Everyday is #WritingWednesday

how_to_overcome_writers_block

Soon I will be a full-time writer which, frankly, scares the crap out of me. As I phase out, over the next few months, my time as a professor, I will be face to face with what I always wanted to be, 

said

 I was going to be, and now 

must

 be; that is, a writer. Not a part-time dalliance, not a self-absorbed "hobby," not anything else but one of those odd people identified as - a "writer." No excuses. Time to produce. So be it.

Gordon B. Hinckley said, "All writers should be put in a box and thrown in the sea." He might be right, but I will not be thwarted.  I will have to learn to say so long to procrastination, excuse-making, and most of my time on Facebook. I will have to produce. I will have to be a bit selfish with my time. I will have to be disciplined! A novel, and then another. Maybe a short story. A new novel.

I have no expectations of best-sellers, movie contracts, interviews on TV, ever-aware of Flannery O'Connor's quote about expecting too much which produces a softness that can lead to bitterness. I will write, revise, edit, and send off my work. Then I'll start something new. How weird is that?

I will develop a thick skin.

I will be disciplined. I will put in the research. I will seek critique from honest people I respect.

But to be honest, I'm not so sure I can avoid what the tremendous author, James Lee Burke, calls "corrosive self-doubt" that afflicts all writers of all genres. That's the ugly thing that can intimidate.

I'll keep you posted, dear reader, as I gradually ease into my new life as a writer. Shall I purchase a beret?

Up On Blocks

I am now a Son of the South. I do not hunt. I do not fish. I do not even play golf. I am an English professor for Pete's sake which means that I fit a certain stereotype.  I like to read a lot.  I write novels.  I have weird neckties that I sometimes wear.  None of these things qualifies me to consider myself now a bona fide, yet transplanted, Son of the South. So what does qualify me?  This:  I have an old pickup truck on blocks!  My Lord, I feel so accepted now, after decades of living in Dixie, I have come of age.  It didn't take a dog fight, moonshine (no comment), or even my own special road kill barbecue recipe.

It was having that truck up on blocks.

I came out one morning and the truck was leaning a tad to port, so took a look and there it was - a flat tire.  I needed to fix it, but the jack I had to use was for our Altima, and it didn't lift the truck high enough for me to take off the tire.  So, I got a big block of wood and put the jack on top of that and jacked that old pickup higher and higher until I could remove the tire.  then I took the tire in and picked it up two days later and put it back on the truck.

My old pickup was up on the block only a couple of days, but I'm counting it, even though it wasn't on cinderblocks, or even in the front yard.  Son of the South? That's me!

Jacked Up

I picked up a flat tire on the way to Newberry College a few days ago.  In the dark.  On the Interstate.  It began with a funny little sound coming from the back of the car, along with a little vibration.  Of course, I assumed nothing was wrong.  Prayed nothing was wrong.  I did not like the idea of being stranded on the Interstate in the pre-dawn darkness.  There be monsters about at that time of the night. So I ignored it.  With regard to my health, I have always ignored little signals of malfunctions in my physiognomy and the problems always disappeared, unless there was breakage.  And sometimes even then.  The funny little sound grew louder.

Pretty soon it was really, really hard to ignore the deafening "whop-whop-whop" sound of my right rear tire disintegrating and the colorful array of warning lights all over my dash.  I slowed down a bit.  It got louder until I couldn't hear myself ignoring it.  Fortunately, an exit was looming up so I was able to ease off the Interstate and onto a two-lane blacktop that led into a small town where we used to live.  But it was still a few miles to civilization.  So I nursed the car on three good tires and a sturdy rim to a parking lot on the outskirts of town.

I opened the truck and noticed that I had one of those dinky little spare tires, which was good.  What I didn't have was a jack.  I have no idea where it was, but for sure it wasn't in the trunk of my car.  So I walked a few short miles in the cold dark and into town, believing nothing would be open for a couple of hours, but I did find a repair shop that was open, but that did not do tires.  The man there gave me tow numbers to call for help, so I thanked him and walked back to my crippled transportation and called the first number, found a nice lady on the phone, and gave her my tire size and location.

An hour later I was back on the road and only $167 poorer.  I plan to find that jack when I get around to it.  Might come in handy someday, but I rarely get flat tires, so I might just ignore it.

What's in a Name?

Yesterday, dawn began with Dawn.  Dawn is my hygienist and I had an early appointment with her at my dentist's practice.  She gave me a good report and said she'd see me in September.  This did not surprise me, but still, it was a relief that nothing needed to be scraped, filled, bridged, removed, or reconfigured.  Then I headed to the mall with my computer, which, for some reason, had basically quit on me.  I did not have an appointment at the Apple store, so I was resigned to waiting there all day to be helped.  The Apple store in the Mall (I hate going to the Mall) didn't open until 10, so I waited, dreading spending the rest of the daylight hours waiting for a helper to minister to my techno-frustration.

But a helper-person came out of the Apple store with a little device in her hand and began scheduling appointments for those of us waiting for the store to open.  I couldn't believe it.  She took down my information and said, "We'll send you a text when your appointment is ready."  I said, "I don't text."  She said, "Oh, well, just come on in about fifteen minutes from now."  I did.  Another young woman, named "Sunny," ran a bunch of tests and we figured out the problem was me.  I'm not going into that.  Suffice it to say that my morning appointments' timing corresponded with the names of the people with whom I would be dealing.  I'm just glad I didn't have a lunch reservation somewhere only to find out the waitstaff's name was "Nooner."

The rest of the day was fine and dandy.  I met my long-suffering wife at a local soccer match because some of her 9th graders were playing another group of 9th graders nearby.  After watching a flotilla of teenage boys kicking each other in the shins, wandering around aimlessly, and bonking the ball with their heads, I remain unpersuaded about the efficacy of soccer as a sport.  Waiting for something exciting to happen in a soccer match is like waiting for a politician to tell the truth.  So, after the game, I went from the ridiculous to the sublime; that is, a dinner date with my long-suffering wife.

A fine and glorious day, all in all.  A blessing every which way.

Baby It's Cold Inside

Today I emailed back and with a friend from high school days who currently lives in Dubuque, Iowa.  He mentioned that he was supposed to be in Des Moines today for a presentation (he works for the ACT people) and a second presentation tomorrow.  He said it looked like both would be cancelled due to the winter storm warning that was declared.  The weather nerds are saying 18-24 inches for a good part of the state, including Des Moines and Dubuque. This information brought to  mind our local (Upstate South Carolina) winter storm a few days ago and how my long-suffering wife and I survived being 30 hours without electricity.  At first, it was an adventure.  Fortunately, we had plenty of propane for our gas logs, so the front of our cozy cottage stayed comfortable.  We shut off the gas logs that first night and retreated to our bedroom.  We woke up the next morning raid to extend ourselves from the warmth of the bed.  No wonder.  When I checked the thermostat, it read 49 degrees.  Indoors.  I nearly sprained my ankle running for the remote control thingy that fires up the gas logs.

During the day, we entertained ourselves reading by the light of the sun.  When it grew dark, I broke out the Coleman lanterns I had wanted for Christmas.  Also, I unpackaged the Coleman stop and fuel that were part of my Christmas gifts.  So we had hot food.  If we were to have a son, I would name him Coleman.  I am not kidding.

I was thinking how fun this was, you know, camping and enjoying "roughing it," yet staying indoors protected from any snakes and bugs that weren't frozen.  We had plenty of wine, cheese, bread, and several other goodies, and so the romance maintained.  When it got dark, we scooted for bed and flipped on the Coleman lanterns to read by for a while as we snuggled.

All this time, our young pit bull/terrier rescue canine was loving it, running out in the snow and leaping and biting the white stuff, then turning on the afterburners to race back to the front porch and inside to hang out in front of the fireplace.  She thought it was romantic, too.

The electricity returned just before dark on Saturday night, but we still weren't able to get out due to the snow on the ice on our upward-inclined driveway.  Not to mention all the trees down in our neighborhood, blocking roads.  So we just settled in some more, but with the delights of electricity.

And hot water.  Without it, romance can fade quickly.  Trust me on that one.

Keeping 2016's Resolution

It's another New Year, and we all know what that means, other than starting to think about taxes, paying bills from Christmas, and considering trading in a cat for a puppy at the rescue shelter. It is other things, too.  Studies show that 127% of Americans come up with New Year's Resolutions that, somehow, involve the body.  Building muscle sounds like too much work, cosmetic surgery might be considered, but the majority of us are thinking about losing weight.  I am thinking about it, probably doomed to failure after giving up on, oh, around January 13th last year.  My problem is that, when I lose weight, I reward myself with food.  Lost three pounds since the last weigh-in, go ahead and slather some butter on brats and go to it.  That's like rewarding an alcoholic with Cutty, water back, for staying sober for a couple of weeks.

I never said it was logical.

However this is a good year because, on odd-numbered years I resolve to lose 15 pounds.  And on even-numbered years I endeavor to gain 15 pounds.

And this is 2016.  We will not discuss how I did last year.  That would be bad form.

Everyday is #WritingWednesday

Soon I will be a full-time writer which, frankly, scares the crap out of me.  As I phase out, over the next few months, my time as a professor, I will be face to face with what I always wanted to be, said I was going to be, and now must be; that is, a writer.  Not a part-time dalliance, not a self-absorbed "hobby," not anything else but one of those odd people identified as - a "writer."  No excuses.  Time to produce.  So be it.

Gordon B. Hinkley said, "All writers should be put in a box and thrown in the sea."  He might be right, but I will not be thwarted.  I will have to learn to say so long to procrastination, excuse-making, and most of my time on Facebook.  I will have to produce.  I will have to be a bit selfish with my time.  I will have to be disciplined!  A novel, then another.  Maybe a short story.  A new novel.

I have no expectations of best-sellers, movie contracts, interviews on TV, ever-aware of Flannery O'Connor's quote about expecting too much which produces a softness that can lead to bitterness.  I will write, revise, edit, and send out my work.  Then I'll start something new.  How weird is that?

I will develop a thick skin.

I will be disciplined.  I will put in the research.  I will seek critique from honest people I respect.

But to be honest, I'm not sure I can avoid what the tremendous author, James Lee Burke, calls the "corrosive self-doubt" that afflicts all writers of all genres.  That the ugly thing that can intimidate.

I'll keep you posted, dear reader, as I gradually ease into my new life as a writer.  Shall I purchase a beret?

Merry and Bright

Now that Thanksgiving is behind us and Christmas is before us, I am preparing myself for the enjoyment of receiving Merry Christmas greetings in emails, e-cards, and the traditional Christmas cards. Ah, those Christmas cards; you know, the ones that brag about how wonderful their family is and, oh, by the way, Merry Christmas. I provide a sample here: "The Schmaltz family has had a wonderful year. Mimsy was named All-Conference in soccer at State U. while maintaining a perfect 4-point in her astrophysics classes, and being Homecoming Queen was a special treat. And we are soooo proud of Hunter! Sophomore Class President at Loveland Day School (private) to go along with his being the starting quarterback on the VARSITY football team! And just a SOPHOMORE! He's already receiving letters from head coaches of several major college teams. All of this while carrying a 3.814237 GPA. And Ray was promoted at work again and earned a hefty raise to go along with our all-expense-paid three days in Cancun as a bonus from his company. Of course Mom is always in the background, cheering on the fam when not publishing her first novel, taking Christian Pole Dancing classes to maintain her figure, and guest appearances on that top-rated TV cooking show - you know the one ; - ) Well, I guess that's it. And oh, Merry Christmas from our new, 4,250 square foot house to yours!"

One year, dear reader, we received a Christmas card that was a photograph of the family standing next to their new airplane. We sent them a picture of us standing around our recently-repainted Pinto. And Happy Birthday to Jesus!

Applehead calls out the Doo-Doo Heads

One of the universities I considered attending as I left high school was the University of Missouri. They were the only major college that showed interest in me as a basketball player, although to be transparent, they never actually offered me a scholarship.  I was going to study journalism because they were famous for that. Those were the days. Recently, they've been in the news.  What caught my eye was that the students who feel as if something "hurtful" has been said to them are encouraged to call the cops.  Ideally, they will also have a photograph of the rude person and maybe the license number of the verbal assailant's motor vehicle, if they had one.

My high school basketball coach called me lots of "hurtful" words.  I wasn't the only one he hurt with words, but I was the only one he called "apple head."  It brings tears to my eyes just to write about it, so damaged was I.  My friends and I called each other much worse names, the majority of them good, robust, healthy Anglo-Saxonisms that did not require too many letters of the alphabet to spell.  We all survived.  Big deal.

As for the dear students at the University of Missouri looking for hurtful words so they can call the cops, they're just a bunch of snowflakes who would melt easily at first chance.  Besides that, they're all a bunch of doo-doo heads.  Now, go ahead and call the cops on me.

Ol' Reliable

Earlier this week, my 14-years-old mid-sized sedan failed me. I drove the 71 miles home from the college where I work, parked in the Publix parking lot while I went inside for a few items (beluga caviar, champagne, brie, and so forth - the usual), and came back out. I tried the ignition and every light on the dash lit up. No go. I left my things in the car, walked home (30 minutes on a beautiful day), got my aging pickup truck, and drove back. Still no go. I went home. I had it towed to the dealer.

I needed transportation to work. That old pickup truck I mentioned came to mind. It's 21 years old and has frequently failed to start, leaving me stranded at various points in the neighborhood. I had never taken it farther than walking distance home; never out on the Interstate. I decided to risk it. So, at 5:45 the next morning I prayed, cranked the engine, and drove south. The truck is not well known for its power, acceleration, or comfort. This is because the engine is small - two cylinders, maybe. But it worked. I passed one car on the Interstate and was proud of it. Everyone else passed me. Humbling. On inclines my mph dropped to 50, on downhills I was able to get up to 70. I made it to work and thanked God. I also made it back without incident. And thanked God.

The people at the dealership told me it was probably a battery, which would cost a bit over $200. I said, "Go ahead." Not bad. They called later and said the transmogrifier was kaput, pushing the cost up to a tad over $700, which is $200 more than I paid for the truck.. I said, "Go ahead." A third call, one they admitted wasn't good, was that the bilateral bushing dweidler would have to be replaced. They could get the part in the next day and complete the job. "How much?" I asked.

Just a hair over $1,700 he said.

At this point I was feeling faint. I summed up my courage and said, "So, what if I don't have you fix those things, other than the battery?"

"Well," he said, kindly, gently, "your steering will be unreliable and your tires on the right side will disintegrate, hurling you into trees or other motor vehicles."

I already felt like his call had hurled me into a tree. Still, safety is paramount, so I said, "Go ahead."

We're picking up the new, improved 14-years-old sedan shortly.

The old pickup truck is looking better and better. I'm calling it "Ol' Reliable" these days.

Shouty, Showy, and Serious

It is hard to tell just by looking at me, but I actually enjoy working out; that is, lifting weights. I enjoy thinking about working out almost as much, but that's another story. I've trained (if you can call it that) in a wide variety of gyms all over the place, and the best ones have tons of free weights, racks of dumbbells up to 150 pounds each, and good machines that work. One of the best gyms ever is Unique Fitness in Newberry, South Carolina. Currently I work out in a gym closer to home, but it doesn't matter where I go, the same male "types" show up.

There's the grunter/shouter who makes loud noises whenever he's lifting weights, and who slams the weights down on the floor when he's finished his reps. He does this to attract attention to himself. His grunts and shouts and deep breathing seem to increase when attractive females are in the vicinity. He lives in front of the mirror. Another type is the "preener" who wears flashy gym clothes and shoes that all match and are useful in hiding his soft physique. He may not have a fit, muscular body, but he always looks fashionable. Finally, there is the serious lifter who quietly goes about his exercises, puts weights back where they belong, and defers to other lifters who may be trying to use the same piece of equipment. These types usually wear loose clothing that mutes their size and downplays their muscularity.

I am none of these. I tend to slink around the dumbbell rack and leg machines, sneaking in a couple of sets when no one is looking so they can't see how light the weights are, I rest a lot between sets. I avoid eye contact. I eschew the mirror. I go home, quietly.

Kissed-Off

I'm sure you've all read or heard or seen the news reports about the 12-years-old boy who was arrested and taken away from school in handcuffs for kissing a 13-years-old girl. On a dare. He probably should have been pistol-whipped every step of the way to the police car, and there should have been an armed escort to the police station. The cad!

Sounds like adolescent humor. No harm, no foul.

On the other hand, unwanted was his advance. The girl was not pleased, flattered, or otherwise made happy. She was offended. She did not like it. She protested. Good for her. But I'm wondering if perhaps a less drastic resolution could have been had under the circumstances. Maybe she could have slapped him, or punched him out. My daughters would have. So would have my wife at that age. I know of a female to whom I am close who, when she was in junior high and a boy snapped her bra strap, she turned around and punched him. Hard. That took care of it. Self-reliance is cool.

But arrested? And handcuffed?

When I was in 6th grade a girl kissed me, without my asking. It was at her birthday party. The kiss was nice, and I floated as I journeyed the dozen blocks or so to my house. And I forgot to take her to court for sexual assault. Her name was JoAnne.

Tee-Totaler

I have reached my limit on t-shirts. I finally paid attention to why my t-shirt drawer was so stuffed, as was the other t-shirt drawer. Not counting white t-shirts that I wear under regular shirts with collars, I have 15, FIFTEEN t-shirts with various statements on them.

Here they are: Boston Red Sox, Boston '13 World Champs, Boston Red Sox World Champs (in Hebrew), "I might live in South Carolina but I keep my sox in Boston," Newberry College, Narnia College (a favorite), Eastern Connecticut State University, black IOWA, white IOWA Football, Beware of Dawg (U. Of Georgia with famous picture on the back of Uga going after the Auburn player), black Wales, Israeli Defense Forces, POEM (Professional Organization of English Majors on back), "If you can't see Paris Mountain you're too far from home" (we live back up against Paris Mountain), and "Careful or you'll end up in my novel."

That's it, FIFTEEN t-shirts with a message. I intend to donate at least half to a charity. Some are so threadbare I'll recycle them into the trash. It will be hard, but no one who lives in a cozy cottage needs to have that many t-shirts taking up space. When that's done, I think I'll get a t-shirt with "Efficiency" across the chest.

Molar Musings

I just got back from a checkup at my dentist's office. The hygienist said my teeth were looking good and needed minimal cleaning. My dentist checked her work and said everything was just dandy, so that was good. I told them that my nightly red wine wash was obviously working. They agreed, somewhat reluctantly. I asked if they had free bacon flavored mouthwash. No deal. But they laughed. All that plain vanilla cheer and professionalism made me nostalgic for the dentist I had when we lived in Georgia. He was funny. Irreverent. And excellent. We carried on conversations much like the one that follows, and I am not making this up. Dentist: "Well, John, time to get that filling taken care of." Me: "Might as well. No one's hurt me so far today. You might as well start it off." Dentist: "I've been dreaming of the opportunity to test your pain threshold. Are you good and numb now?" Me: "Yep." Dentist: "Too bad, I was hoping it would hurt a little bit, just for my amusement."

He begins poking around in my mouth.

Me: "Looks like you're catching up on your instruments. But I miss the chisel and 5-pound sledge hammer." Dentist: "Hmmm, I don't think I should have nicked that gray thingy in there. Say, John, did that hurt?" Me: "No, but I'm numb from my chest down." Dentist (aside to his secretary): "Oh, Margie, would you call my lawyer, please?"

He works around inside my mouth some more.

Dentist: "Hmmmm, I didn't think you would bleed quite that much. Interesting. A little more suction, Susie," he says to the hygienist assisting. Me: "I'm feeling faint. And I haven't even seen your bill yet."

And so on. It's fun having a noir dentist, and I miss him.

I'm coming out on my birthday...

I've decided to come out of the closet. I really should have stayed in because now it's not so crowded since Caitlyn Jenner and Rachel Dolezal have emerged. But I take courage from their disclosures and feel that I might as well let everyone know that I no longer identify myself as a white guy from Iowa. There. I've done it. But I'm not satisfied with just that admission. Oh, no. I am moving forward. I am me, hear me roar! I am proud and pleased as punch to say that I am the first trans-species person on the planet! Oh, I expect scoffers. I expect harassment from all over the place. And I expect and even demand lots of face time on the networks who have nothing more important to talk about than Caitlyn, Rachel, and weird weather.

You might be wondering what other species than homo sapiens I might identify with. Here it is. I, John Carenen, now identify with the three-toed sloth. One source described the species as "bizarre animals who appear to live in slow motion," and if that ain't me, you haven't been paying attention. I am also described as "cryptic" ("having a meaning that is mysterious or obscure" - Oxford English Dictionary) and "slow moving." Family, friends, former classmates, teachers, and coaches are all saying at once, "Aha! That explains it!"

Indeed.

All these years I have been living in slow motion and without any clear meaning, and now I know why. When I first concluded that I was trans-species, I thought maybe I was a Golden Retriever. But the truth has set me free. Slowly.

Sarcasm Unnecessary

Sometimes I feel my spiritual gift, although it does not appear in the Bible, is sarcasm. I fight it with my students, my politics, and myself. But this morning was one of those mornings when everywhere I went, people were pleasant, efficient, and friendly. Here's the most amazing part - two of my stops included the Department of Motor Vehicles.

First thing this morning, I headed out to transfer ownership to us of an often-used Mazda pickup truck with 176,000 miles on it that we intend to use for gardening and minor hauling. I had to go pay taxes at one location, then go on to another location to get my new license plate. At the County Tax Office, I was the third person there and was gone in five minutes. Five minutes! And the lady I communicated with was smiling and wished me a nice day. I am serious. Then I trekked over to the DVM office to get my new license plate. It was crowded as usual, but efficiently run, and the lady I worked with there was smiling and courteous and patient, even though I'd made a minor mistake on the paperwork (I had designated myself as "Thor" and my long-suffering wife {LSW} as "Venus" - just kidding). So from the time I entered the congested offices until I left, a total of only 40 minutes had gone by, and that passed swiftly as I people-watched. I had expected to be tied up there most of the morning. I left feeling chipper about my fellow man.

Next I went to the recycling bins to get rid of cardboard boxes, and that area was clean and maintained with plenty of room for my cardboard. Next door was a supermarket where I FAXed a Letter of Recommendation for a friend of mine headed for grad school. The people at the supermarket were downright cheerful, efficient, and accommodating. Next I dropped off books and DVDs at the library - again, more of the same kind of people. I felt sick to my stomach. Something was definitely wrong. My final stop was at the vet's offices to pick up routine meds for our yellow tabby cat, Beeker, and to make an appointment for his annual checkup. Again, happy people who seemed to enjoy their jobs.

It was a fine and glorious morning, I tell you, one in which I felt renewed faith in my fellow human beings in a beautiful part of the Upstate of South Carolina. And, I was home by noon and greeted with a kiss from my LSW. Talk about a blessed guy.

It is all behind me...

It was the kind of pain that makes a 200-pound guy gasp even though he doesn't want anyone to hear it. Out of pride. But as I turned to get up from my chair in front of my computer, it hit me. It was like a glowing curl of barbed wire in the small of my back, forcing me to grasp at my desktop to keep me from falling. I didn't want my long-suffering wife to hear, and she didn't. I'm not prone to yelps of pain, but this one was a beaut. Uninvited, unprovoked, yet still there, burning into my body. That was Saturday, and now it's Sunday, a day that rendered me close to helpless as I skipped church and was too nauseated from the "discomfort" to eat with our community group having lunch here at our cottage. I ate Advil and it only bumped the pain back a little. Then, on the suggestion of one of my sisters in the Lord, I added red wine to the mix and the pain began to ebb. I fell into a recliner and read James Lee Burke for a while, dozed, had three more pain pills, finished the book, Black Cherry Blues.

Now I'm better and thinking about getting back to the gym tomorrow afternoon where I'll sling some significant weights around without a problem.

Pains lends perspective to our lives, and the absence of such lends even more. And gratitude. I've had days when I could pick up 440 pounds and times when I couldn't lift a pencil, like yesterday and Sunday morning. Cracks me up.

Leftovers on Loan

Lately, I have been going to the public library here in Travelers Rest. It is excellent. And I've been checking out books. It's free! Who would have known? Anyway, it is wonderful, but I have noticed something as I plow through novels by Robert B. Parker and James Lee Burke. It is this: Some people who borrow books at the library have poor hygiene. It is a rare thing when I go more than three or four pages without coming across residue of some kind. I am positive I have found blood smears, mucous from at least two places in the human body, and food stains (frequently chocolate). If possible, I use a thumbnail to dislodge those deposits which can be dislodged. Then I sweep away the debris and continue. If the blemish is a stain, I just keep reading. After all, I am not a dilettante. Is this a general phenomenon, or does it apply only to those who read Parker and Burke? Knowing that there is no answer available, I will not let poor hygiene from previous readers deter me from enjoying a good story.

Far be it from me to participate in such sacrilege. When I read, I immediately blot out my wine and beer spills, and make sure to remove most of the pork rind crumbs, Cheese Puffs dust, and bacon bits before I return the book. I have standards.

Confounded by Constrictor

I was busy writing when my long-suffering wife, Lisa, called to me from the front porch. "Lily's found a really big snake!" Lily is our rescue dog, one year old, part terrier and part pit, and she is smart. Anyway, I had to go see, although I am strongly averse to snakes. But Lisa was not exaggerating. The snake was mostly hidden in some ivy ground cover, but Lily had sniffed it out and then barked at it, ever cautious in her approach, one foot on the brake and the other on the gear for "Reverse." The snake was mostly black with some white specks on it. Not a timber rattler. Not a copperhead. It did not move. I thought it was dead, especially since there were some flies on it, so I poked at it with a long pole with a hook on it that we use for trimming lower branches of trees. A LONG pole. It did not move. Must be dead. Just to be sure, I nudged its head a little and then I detected slight movement and the tongue flicking about. Not dead. I nudged it again and it finally started slithering up the embankment, toward a tree. It slithered and it slithered and we were gradually astonished at how big it was. It took its own sweet time, did not acknowledge us at all, but just gradually emerged. Slowly. Did I mention slithering? The long pole I had used was a foot taller than I. And I am a little over 6'. And the snake was longer than the pole was tall. Are you getting the picture?

I went inside fast and Googled "South Carolina Snakes" and there it was, a black rat snake. Non-venomous, which I could already tell by the shape of the head, and known to grow to 8' in length. Passive. Shy. Constrictor. Constrictor! I had no idea, but Google said black rat snakes can constrict and consume rodents, birds, bats, full grown squirrels, and small mail carriers. Which explained why it looked like, at first, there were two snakes. It had actually wrapped itself around some vermin and suffocated it. Explained the flies, too.

Our snake continued to unravel from the ivy ground cover until it came to the base of the tree. And then it went up the tree. Some people might question that statement, but it's true. It went up and up and up and finally stretched out on a high branch and stayed there. We went inside. After lunch, we went back out and there was no sign of our visitor. Now we're wondering where could he be now?

Silly Lily

I am working on the final revision of Thomas O'Shea novel #3 in the series. It's called, The Face on the Other Side. I try to write mornings and attend to other things in the afternoons. Things like yard work, naps, working out, naps, and maybe walking the dog. The dog. She is one year old, her name is Lily, and she is mostly pit bull with some terrier. She weighs 54 pounds. She is sweet, likes to snuggle, and is strong. She is also the most playful dog we have ever had. She likes to play games, and one of her favorites is "Slammer." This we play when she has lots of energy. She communicates this by taking me by the throat and shaking me. I just made that up. Actually, she does communicate her desire to play "Slammer" by getting bouncy and giving me fervent eye contact. And this is how we play the game. I encourage her with cheers and she runs across two rooms and slams herself into the back of a futon couch, then rebounds off the futon and tears back to where she started and then does it all over again without stopping. Her style has been perfected through a short trial-and-error. Simply put, she goes airborne as she reaches the futon, turns her body so her feet are planted against the back of the futon, then springs without stopping into her tearing back where she started, pivots, and does it again. It is hilarious. Her record is 14 slammers before she stopped, finally tired. Eight is fairly common. We cheer her on and she purely enjoys it. Come see. Call first.