According To Hoyt

*Sorry this is so late. Got a friend in to help with things I needed three hands for, and then we got delayed with… Talking. Sorry, sorry,sorry. -SAH*

Book Promo

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 LAURA MONTGOMERY: Transport and Deliver.

When flight on a boat jeopardizes all a family has worked for, can an errant son risk his life to save their future?

The Luwenthals—second generation settlers on the lost planet Not What We Were Looking For—confront the destruction of their past life, and are forced to flee. As the boat containing the family’s prized linotype crosses a river lit by the flames of the printshop they had to abandon, fifteen-year-old Tobias Luwenthal must face his father’s ire over what he sees as his son’s betrayal.  Disaster strikes, but will Tobias seize the chance to redeem himself at the cost of his own life?  Will his father learn from his son as Tobias has learned from him?

A short story that picks up right at the end of The Gear Engages.

If you’ve enjoyed the Martha’s Sons series, start reading now for a glimpse into what happens next in this dystopian lost world!

ALMA BOYKIN STRIKES AGAIN*: White Gold of Empire: Merchant and Empire Book Six.

Without salt, man and beast cannot live. Without fire and tools, man cannot prosper.

Tarno Halson and the other salt makers of Halfeld Fluss must have wood for the fires to boil spring water into salt. Farmers, builders, smiths, tool-makers, bakers, and all the other trades demand wood as well, and tensions have risen among the trades. Tarno, a widower, also seeks a wife. One of the woodworkers offers—insists on Tarno taking—his daughter’s hand. The arrangement might bring peace between two of the trades.

Danger unifies Halfeld Fluss, yet also divides it. When Korvaal’s Son dies, and winter grows harder, obsession and anger simmer like boiling brine—and prove equally deadly.

*I have no idea what she struck, but the email started that way, and it amused me.**

**It could be argued I’m easily amused.

FROM DAVID VINING: The Sharp Kid.

1880s Missouri is a time of gangs and civilization, finding a way towards modernity through the old scars of the Civil War. 16 year old Cal Braden joins his absent father on a journey of train robbing with the promise of a new life further West in San Francisco. But promises are cheap, as cheap as iron, and it’s a question of whether they’ll ever be able to get out of the life of criminality they’ve decided to take up.

FROM DALE COZORT: Nazi Treasure Hunt Book One: Marsh War

Marsh War is an alternate history novel set in the aftermath of an alternate World War II where Hitler went for Moscow rather than the Caucasus in spring 1942. As a result, World War II in the east stalemated deep inside Soviet prewar territory. The Soviets were too weak to push the Germans out, even when the western allies pushed into Germany. Diehard Nazis fled to the German-held Soviet Union and held out there for years until the western Allies crossed into Soviet territory and destroyed them.

With the Soviet Union battered and partially occupied, the United States emerges from World War II as the World’s only real Great Power. Great, right? Not really. In 1949, two years after they destroyed the last conventional Nazi resistance, the US still occupies large parts of the western Soviet Union and has been sucked into the treacherous politics of the Polish/Soviet border regions, with nominal allies close to war with each other over economically valuable and ethnically mixed areas.
Stalin pursues his intrigues in this dangerous region, while Nazi remnants scheme to regain power.

While the US settles in for a postwar boom, US occupation forces in the Soviet Union search for missing German scientists, Nazi advanced technology and looted Nazi treasures. They also search for missing loved ones and brace for a coming war they are woefully unprepared for.

FROM BEN MASON: The Headsman Detective.

Being a headsman is killing Raymond. Friendless, loveless, hopeless and everyone he meets on the job seems to hate him. Until he makes his first friend—who is imprisoned less than a day later.

It figures.

But if Raymond doesn’t want to lose his best (and only friend), or stop spending time with said friend’s cute sister he’ll have to go up against Duncia’s dark union underbelly, and—worse—its bloated bureaucratic nightmare of a government, if he is going to clear his friends name, save the day, and maybe get the girl.

For readers who like to limited government, lighthearted humor, and heroic heroes (and heroines)!

FROM AMIE GIBBONS: Psychic (Wild Wild) West: A Southern Psychic Mystery.

Besides her broken heart, psychic investigator Ariana Ryder hasn’t met a case she couldn’t solve with her powers, except for the damage wrought by the Fae. After their breach into our world four years ago, thousands of Fae have been spreading across the US, invisible to the psychic eye.

She’s out west to run a Fae tracking experiment with her friend Dr. AB Williamson, but first, they take a night to see AB’s famous Rodeo Queen sister’s debut with a big circus. When the night ends in murder, Ariana’s not going to let it rest.

One little trip back in time a few hours, and she can save an innocent woman’s life. But when you mess with time, it tends to mess back. Something’s after AB’s sister, and a little hop back in time isn’t going to stop it.

Until it discovers Ariana, and all the powers she has buried within. With her powers depleting, dormant sides coming online, and a strange sepia world that’s dug its claws into Ariana, she’s got more immediate problems than the Fae right now.

The sepia world wants all Ariana has. And it will take it from her, one piece of her soul at a time.

FROM KATE PAULK: ConSensual.

There are vampires in the lobby, succubi in the beds, and bodies in the bathroom.

It’s ConSensual, where the editors are demons, the writers are crazy and the vampires and werewolves might be the most stable people in the room.

If that isn’t enough, Dracula is staying at the hotel on a business trip for his wood-based hardware chain, and he brings with him the mother of all sirens, Leannan Sidhe.

Kit Marlowe is one of the authors, and there’s an out of control baby vampire to deal with. Once again, the “Save the World” department is caught with its pants down. It mostly consists of a vampire whose name isn’t Jim and definitely isn’t Hickey, a barely house broken werewolf, a very confused archangel and his succubus squeeze and other assorted misfits.
With heroes like this, who needs villains?

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: EXTRA-LARGE

Every day, in every way, I identify more and more with this guy:

We were away from home and on uncertain access. Or if you prefer, the big converted double decker bus was parked in a dead zone.

Anyway, I came back to cries of “you were gone forever, I counted” from Havey cat, who is now tapping my arm so he can get–oop. He’s on the keyboard. Sigh.

Forgive me for being late with post. I tried.

The Joys Of Running…A Substack Newsletter By Tom Knighton

It’s been a year for me. As of Friday, I’ve spent a year writing a newsletter on Substack titled Tilting at Windmills. In it, I cover politics that I don’t get to cover in my day job. Just one story a day, most days of the week.

And, in the process, I’ve made more money than I did on any blog I actually attempted previous to this.

Our beloved hostess, beautiful but evil space princess that she is, suggested I write up a guest blog for her on what that year has been like.

Let’s start with looking at how things were before I started with Substack.

Now, let’s understand that I make my living writing for blogs. I’ve written for PJ Media, Townhall, The Daily Caller, as well as a few other sites that no longer exist. Now spend my days as one of the main voices at Bearing Arms.

Writing a blog wasn’t the challenge.

However, actually making money with it was. Google AdSense is generally considered the gold standard for ad services on a blog. It’s the easiest to set up, too. However, AdSense can also cut you off in a heartbeat if it suspects you’re doing anything hinky. Even if it’s not you doing it.

For example, I once owned a newspaper. We went online only due to financial difficulties and used AdSense. Apparently, someone kept clicking the ads. I suspect it was either someone who didn’t like our coverage or, more likely, someone who was trying to help the paper out. Either way, Google yanked our account and all the money we’d earned up to that point.

So yeah, AdSense is less than ideal.

Plus, there’s the fact that you get paid based on traffic, and not a whole lot at that. In fact, the average payout is $2-$3 per thousand hits. Even if you’re getting a thousand hits per day, you’re getting decent traffic compared to a lot of sites, but you’re getting almost no money. You’ll have to do things like affiliate links or create your own products for sale to make any real money.

And I write politics.

Yeah…not the best avenue for money making, especially since I couldn’t think of a course I could really offer.

A year ago, though, I came across Substack in regard to a number of journalists who had exited the sites they wrote for and were now writing their own stories with their own voices and their own editorial control.

Yes, it’s indie publishing, but for news, politics, sports, or whatever someone wanted to write.

I’d thought about talking all about the steps I went through setting things up and really talking about Substack, but that’s really a better topic for another time.

Instead, Sarah suggested I talk about the experience of publishing a Substack newsletter, so I’ll do that instead.

Honestly? It’s not much different than writing a blog. You still write a story, provide links, blockquotes, and all the other stuff you normally associate with writing on a blog.

The difference is that you don’t really have to do a whole lot of backend stuff and monetizing it is ridiculously simple. You just provide some content for people to pay for and they will if they can see that the rest of your stuff is good.

Again, this is really indie publishing, but for more of a journalism flavor. Some newsletters have multiple authors. Some, such as mine, only has one and I do pretty much everything.

Like Amazon, Substack takes a small piece, but they’ve got to eat too, right?

The difference is that you’re essentially writing a blog that gets blasted to people’s email boxes and that they can pay for a portion other people don’t get.

And then you make money!

Now, let’s also be realistic. I’m making more than I did with my blogs, but I’m not making enough to do it full time. I’d love to be in a position where I simply can’t get fired by a company, but I’m not there yet. I need a lot more paid subscribers.

However, I have to be realistic about this first year.

Yes, I’ve written for some of the larger political sites out there, but my profile isn’t that big. Outside of the Second Amendment community, it’s almost non-existent, and the newsletter is for non-Second Amendment things.

There’s actually no reason anyone who didn’t know me personally would have signed up for the newsletter, at least in the early days.

That means I needed to market, which is something I need to get better about doing without being spammy. That last part is always the trick, isn’t it?

I’ve been fortunate to have a lot of my stuff posted at Instapundit thanks to a certain someone, and that has been a huge help, but there is probably more I can do.

You have to admit, it sounds a lot like publishing books indie, doesn’t it? That’s because when you go indie, either as an author or a journalist or anything else, it all falls on you. You don’t have a company to promote you. You don’t have people guiding you to do certain things that will sell better. You have none of that.

It all falls on you, but it’s worth it. No one tells you not to cover a certain story because that person is an advertiser. No one tells you not to cover that story because it’s not inclusive enough.

Picking what you write and how you write it? That falls on you too, and it’s great.

However, there are differences as well. I can’t write more and more newsletters so I can make more and more money. While some authors advocate cranking out a lot of books to make a living as a writer—not an inaccurate strategy, either, from what I can tell—that doesn’t cross boundaries.

With a Substack, the “thousand true fans” doesn’t necessarily help you out that much. Not without some other way to make revenue off of them or pricing your newsletter higher than I currently do. I can’t count on them buying four or five times as many newsletters per year if I just grind them out. That’s not how it works.

Which means you have to grow your audience beyond a mere 1,000 paying fans, and I’m not even close to even doing that just yet.

Yet let’s also be perfectly honest, marketing is what a lot of indies struggle with regardless of what they’re creating.

So, if I had it to do all over again, would I? Uh…yeah!

I mean, yes, there’s the money thing, to be sure, but there’s also the fact that I’m building something that can, in theory, be carried on after I’ve left this world. See, this newsletter isn’t just me screaming into the void…or tilting at windmills. It’s ultimately a business that can grow and potentially become more.

And there’s the fact that I’m not beholden to anyone except the consumers, the way the free market intended.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve worked for some great companies writing politics and I only regret writing for one of them—one that no longer exists—so I’m not complaining. But I’m also considered a freelancer, which means I can be cut with no recourse. There’s no severance, no unemployment, no nothing.

That can be a scary when you’re the soul breadwinner for a family of four.

And let’s face it, writing a Substack doesn’t take a huge amount of time. I write a post per day during the week, generally, and alternate which are free and which are paid in some manner. I did share the stories on Facebook and Twitter, but since no one ever clicked them from those places, I stopped bothering.

Still, marketing is the hard part, and I’m making it my goal for this next year to figure out some way to get a handle on it and grow even further. With luck, I’ll knock in out of the park well before this time in 2022.

Of course, along those lines, I’d be remiss not to include a link and a humble request to come and check my newsletter out.

Now you’ve done it. You’re going to have to send a rescue party to Plato’s cave. I hope you’re happy.

Actually, I hope you’ll indulge me while I work through some stuff, in public (because why not) and maybe, perhaps it will help someone.

The proximate causes of this post are two: My younger son has been practicing psychoanalysis without a license. To be fair to him, he only practices it on me. (And it’s facilitated by the fact he’s male clone, so he knows how my mind works.)

This morning, while lying in bed, I realized this entire GoFundMe experience is one of the turning points of my life. Which probably sounds really weird to the rest of you, and is really hard to explain, but I’m going to try.

There are inflection points in life. Things that happen, and after that, you’re never ever the same.

Some of mine are remarkably obvious, of course. Or are they?

There was coming tot he US as an exchange student. There was moving here. There was marrying Dan. There was having the kids….

Except that those are obvious and “things that happened” but not the real inflection points. Those either came earlier or “in the process of” and changed me, so other things COULD happen.

Like, I think the real inflection point while I was an exchange student came while driving past miles and miles of forest in Pennsylvania (they shipped me to my host family in Ohio via Greyhound) and realizing everything the media had fed me about America and the world in general (overpopulated/overpoluted, etc) was wrong. THAT changed me forever.

The inflection point on marrying Dan came earlier, when he proposed, and I realized someone really, really loved me, enough to propose when he hadn’t seen me in person for four years. I mean I was in love with him, but it never occurred to me it was mutual. And that changed my view of myself forever.

The inflection point on coming to America actually came when I went through citizenship ceremony. I’d decided, and gone through the process, but it was ALL intellectual. Then I came home, and went to the mailbox to get the mail. And suddenly it hit me, HARD, that I belonged. I had a country. And it was the first time I realized that for years (probably since adulthood) I hadn’t really thought of myself as Portuguese/belonging in Portugal. The feeling of belonging was strong enough it almost brought me to my knees, and I was drying on the driveway of a suburban house in Charlotte, NC, because I was no longer expatriate.

Think of it as your own, personal highlight reel of “this is your life.” Not what other people see, or would identify, but what you know changed you inside fundamentally.

In the same way, having the boys changed us, over time, in the last 30 years, but the defining moment was holding tiny #1son, blinking at me in the afternoon light (I slept 24 hours after delivering him. Or perhaps was in a comma. It’s hard to tell. And birth was pretty hard on both of us) and suddenly it hit me: this person is mine to look after his every need for the next 18 years. I need to grow up. And my life will never, ever, ever be the same again.

It hit me this morning the GoFundMe was that sort of moment, and I’ll explain.

But first, what younger son has been on me about: He’s been yelling that I need to value my time and my special abilities. Now, maybe this is because I dragged him through hell along with me. (The house is now up for sale, and while I’m not putting a link here, because I don’t want to invite vandals — who would have issues with Marines on either side, anyway, but I don’t want the boog to start in my house — I’ve shown it to friends who have been in the house, and the general reaction is “Dear Lord, you guys REMADE the place from the inside out, didn’t you?) Perhaps this is self-defense. He’s told me from now on I’m retired from the house-remodeling business, and anything (oh, half a dozen, like putting SOME covering on the stairs) that needs to be done in this house besides unpacking I should hire out. He’s also told me that my default position is “this needs doing, I’ll do it” and that needs to change. He says I need to value my time as a writer and my skills as a writer and blogger, and respect those, and learn to pay other people to do things.

He’s not wrong. And he’s probably NOT just trying to get out of doing it, since he’s intending to move out in the next couple of months, which means he won’t be available.

He says it’s a tweak that’s broken in my mind, probably because for years and years my worth to the household was how much I did (physically) to get stuff done that otherwise would cost us money. So stuff like rebuilding the house, but also cooking, cleaning, making curtains, reupholstering furniture, etc. Because you know for years and years no one was buying my writing, so it was obviously — in my head — low value.

As for the blog, well, I started it because a very misguided agent told me I should do it for publicity. It didn’t work that way, because I was deep in the political closet and was traditionally published, which meant I couldn’t talk about how corrupt and messed up the business was, and I had minor children, so I didn’t want to identify them or post their pictures, and– Anyway — it meant I couldn’t talk about any stuff that was important to me.

Oh, I could post “writers’ tips” but blogs for writers are self-limiting in audience. And anyway– So I didn’t write but like two blogs a month. I was told to go to Twitter and FB too, but I found it mostly annoying.

But agent kept insisting I blog every day, which meant I came out of the political closet, and dropped her and– where were we?

Anyway, by the time I dropped the agent, I had this community, and I write mostly for you guys who comment. Some days I go “I wonder what so and so (okay, often, but not always RES…) will say about this thought I had!” And lately I write to say “Okay, I’m hearing such bullshit someone needs to shout sanity, even if no one is listening, or not enough people.”

But I haven’t thought about it as helping others — yes, you guys told me, but I thought you were just being nice — or something worthy of being rewarded, which is why I’ve resisted fundraisers and such. Until I was in trouble and couldn’t see any other way out.

…. It’s going to take a while to process.

I haven’t read the comments yet. I’ll do it this afternoon, after I figure out how to break into my own GFM and get money out (what? Oh, it’s a process, and I just need to prove I’m me, and the account is mine, but you guys have to understand my reaction — normal reaction — to what I’ll call cyberbureaucracy is to run and hide, because I’m so bad at it. Like, upload the wrong thing. Or get such a bad scan of my license they think it’s fake, or — the current panic attack — can’t remember if I have my full legal name on my bank account. So I’ll have to take a deep breath, and brave it. And if I fail, Dan will do it tonight. BUT it’s on the list because otherwise I’ll try to avoid it.) The fact that I’m terrified of hearing nice things — my friends tell me they’re all nice — about myself should tell me something too. I THINK it feels like I’m impersonating someone else. Or like they can’t be really talking about me. Like when you get a birthday gift meant for someone else.

And yes, realizing that place is broken and doesn’t make sense, is the beginning of fixing it. It will take time, because the denial is so absolute.

However, BGE saying he wouldn’t have survived the Covidiocy mentally intact without this blog made my jaw drop.

Look, I’m not discounting blogs in general. I dedicated A Few Good Men to my boss at instapundit for all the years when he kept me from going crazy. Particularly while I was in the political closet. It was just THIS little blog, with my ranting and musing. Really? It made THAT much difference?

It made me think anew about this thing I do. And the fiction writing too. And that maybe younger son has a point.

BUT mostly — mostly? — I have this feeling that somehow everything has changed. That from now on everything will be different, because I’ll be different.

I’m not quite sure how yet, but it feels like a good change. Like, I’ll be able to “grow into myself” and fill my own outlines.

Which is weird. And I can’t explain.

But knowing what I’m doing matters, and matters for SO MANY PEOPLE has tweaked something deep inside me.

It will work itself out, like a piece of shrapnel, likely. Next thing you know, I’ll be outside raking leaves, and it will hit me, and I’ll cry like a baby, and confuse the neighbors. And then over years something will change.

Right now? Thank you for putting up with my spelunking in Plato’s cave.

You’ve given me just about enough courage to break into my own GFM. Things like that… Knowing I matter, and people have been helped, and …. just having a financial cushion so I don’t need to do everything myself (uphill, both ways) will make a difference over time. I just have to get used to it. The back brain is remarkably obtuse, and it takes time for it to get a new idea. But we’ll get there. The moment of blowing up the old one has happened, so now it’s possible.

Again, I’ll leave it up till — calculates — the 16th. Not because I’m greedy, but because I was specifically asked by some people who don’t get paid till then and would like to “play” (and again I’m not sure how this is play, but fine. I DO get people are enjoying themselves. I don’t have to understand HOW.)

There will be more stuff soon, including a free short story and the release of Odd Tales, the short stories I did here before.

For now, I’m going to shamble into the shower (don’t judge me. There was a cat who wouldn’t let me get up) and tackle the cyberbureaucracy dragon.

Again, thank you. I’m confused. Fundamental parameters of my life have changed, and I’m not even sure how yet.

And I have you to thank for it.

And I do. More than I can tell.

So…. So…. So….

Er….. I thought I might get 25k over two weeks, if I begged a lot. And then we’d borrow the other half, pay the bill, and if the house sold quickly, we’d be okay. Mostly. I mean BTB — back to broke — but not in a hole, right?

And then the GoFundMe funded in… 7 hours? And is now double the amount? And I’m not keeping it up because I’m greedy, but because people keep sending me emails and pms saying “leave it up another week, so I can play.”

I don’t get how this is “play” but I get it seems to be cheering people up. The discord group is watching this like it’s election results only better. And I don’t want to take that away. But it seems…. surreal.

People in the discord group keep saying it’s like a real life It’s A Wonderful Life. They’re not wrong.

This side of the keyboard? It’s pretty lonely. I often wonder if I’m flinging out things no one cares about/reads. Like shouting into the dark, and not being sure there’s anyone there. Sometimes there’s glimmers of eyes.

So, it’s amazing to get this kind of response. It’s — life affirming.

And yeah, the fundraiser is at double. And someone — coff Kim Du Toit — has threatened me with deathy death if I take it down before it hits 150k. That seems…. excessive. (I mean the amount, not the deathy death. The man has enough guns to deadify half the planet.) And surreal. But it seems to be headed that way.

And — besides the fact that of course if the house sells fast I’ll use some of the money to help friends I know need it, and who’d never ask — the other part is why it feels surreal.

You see, our married life started with nothing, my degree being of limited value in the US (Well, you know, there are like 3 new translator jobs a year and they might not be in YOUR languages. Even if I had 7) and Dan being a beginner programmer. A year in, he said I should JUST write. Of course we thought I’d sell the first book and we’d be rich. But though I got very encouraging rejections from first submission on, nothing was accepted.

I finally got a job as a translator, just before I got pregnant (finally, six years in) and got very ill, so I had to quit. From then on, we were on one income until I sold a novel 6 years later. And for the unitiated, a mid-list novel, which mine was from day one, isn’t an “income.” It was 5k. And since it was “literary fantasy” they wanted one a year TOPS.

By the time my advances were bigger, the kids were teens. And I was writing five novels (at around 10k a piece) and taking side writing gigs to keep them in food and shoes. (My dainty boys.Would you believe 13 EEE and 15 EEEE — or depending on the cut 17 EEEE?) And we were socking away what we could, but never getting enough for a cushion in case of trouble.

When the possibility of indie raised its head and “the more you write the more you make” I was ill. And it’s been very hard – as you guys know — to write anything. Partly because of stress. This has been very bad the last five years. We bought the last house in CO for various reasons, and partly because it was the cheapest (trust me) we could get and be where we needed to be at that time. BUT it was more house than we could afford, both in price, (Yes, we qualified. But I think those calculations are a bit nuts) and size. Buying it as a short sale, with a ton of stuff that needed to be done was bad enough. But there was also heating/cooling and just regular maintenance. It reminded me of when we owned a 5th hand Volvo. No matter for what it went in, it was going to cost us $500 (or in the house’s case 10k.) Oil change? $500. Wiper blade squeaks? $500. We loved that car, but only had it a year and a half because it was bleeding us. Well, the house bled us for five years, and almost killed us getting it in shape to sell. (Both monetarily and physically.)

And I can’t write when I’m stressed. It doesn’t work. I mean, regular every day stress, sure. But “Where are xk coming from to pay for the food/gas/mortgage?” That shuts me down. Which yes, is counterproductive.

Ultimately, the reason I did the GoFundMe was to be able to write. Because the alternative was to borrow and then sit here, with my hair falling out and without any nails, while I waited for the other house to sell.

I’m actually somewhat embarrassed by how well it’s done. (No, I can’t explain it.) And yes there will be yearly fundraisers (Younger son spent an hour talking me into this.) They might pay a tenth of this, but that’s worth it. But they will be of a different nature, with returns at various levels. Nothing I need to physically mail, unless younger son undertakes to do it (I SUCK at that) but tuckerizations and exclusive stories and stuff. Not this. This was because otherwise I was going to have a heart attack trying to find the money to pay bills.

For now? It’s surreal because for the first time ever, we have a cushion. I.e. if something goes wrong, like the other house takes three months to sell, we’re not going to be broke/homeless.

And for right now? It’s a wonderful life.

The lights in the great dark theater have come on. And the darkness I’ve been flinging words into is full of friendly, loving faces.

It’s stunning. It’s almost unbelievable.

And yes, it is wonderful.

So we found a new place, but between the pandemic shutdown and it being so soon after buying the last house, we’ve drained our savings. After much urging from friends and family, I am asking for help.

Yes, I’m embarrassed and terrified, but I’ve never really charged for my work here, and we truly, desperately and very urgently need help. The figure I put up scares me, but it scares me even more not knowing where it will come from. I want and need to write stories, and I can’t while locked in stress over this thing looming over us.

Health Moving Expenses Go Fund Me link here.

TWO CATS COFFEE

The True Tale of King Harv’s Most Ferocious Coffee by King Harv Coffees

The coffee was brewing.  Not fast enough for me, but it was brewing nonetheless. Here in the wilds of North Central Florida, coffee is just as required as an airboat and a shotgun. Probably more so. So many dangerous animals.  So many creatures of the dark.  Gators of course. Lots of gators.  But also huge Snapping Turtles. Black Bears. Amoebas. Beer cans.  Only one struck fear into me though. Well, maybe two things.  Specifically – Two Cats!

I was brought up fearing them. My Dad always told me if faced with the choice of facing the Two Cats or swimming through a shark infested beach, to just “shut up and get in the water kid”.  The nightmares were predictably bad. I grew up with many issues.

On my 60th birthday, and having successfully navigated sixth grade with honors, I began thinking for myself. Why are these Two Cats so feared? How come they look like cute little kittens? Could they be reasoned with?  Fear seems to have prevented anyone from even trying.  Well, after my brilliant idea for an edible donut yo-yo business was laughed out of town, I had a lot of time to fill. And a lot of donuts to eat. And someone’s got to do something about the Two Cats.  It seems I had a purpose in life after all.

My investigation moved along far quicker than expected.  First, I was able to locate where they made their home.  Coincidentally it was at the house of my son Zach and his wife Terri, where they masked their true ferocious nature.  But every morning, for a few hours at least, these monsters were let out to wreak havoc on any living or non-living thing in their path.  Rusted out cars surrounded their home.  The fish in the pond were long gone, as were the frogs and the mangroves. The big sandhill cranes had abandoned town weeks ago, and no children had been seen in the neighborhood for years.  Even the gators left in disgust.

After modifying a professional shark cage for land use, I staked out a location in the bushes a few hundred yards from the house. Bottled water – Check.  MRE’s – Check. Habanero Doritos – dang, they don’t make them anymore! Wise potato chips would have to do.  I settled in to wait and to watch.

At about 6:30 am, through my eyepiece I saw the two little fuzz balls exit the house via a secret tunnel behind the couch. They looked incredibly unhappy! Hissing, hair standing on end, eyes searching for anything to tear apart.  I gripped the shark cage for reassurance.  I was not reassured.  Day after day I saw the same pattern. The risks were high, but I was patient. Why in the world were they starting their day so upset? That’s when the trash can blew over.

My son’s trash blew everywhere.  Empty cheese ball cans, broken bottles of grapefruit beer, a beginners to guide to car warranties, and a lot of Drakes Cakes wrappers.  The kind of trash all of us produce on a daily basis. Except for one thing. It stood out like Wolverine at a Carvel ice cream store. A can of Folgers coffee.  A can of stinking Folgers coffee. Good gracious!  How could they?  Of COURSE these cats were pissed.

The back of my hand greeted Zach that morning. “What’s that for, pop?” he said, bewildered in the extreme.   “You’ve been giving these little angels Folgers coffee for breakfast!  What were you thinking!  You know they prefer low acidity coffees, with luscious, tropical taste notes of kumquat and vanilla!” 

Zach looked chagrined.  He really loved these little cats, despite their reputation.  He and Terri did all they could for them. And yet…  “Gosh Dad, you’re so right!”  Zach was a dang good son, and knew to admit when he made a mistake.  “How do we fix this?”

We both headed off to King Harv’s Imperial Coffees Experimental Roasting Facility, deep under the mountains of Apopka Florida.  There we toiled day and night, roasting, blending, testing, rejecting, over and over again, until on the 6th night, we hit it.  THIS IS IT.  

The next morning, little Yuri and Valentina, as I learned they were called, lapped up a bowl of their new Two Cats Blend coffee. Well, actually they just sniffed and played with it.  (Editors Note: Never let cats drink coffee.  It is dangerous to them.)

The Two Cats then proceeded outside, as they did every morning.  But they were not upset. They were not hissing.  They were not destroying.  At that moment Carl the mailman stepped on the porch to deliver a package.  He turned white with fear, but there was no need.  The Two Cats brushed up against Carl’s artificial leg with affection.  A leg that previously was not artificial. A friendship began. Children played on the streets again. Even the gators returned!  

Well, King Harv’s Imperial Coffees continues to roast Two Cats Coffee to this very day. Two Cats Coffee is considered by the Apopka FL Rare Coffee Roasters Association to be one of the best low acidity coffees in the world. When asked to comment, David, chief spokesman for King Harv’s said “I’m not surprised they said that. Not surprised at all.”  You too can order Two Cats Coffee, and many many other rare and exotic coffees, online at www.kingharv.com  Oh, and the shipping is still free anywhere in the USA. Even though USPS raised the rates on us again.

A Catholic priest, a rabbi and two Lutheran ministers walk into a bar…

If they’re friends, and at ease with each other, you’re almost certainly in America. Or in a country so far gone into atheist socialism, that it doesn’t matter what religion you have, you’re an enemy of the state.

Years ago, when the kids were little, our priest was a gentleman who was a weekend “biker” (and computer programmer) before he got his calling. Half of his sermons were about how our soul was like this problem he’d had with his motorcycle where he had to fix it with spit and bailing wire, or something.

So– At some kind of city inter-faith charity he met a rabbi and two ministers (one was Lutheran, the other, I THINK Presbyterian) who were similarly obsessed.

They started meeting for riding their bikes and for fun and became fast friends. I never figured out how that worked with weekends being different and with their duties, but I do know some friend gave them leather jackets with white wings and the words Heaven’s Riders picked out in sparkles.

And I remember going up to Denver (we lived in the Springs) at the highly unusual time (for us) of Sunday afternoon (we normally — meaning 4 times a year — went up for the weekend, and left Friday nigh) the kiddies got very excited in the back seat, yelling “Look, it’s them.” And thee, riding down the road were four middle aged men with “Heaven’s Riders” on their jacket.

Yes, incidentally, the four of them would make a great urban fantasy series. And when I told the story to some friends years ago they tried to organize an antho. The problem, as I found a couple of years ago, while doing Deep Pink, is that it’s hellishly difficult to write “won’t offend the heck out of people” let alone “they will like it” fantasy that TOUCHES religion. So that was a mine field.

Anyway, this is literally an “only in America.” Maybe — very maybe — England. But at this point I don’t know enough to say that confidently.

However, in the history of the world: how many gallons of shed blood, how much hatred and enmity tied humanity for centuries over religious differences. But in America, it doesn’t matter, unless you make it a point of hating x or y. And those people are rare. Our adopted-late-in-life son, (with duct tape, if you must ask) is Presbyterian and when we’re talking religion, he affectionately calls us “frigging Papists” and rolls his eyes. My friends so close they’re family are Jewish, Catholic, all flavors of Protestantism, slightly more exotic Mormons, and of course pagan and Asatru (more exotic flavor of pagan). I might think their religion is a belly laugh (I often think that of my own) but I’m certainly not going to try to kill them or even separate myself from them.

And as religion goes, so goes ethnicity, the two being linked throughout history. (Duct-tape-adopted son is Scotts and Welsh and Scandinavian. Um…. husband has a lot of Welsh for sure just from his family coming from that border.) In the US if a nice Italian boy brings home a half Swedish, half English, with more alien sprinkles bride, the likely response is “She’s blonde and so pretty.” And honestly, these days the same is true for race. (Which is why people fake racist incidents. The demand outstrips supply.) With very few exceptions, your family might hate your different colored bride/groom and give the race excuse, but almost for sure the problem is something else. (Like politics.)

This ability to co-exist is almost bizarrely rare elsewhere and elsewhen.

But hey, “progressives” want to throw it all away, in the name of imagined race wars that will give them power, and in favor of “safe spaces.”

Various colleges have segregated graduations, so students “of color” are safe from the “white gaze” (even though, let’s face it, guys, it’s America. we’re all mixes. Even some new arrivals. (Grins.)) which is so powerful it can stop their success with a look. And they have benes and goodies for only certain races. And they’re doing their best to bring back Hitler’s dreams of “such the race, such your personality.”

They haven’t started in on religion (yet) only because they don’t believe in religion. I don’t mean they’re atheist. They actually don’t believe religion exists, as such. Because they don’t have any, and everyone is like them.

The amazing thing is that they call themselves “progressives.” As though dragging us kicking and screaming to mankind’s stupid past hatreds were progress. As though us, people who tan needed their help, and needed “white” people removed so we can succeed.

Their program isn’t as successful as they’d like. None of this is, on account they don’t understand people-not-themselves. But it’s been too successful for my taste. As Heinlein said “it’s easier to teach people to hate.”

And that worries me, because it will backfire on the left who seems to think that because they declared it so, white people are already a minority. (Heck, guys, blond Amerindians might put whatever they want in their tax forms, but…)

And that rows back decades of just learning to live together and ignoring what’s not relevant to building and living and having a functional society.

We’ll come back, of course. We’re Americans and America in an era of fast travel falls apart if we try to magnify all differences and atomize.

But it’s going to cause trouble. By which I mean famine, misery and a huge butcher’s bill. Or in other words, those not-so-heavenly riders of the at least temporary apocalypse.

It would be much easier if we told the regressives to put a sock in it. And did it loudly enough to stick.

Can we do it? I don’t know. But despair is a sin, and might not be needed.

Shoulders up. Be not afraid. Don’t give the regressives an inch. Refuse the hate they call ‘love.’

We’re back home after doing a week’s worth of work in a day and a half, then driving afternoon/evening/night to get here at 5 am. I’m feeling mostly dead.

And terrified. Because you see we ran through our savings BEFORE moving and the moving expenses were way more than we expected (just the gas back and forth), because of the looking was so expensive, particularly with Pandemic Hotels TM. Then renovations, which weren’t as extensive as you might think, but everything was through the roof, because of “the times we live in.” And if the house takes longer to sell than we anticipate, we’re going to be in a world of trouble.

I realized that on Friday. The problem is fear and stress shut me down. So — as embarrassed and terrified as I am — on the advice (and beating) of many friends, I’ll be doing a gofundme.

Meanwhile, while I was at my lowest I got given a very odd gift.

As some of you know I’m so cheap that Scrooge McDuck would look at me and go “Whoa”. So I rarely buy ornamental things just to buy. (Except mugs, and even that it’s more I have a weird relationship with them.) So, I wanted a fall wreath, but they were like $30 or $150 or something. (This is how much I retain prices beyond “ah, too expensive.”) BUT when browsing Arc Thrift store there was a bunch of “fake fall foliage” for $2 and a vine wreath was $4. And I have a glue gun. So. Three years ago, I made this wreath and hung it up.

The other part of this story is that the other house had a little bird who made its nest on the next-to-the-door light. Dan would get upset it might burn and want to take it off, but I wouldn’t let him, because I enjoyed watching the baby birds.

Well, normally I had the fall wreath up August through December, but this last year…. well.

So two weeks ago, we took the wreath down after a year plus. And two days ago I was cramming it into a huge box, just shoving to get it in. When I realized there was an addition I DID not make, beautifully mated to the wreath. And suddenly I was in tears, as though it was a gift or a sign or something.

It came home with us, wrapped in bubble wrap, in a medium size box, and I’m not even sure about putting it outside or in an interior wall.

Below the pics.