We still do the occasional writing weekend there, or did, up to 2 years ago, but they’ve remodeled and changed where stuff is in the common areas, so not the same at all.)

Then son moved away, and I can’t begin to say how happy I am for them. But it’s disruptive to a certain way of life.  Partly because the kids lingered so much, and because we LIKE them as adults, that they’re part of the pattern or our daily lives. So, you know, when I hit a plotting/story snag, I’d tell older son we needed to go for a midnight coffee at Pete’s.  The drive (used to be an hour and a half from the springs. From where we are now more like 20 minutes, which meant we lingered longer at the restaurant.)  Same as for reasons hard to describe, we got in the habit of going to the zoo when it was cold and rainy.

DIL was ridiculously indulgent of this, but of course, that’s gone. And new habits will have to come in in its place.  The fact that we couldn’t do “one last” as a goodbye and for old times’ sake, due to the ridiculous lockdown doesn’t help.

And yesterday we faced the fact something had to be done about poor Euclid.

To explain: about a year and a half ago, he became incontinent, or at least too impatient to get to the box.  When I got to the point I couldn’t live with it, we put him in a multi-level cage (like a boarding cage, with levels.) For a while that worked well, and we took him out and petted him a lot, usually while watching a british mystery or reading in the evening.

Then he seemed not to like being held as much, and we went to diapering him, and letting him roam.  VERY slowly.

He had bad arthritis, but the pain meds didn’t seem to dent it, so I mostly didn’t give them to him. He also had hyperthyroidism, which we controlled with meds, which had increased to double recently.  And yet, he was eating every hour, and still rail-thin.

I kept hoping he’d go in his sleep, but we weren’t that lucky.  And yet I hesitated to take him in for that last, sad trip, because he was still somewhat self aware, at least in flashes.  And he enjoyed toddling around in his diaper, coming up to rest his paws on my arm.

And I hate deciding this for them, without knowing if it’s what they’d choose. I can well imagine being that age, and just relishing each day, and people thinking I want to go.

What made it worse is that Euclid was the most…. submissive? Compliant? Cat we’ve ever had. We used to call him “The totally surrendered cat” so I was afraid of taking advantage of his good will, one way of another.

But he’d been crying in the night, for a long time. And there was PAIN in his eyes, if you know what I mean.

Last week, he just started peeing on EVERY shelf in his little cage.  Even though the box was RIGHT THERE.  I was cleaning those shelves twice a day.  Worse, he’d pee on his little sleeping blanket, and then sleep on it.

I had a long talk with the vet, and without pushing, she did her best to imply it was time. She said it was time six months ago.

Yesterday, I still tried to balk it. And then I WATCHED him pee on his food.  And then eat it.  And I realized he was demented, for whatever that means for cats.  And so we kept that awful appointment.

And those lines went through my head again “And now you’re gone….”

So, because I’m afraid of forgetting, I thought I’d write some things about Euclid. Because there was a Euclid, and it’s important to remember. Because he was part of us, and us of him. Also he’s the only cat we ever acquired through psychic control on his part….

So November 2000, for younger son’s 6th birthday, we took him out to a movie.  We left our cat, Pete, on the front porch, sunning himself on a blanket. We knew he wasn’t going anywhere, because he was extremely hyperthyroidal. We were letting him get the meds out of his system and were scheduled to take him in for radio iodine therapy.

We came home and he was gone.  After three days of searching, we found a neighbor (which the vet refused to identify) had taken him to a vet and had him euthanized. He was 13, and the first cat we lost.

During the search we’d gone to the humane society and saw a cat who looked just like him from the back. From the front, he was more apple headed and had the most amazing green-blue eyes.

Dan had seen him and — because we were not wise to the ways of the humane society — though he had an owner and would be picked up (the cage said “Not available for adoption. Just waiting for my owner.” which is what they always said the first 2 weeks, but we didn’t know that.) Which means when my depression over Pete’s death wouldn’t lift, he took me to see this cat, in the hopes it would cheer me up.

He was now available for adoption but more interestingly, he acted like he knew us, and was very vocal at us.  So…. we went to the get acquainted room, and he walked all over us.  We also noticed he was sneezing.

Dan told me we COULDN’T get him, because that would make six cats, and surely someone would adopt such a friendly boy, even if he was black.  And we were past Halloween, so probably not at risk.

But on the way out we stopped by the front, told them he had kennel cough, and we’d pay for the treatment. They said not a problem, they’d take care of it.

Only ALL night I dreamed of him. Not in any bad way, just I dreamed of him asleep on our sofas, walking around our house, etc.

And I woke up with a sense of urgency.  I had his case # and was on the phone to the humane society as soon as they opened.  They told me he was scheduled for euthanasia in 20 minutes….  You see, they don’t treat colds in shelter cats. They just put them down.

Which is why Dan came into the kitchen and I was yelling into the phone that was our cat who just got lose, and if they put him down we’d sue them for their backteeth, and–  I remember his expression and sigh, and the “oh, hell” before he went to put clothes on.

On the way out we bought a large dog kennel, to keep him confined and away from the geriatric cats, while he recovered, and we picked him up. (And endured a lecture about letting him roam, etc.)

We named him on the way home.  And he became the NICEST cat we’ve ever had.

It’s like he knew we had saved him.  I got him to hiss at me ONCE, shortly after 9/11 when we were mindlessly watching whatever came on TV.  More out of distraction than on purpose, I’d been tickling his paw pads for an hour.  He let out a hiss, then licked my hands to show he didn’t mean it.

He used to sit on the arm of my armchair in the family room, and then slowly migrate till he ws completely on my boobs. He did the same to DIL. Very slowly and carefully.  Led DIL to nickname him “The world’s most polite molester.”

Up till the end, he let us position him, and do with him as we wanted.  We never dressed our cats up as anything, but Euclid would have let us, and endured it purring, just happy to be with his people.

I’d say he answered to his name, but that’s not quite true.  Greebo answers to his name. Euclid answered to the name of any of our cats, on the premise that three of them were (two are) black and we weren’t very bright, since I often called him the other cats names, so if he came he might get petted before we realized our mistake.

I didn’t realize how bad things had got until I looked for a photo of him (we don’t have many. Black cat, you know?) and realized how beautiful and glossy he used to look.

Yesterday he was a wreck of a cat, thin and scruffy.  And yet, I hope I did the right thing, and that he forgives me.  And he left a Euclid-shaped hole in our hearts.

I read somewhere years ago, the year we got our first baby and moved three times, that a move puts a great strain on you, as great as a divorce. Any disruption of routine apparently upsets the monkey brain, and you’re at risk for heart attack and stroke.

Well…. 2020 isn’t done with us, and I hope we survive it.

Some changes are good, some are bad, and some are breaking our hearts.  But we’ll remember, and we’ll go on.  Because life IS change.  And it’s better than the alternative.

*The picture is of Euclid and D’Artagnan who were inseparable for most of their lives.  D’Artagnan is older son’s cat and moved with him, despite being in (slow) renal failure.  In the last three years, he and Euclid didn’t recognize each other, which is perhaps the saddest thing of all.*

Why do people write fiction? by Frank J. Fleming

For one reason only: It’s a great medium to indoctrinate people with your political views. An author only feels like he’s done a good job with his story if the reader either goes away having the correct views or becomes very angry that the author made fun of his wrong views, as making someone angry is the next best thing to converting them to your side (or maybe even better).

I’ve worked awhile writing for The Babylon Bee (which is all about indoctrinating people with extreme right-wing views through news stories designed to fool people), writing for IMAO, and writing novels, so I know a lot about indoctrination. My latest novel, Superego: Fathom, seems like a fun action-adventure about a psychopathic hitman trying to save the universe, but it’s really about making sure everyone holds my view on tax policy.

But indoctrinating people with your fiction isn’t easy. You have to be subtle. That’s why I have a few great tips to help you manipulate your reader without his or her knowledge.

TIP FOR USING INDOCTRINATION IN YOUR FICTION

Use names to manipulate. One easy way to manipulate your reader is with the names you choose. For the characters who disagree with you, give them names people naturally dislike, like Chad. No one wants to be on the same side as someone named Chad. Another name people naturally dislike: Hitler. So for a character representing the side you disagree with, the best name is Chad Hitler.

For those espousing your views, make sure they have nice, strong names — like Frank. Everyone loves Frank.

Make the people who agree with you really cool. Another way to subtly influence the reader is to just make everyone who agrees with you really cool so the reader wants to be like your characters. For the characters who have your politics, make sure they’re ultra-good at everything (marksmanship, rocket science, disco dancing) and never fail. Also, insert details that reinforce how cool those characters are, like mentioning they’re wearing sunglasses and leather jackets and always give thumbs up and say, “Ayyyy!”

Mention drool. A favorite subtle manipulation of mine is to mention drool when a character says something I disagree with. People associate drool with not smart opinions. For example:

“Just because Die Hard is set at Christmas,” said the drooling Chad Hitler, “doesn’t make it a Christmas movie.”

See, you probably read that and said to yourself, “There’s something about that opinion that doesn’t seem very smart.” It’s the mention of drool. You can also throw a “duh” or two into the character’s speech. People also associate saying “duh” out loud with bad opinions.

Have everyone who disagrees with you meet a gruesome death. It helps reinforce how bad the opinions are of people who disagree with you if they all die in particularly graphic ways, such as being crushed by a safe, getting hit by a bus, or just exploding for some reason. This will get the reader to say to himself, “I guess that’s what happens to people who believe those things.” Also, if you were really good with your previous manipulations, the reader will be happy to see the character get the gruesome death he deserves for his bad opinions.

Have a long speech followed by stunned silence. It’s important that at the end of your novel, you have one of the cool characters (wearing sunglasses) give a long speech — maybe ten to twenty pages — reinforcing all the things you believe. Now, in real life, after you give a speech like that, people will instantly try to pick it apart or, if online, respond with an unflattering meme. But in the world of your novel, which you control, you should mention how everyone who disagreed was stunned silent by all the smart points of the speech and have them not respond at all, because the speech was just too smart to respond to. And as the bad guys are stunned silent, have them get hit by a bus (see previous point).

—-

I hope you found these tips helpful. Make sure to check out Superego: Fathom. I think afterward you’ll find you suddenly have really strong opinions on progressive tax rates.

I’ve said before that the left in the twenty first century seems to have a curious form of autism, in which groups are essential, and people who belong to groups are interchangeable widgets.

Not only that, but they have the duty of being interchangeable widgets. How else do you explain the left calling someone a race or gender “traitor” for not thinking exactly the thoughts the left assigned them?

This is a great part of their mind reading schtick. If you oppose them, they know that you wish for the exact opposite of what they claim to want, and therefore you must for sure want the opposite.

So, say you say something like “Sure, we should encourage girls, but we can encourage boys too.”  Because — being binary — by “encourage girls” they mean “promote female supremacy” they KNOW that you want to promote male supremacy.

But it goes way beyond that, to the point that one thinks they must be robots thinking in 0s and 1s and nothing else exists in the world.

The same people who keep accusing their opponents of seeing the world in black and white, think “all lives matter” is opposition to “black lives matter” AND is “white supremacy.”

Because in their heads, at the moment, there are only two races (rolls eyes.) and therefore if you say all lives matter, it’s a covert way of saying that only white lives matter. Because obviously you’re opposing black lives matter.

In fact that name for the movement is the perfect trap, if you’re an idiot who thinks there are only two races, and “you’re with us or against us.”

By proclaiming “Black Lives Matter” — a statement that’s akin to “the sky is blue or occasionally shading to grey” or “humans are usually bipedal” to most of us who thinnk HUMAN LIFE MATTERS — when no one has ever said “Black Lives don’t matter” what they’re doing is saying you can’t oppose them. Because if you say anything but what they say you’re denying them.

This would be stupid enough if all the movement were really doing were opposing unwarranted police killings. ALL OF AMERICA opposes unwarranted police killings, no matter what the color of the person killed. Because we know we’re all potentially in the crosshairs.

But in fact the movement has a long list of demands that have absolutely zero to do with that and include a bunch of “collectivist” stuff that white Marxists like.

This is in fact just like Kwanza which was created by Marxists and all the principles attributed to what they claim is an African holiday (hint, Africa is very diverse, as any place which had poor roads till recently is. “African Holiday” is like “Unicorn, purple.”) are Marxist bull excreta.

The Marxists on the left, in search of their revolution, have turned to stoking tribal hatreds and to attributing to people who tan the values they want people who tan to have.  These include “no private property” and similar bullshit which simply doesn’t work for humans, period.

In this they show their roots as a racist movement. Only racists think culture is genetically inherited, or that black people born in America have more in common with black people in Africa than with other Americans.  Also, only racists think the family-sharing that is prevalent in Africa (as is necessary for survival in any stressed society) is the same as their Marxist collectivism.

In fact this dividing people in groups and simplifying every conflict to two sides and “you’re either with us or against us” is racist. And sexist. And anti-human.

Humans aren’t that simple. Society isn’t that simple. The world is that simple.

The leftist compulsion to try to compel you to agree with them by presenting the choice as binary is a fool’s game.

If they keep playing this game, they’re going to regret it. Because they might stop people saying what they think, or even compel them to say what the leftists want to hear.

But ultimately disabling the fire alarm doesn’t mean you’re now safe from fires forever more.  Silence speech and declaring thoughts not merely unsavory but unthinkable? Doesn’t mean we won’t think it.

It didn’t work ever in history.

Claiming there’s only two choices (hey, how about sexes? Oh, wait. Not believing in 57 and a half genders is transphobic, because…. I don’t know. Cheese?  Oh, yeah, because you need the can to match the contents, and we’re either against you or for you. I see.) and that we’re either with you or against you means we’ll be against you.

Because ultimately?  I’m against whoever forces me to choose in a false binary.  No, this doesn’t mean that I’m against black people.  Because that would be stupid. But I’m against any deceptively named movement that implies someone else is saying black lives DON’T matter.  And I’m against any brainwashed, virtue signaling idiot who claims that believing each and every human life matters is the opposite of black lives mattering.

Keep pushing, leftists.

The backlash from this is going to be epic.

And you’ll never see it coming.

 

 

Waiting For The Miracle _ A Blast From The Past From February 2014

*Yes, I do have guest posts. No, I haven’t even read them yet, much less contacted people to know what name they want them under. It will come.
When we got back there was a lot of “house stuff” and “gardening stuff” to catch up on, and we’re still in the middle of the great office move and reflooring.  BUT I’m making time to look at submitted guest posts this week.  Writing first, is all, which is part of this post below. As I reorient, I’m making fiction a priority which it’s never REALLY been.  Because frankly I probably don’t have an excess of time. (Now if the stupid subconscious doesn’t lock me due to living in insane times.)
However today none of this applies.  We just slept really late, and I just finished breakfast.  Nno, neither of us knows why, except perhaps after-shocks of the trip.  This getting old stuff SUCKS. — SAH*

As you guys know, this last weekend I was attending a seminar here in town.  One of the presentations (which I’d got to audit last year and already knew was great) was James Owen’s Drawing Out the Dragons – go look, for the book and/or CD which I understand is a close approximation to being there in person.

I think it’s great and inspirational and I wish I’d got it thirty years ago, when we didn’t have dependents (other than the cats) and when – frankly – we were afraid of our own breath which is why I’d write novels and spend years not sending them out.  (Okay, we also didn’t have money for postage, but we could have sold something.  (Not one of the cats, though.  No one would buy them.))  If you’re relatively young (younger than I) you definitely want to buy the book/CD and go through it.  It might be the kick in the pants you need.

Keep in mind, though, that you’re not him.  Take a sane and rational assessment of your drive, your qualifications and your need to do whatever you really want to do (writing, cooking, painting or playing piano) instead of what you’re doing.

I am aware of my own limitations and my own internal issues.  Just listening to this doesn’t turn me into J. K. Rowling – by which I don’t mean the writing itself (yes, she is a good writer, but she also hit at the right time, in the right place, and I might be as good as she was and as lucky as she was at some point.)  I mean that if I were a single mother, on public assistance, even if I weren’t so poor that I couldn’t afford heating, the paranoid side of my brain would lock the writing down absolutely tight, and I’d be getting a minimum wage job, just to bring in some money and set my foot on a ladder.  I know I have the crazy paranoid person inside my head who spends most of her time locking my writing down tight.

Okay – let me backtrack – James Owen’s presentation is about having the courage to let go of your stupid, go-nowhere “safe career” to do what you really want to do.  He says, right at the beginning “If you want to do something, no one can stop you from it.  If you don’t want to do it, no one can help you.”

You should listen to it, and consider his point, but you should also consider who you are.  For instance, I wish I’d listened to this 20 years ago, so I’d have had the focus to work without the near death experience, and even more importantly, to have more focus for the last twenty or thirty years.

Near death experience?

We were talking about this session – my husband and I – and we went back to the fact that part of the effect of the presentation was achieved for me when I was 33 and I found myself on my back, in an hospital bed, with pneumonia, and thinking I was going to die.  Or rather the doctors thought so.

I had a kid who was 5 and one who was a year and a half, and I thought I was going to die.  There was the usual issue when you have children that age.  I worried about my husband and my children, of course; I worried about who would look after my kids when Dan was working.

But what surprised me – shocked me to the core – is that I was guilty and worried about the books I’d never written.

Now, yes, I’ll probably die with books unwritten, but all of my worlds were dying with me.  One of the worlds was one I had had since I was fourteen – and when I died all of those characters would also die. (Part of the conversation this morning is that this world will have to be written.  And those of you who know exactly what I’m talking about, yes, what I mean is that world, and yes, it will be a pen name.  Closed.  But wouldn’t it be hilarious if that is the series that takes off.  It will be written, as time permits.  It will have to be published indie.  This is for my own conscience.  The rest is not important.)

When I actually recovered (and that’s a story in itself and not here) and went home, even before the year of recovery passed and I was fully recovered, changes were made.  That illness is part of the reason my children went to kindergarten and later to public school – so mommy had writing time.  They were still getting taught at home after school.  And yes, if I had the time again, I’d homeschool and write while the kids were working.  When forced I found out later on that I could do that.  But that’s besides the point.

I’d been writing before I almost died.  In fact, I had been part of a writing group, and I thought I was serious about my writing.  But in fact, I only sent a short story out a year or so, and though I was working on my writing everything else took priority.

After I came out of the hospital, even in my lowest-fiction-writing year (aka 2013), I’ve never written fewer than two novels and several short stories a year, and I sent them out, and I started seriously applying my time and effort to getting things published.

Because if I went back to the hospital, I didn’t want to be lying there and knowing there were worlds that lived only in my head and were dying with me.  I didn’t want that guilt.

That alone was enough to seriously focus me, though I had distractions – still do – and last year I got sucked into a whirlpool called non-fiction writing and consecutive illnesses, and finally had to step back, take a hard look and realize I couldn’t go on with that and is it what I really wanted to do?  (Yes, I’ll still be writing for PJM, but we’ve arranged things differently, and I’ll be writing less and have only one deadline for four posts a month.)

That is what a near fatal illness will cause you to do.  And I think it’s possible that Drawing Out Dragons will perhaps give you the same drive, the same focus (or close enough) without a near fatal illness.  (I get no portion of these sales, so if you can sit down and do this calculation yourself, do it.)

But think about it.  If you find yourself in bed, dying tomorrow, what would weigh on your conscience?

If you find yourself regretting that you spent so much time writing and so little playing with your kids or holding hands with your spouse, for the love of G-d, stop writing now and go do that stuff.

No.  Wait let me explain.  You’ll always feel a certain regret on those things.  When I get to take a walk with my husband, and spend the whole afternoon just the two of us, I treasure those days – or weekends.  Yes, the canoodling ones – and would like to do a lot more it.  And the other day I found myself crying into a box of pictures of the kids when they were little, because you can never hug them or play with them enough.  (They’re wonderful kids now, but they’re really not kids anymore, since both are legal adults and the older is the age I got married at. I miss my littles.  And no, I didn’t hug them enough.)  But this is the stuff you never do “enough.”

The question is do you regret that MORE than you regret not having published those worlds that have haunted you since the age of six?  If so, just go and play with your kids now, and devote ten years being a mom/dad or wife/husband.  Later, when the kids move out, revisit this question.

On the other hand, if, as with me, you feel bad about the times not taken to cuddle the kids, but what you REALLY mind is all those worlds – find a way to be serious about writing.

No, seriously.  Find a way.  Remember who you are.  Quitting your job might only make you neurotic and lock down your writing.  So you might want to keep a job, keep a safety net, whatever.  And yeah, you might still want to take time to spend with the kids and the husband – but put in two hours a day (say) hard and fast so you can write.  Or whatever it is you really want to do.

Because few of us (ah!) come back from their death beds.  And you might not have a second chance.  And waiting for the miracle when everything is perfect for your great work, just means it will never get done.

The New York Times, that bastion of lies and wrongness who went from justifying Holodomor and sweeping it under the rug, to claiming that America was founded to BE a slave state, had a headline that obtruded on my attention when I finally sat down at my computer today (Sorry to be so late, I’m catching up on things left undone the last couple of weeks, including the Everest of laundry.)

It said “America was not a Democracy until Black Americans fought to make it so.”

There are so many errors in that as to make me want to march into the Times offices in full Portuguese mom mode, my slipper in one hand and ask them if they’re proud of themselves and the lies they tell.  (Probably, as a “journalist” tweeted yesterday, journalism is not about making friends. It’s about agitation.  That right there should get all her colleagues to drum her out in a chorus of disapproval, but they won’t.  Among the many things our ladies and gentlemen of the press are ignorant about it’s what they’re actually SUPPOSED to be doing.  Which is telling what happened with neither favor nor malice.)  But if we started up a team of moms to wash the mouths (and fingers) of NY Times Jornolists Journalists, we’d never be done, because they are so far steeped in lies you can tell they’re lying because their fingers move.

Let’s start with the idea (there was a line underneath about the ideals of the founding) that America was SUPPOSED to be a democracy.  Our founding fathers had seen the effects of democracy.  There is a reason we’re a democratic republic.  A democracy is three wolves and a sheep voting on what is for dinner.

A democracy: one man one vote, and the  result being counted that way is exactly what the left wishes for America. They want the president to be elected by popular vote.  To the extent that they’ve managed to implement it in the states (is there a constitutional lawyer in the house? Are we not granted a republican form of government in the states as well?) we have seen how that works.  Not only do the cities with higher population get to elect the governor and representatives — which means the interests of the country side and rural populations are completely forgotten — but also, because it’s much easier to fraud the vote in the cities, the party of fraud tends to have a lock on the vote and be able to experiment with their terror techniques and such brand new ideas as a Committee of Public Safety instead of the police. (How long do you think till the tumbrils roll? Look, I have issues with the mentality of a lot of big city police departments of us vs. them not to mention the militarization of the police.  However abolishing the police force all together, in a city already riven by division and agitation is going to end badly.)

Furthermore, a democracy over a country the size and diversity of ours would not work. It would devolve into a shooting war within days if not sooner.

That’s number one, against the New York Times.  The second part of their insanity is “Black Americans fought.”  From the Civil war to the civil rights movement, black and white people walked together and fought together against injustice.

But what the agitators journalists of the Times are doing, as well as what the whole left has been doing — for generations now — is convincing black Americans that a) The US is the most racist place ever.  b) slavery was invented to enslave black people because white people hate them so much.  c) there is this invisible “systemic” racism that causes white people to treat black people in ways that force black people to commit crimes, and/or live in poverty. d) there is some magical, beautiful place where everyone gets along and black people assume their rightful place of superiority to all.  A lot of black people in the US have been told this is Europe (snort giggle) Others have been told the Arab countries are that place.  In fact, many of them are told that Muslims are much less racist than any other religion (it would be snort giggle, but I’m too busy choking on vomit.) And then there was — though it seems less widespread now — the idea that Africa is a magical paradise because of the lack of “racism.”

All of these, ideas that there is a perfect land for American people who happen to be black, btw, last until a black person from the US moves to this supposed paradise, to live as a LOCAL.  Then it blows up spectacularly.

The others hold up for various levels of holding up simply BECAUSE the lies are so all pervasive, disseminated not just by “journalists” but by entertainment, by education, by casual conversation, and by EDUCATED white Americans.  If everyone tells you the same thing you believe it. At least unless you’re a cross patch and insist on believing your lying eyes over what they tell you.

These lies have destroyed the black community in America and the lives of countless Americans of all skin colors.

Back in the late eighties at a party I was witness to an argument between a black lady about my age, and a gentleman my dad’s age.  He was an historian and he asked her why so many black Americans convert to Islam, when it was Muslim traders who mostly captured and sold slaves to America.

The young lady erupted in the kind of irrational name calling and screaming that was (besides being very atypical to her) the sign that something she believed without examination was being challenged and she didn’t know what to do, because it formed part of who she thought she was. To challenge it was to challenge HER and what formed the center of her identity.

Prompted by this I started evaluating what they taught people in school about African slavery and found that they were taught no other race had ever been enslaved and only whites inherent racism (no other race being racist) caused them to create it, to enslave the black man.

I have no intention — this is for the skimming trolls — of defending slavery, a revolting practice as is any practice that infringes on the natural rights of man (and woman, since the skimming trolls are too stupid to infer.)  I hate it as much as communism, which I consider a sub-branch of the practice (and if you don’t I enjoin you to study history.)

I do know however, partly because I read a lot of archeology and history, that slavery has been part of the evils that mankind has been beset with and beset others with since the dawn of mankind. If you have homo-sapiens blood (and even though I have way more Neanderthal than most, I still have a lot of homo-sapiens) you’re descended from slaves and slaves. And those were all colors.  Both of them.  And even though there can be no proof, I bet you there were slaves stretching back to when there were five or six human species.

At the time I first realized the mal-education black (and indeed all) Americans were subjected to on that point, I thought they were trying to do it out of kindness.  Yes, I was naive. I thought teachers were trying to say “this is an aberration, and it wasn’t your ancestors fault. They might have been slaves, but they were without evil, and now you can start anew.”

I was wrong. It has since become clear I was wrong. The purpose of obscuring that there had been slavery since always, as well as that there is still slavery notably in Africa (and not all by Chinese overlords) was the contrary. It was to convince all young Americans that America was uniquely evil and therefore to convince them to destroy this, the last hope of mankind.

I presume the destruction of actual black lives was part of the plan as well. If you tell people that they alone are descended from people who allowed themselves to be enslaved, and that they are so hated that STILL there is this invisible “systemic racism” destroying all their attempts to better themselves, you’re going to keep them mired in despair and poverty.  Which are fertile ground for hatred.

(And yes, I know poor people get treated differently than the rich by the police. If you look back through my posts, I posit that replacing punching someone who offended you with taking them to court as a societal practice inherently favors the rich and diminishes the dignity of the individual. But there are also pathologies of being poor in America which are a discussion for another post. And poor is by no means by skin color.)

Look, I’ve told before on how, first arrived in America, I associated mostly with other immigrants. And because assimilation is HARD we often hit our nose on the wall. And told each other just-so stories about how everyone else was keeping us down.  I realized the stupidity of this, severed links with these people and started trying to ignore “discrimination” as a cause.  Is it a cause?  Oh, in some cases. But we’re all discriminated against for various things, sometimes stupid things like “I don’t like your face.”  It’s best to do what we can and ignore THAT. Because if we have a ready-made excuse for failure you’ll never succeed.

Now imagine that the entire culture and all the mechanisms of society, including those supposed to help you, do nothing but tell you that you can’t succeed and that no one will let you….

And with all that the funny thing is that black Americans, by and large, are no more resentful (let alone hateful) than people their age and economic standing.  In fact, the riots tearing America apart — while another thing to convince black Americans that they can’t just live like other Americans — are mostly fueled by white college students taught the same nonsense and filled with rage and hatred, because they’re convinced they live in the worst country in the world. (And the rich ones having gone on vacation to Europe “know” how much better it is. … because they’ve never lived there as locals, and don’t understand enough of the language to know what is said of them behind their backs. Never mind.)

The technique being used was used to flip the colonial powers out of Africa by the same people using it here.  And while I’m not going to defend colonialism as a whole and even the BEST colonial regimes were still awful in some ways, let me tell you that what came after in every circumstance was worse.  The worst colonialism did to Africa was allow socialists and communists to infiltrate it.

But in Africa black people were a majority. Here they are a small minority, and frankly not all of them — not even most of them — are collaborating with the left’s attempted revolution.  Because most of them are sane.

However if the “agitators” continue their work, all black people will suffer for it.  And people like me who can be confused for black, if we have a tan (I’ve been working in the yard) and their hair is worn a certain way will suffer for it as well.

The left is no more going to get their revolution than they were when they thought that OWS would cause the “grassroots” to revolt.  Their fundamental disconnect with reality causes them to act in ways that make no sense and then be bewildered when their sacred texts don’t come true.

But if this goes on, they’re going to get something.  And they won’t like what they get.  But neither will I or most of my readership, even the lilly-pale ones because Odds don’t fare well in a society that enforces mass conformity.  And as for our children and grandchildren….  Well, I have no idea what my biological grandchildren might look like. We’re such a mixed lot as a family Dan and I had no clue what our children would look like. They might be blue eyed blonds, or look half-African or…. anything in between.  With the grandchildren, at least of the married son (we have no idea what the younger son will find or drag home :) ) even more so.  Though we’re fairly sure they’ll be large, muscular and smart.

Black Americans didn’t “fight for democracy.”  That would be a stupid thing to fight for, and as all other collectivist bullshit the left has tried to push on them.

ALL colors of Americans fought and bled and died together for the ideals of the Founding.  From the beginning.

It’s time to start calling the liars on their lies.  It’s time to find out what they taught our young and correct it.  It’s time to remember who and what we are.

Color?  Who the heck cares. It correlates poorly to either intelligence or character.

It’s time the irredeemable racists of the left stop painting all whites (and white in America is a very fluid thing, mind you) as racist and all blacks as victims.

It’s time to remember we’re Americans. We’re born in a country that grants us our natural rights of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Anyone selling a paradise that infringes on those for any of us of ANY COLOR doesn’t come in peace and doesn’t want what’s best for us.

And they should get no foothold here.  Anywhere.