New Covers!

Check out our new covers, y'all!  We decided to go with uniformity - one of our new characters has ouroboros tattoos, and a friend of ours thought that would make a good frame.  So we give you the new Dragonscale look...Sweet, eh?

Book IV's cover will be a sweet shade of blue.  Enjoy!
--Rebecca

Norovirus and You!

Hi guys, it’s autumn again!  Smell that autumn spice, drink that pumpkin coffee, watch the leaves turn colors, and gear up your immune system for another onslaught of bugs, boogums, and mitochondria-bursting germs.  I find that Rya and I like to write about when we’re sick, because hell, it’s funny after the fact.  During the illness, we want to kill someone…but afterwards, it becomes the fodder of many a blog post, if Google can be believed.  Which it can’t.  Or maybe it can.  Whatever.

Anyhow, while perusing my Facebook wall last week, I came across a post from my cousin (who happens to work at the same place as I do) asking, “Does anyone know anything about a stomach virus at work?”  I thought, “oh, that’s great,” and kept going.

Guess what.  The stomach virus is at work.  How do I know?  Because I have it now. 

Oh dear God, help me.

Now I am a pretty meticulously clean individual, I wash my hands a LOT (to the point where my skin is dried out), I shower every day, I do my laundry faithfully, and I am not the type that smells like a sweaty gym when you pass me.  And yet still I end up infiltrating my cellular pool with disgusting crud that exits my body in one holy hell of an ugly, ugly mess.

Everyone knows that awful feeling of waking up from a dead sleep with that tiny “oh, God, no” realization that the gears in your stomach will be reversing at any second.  And you stumble (why do you always stumble?) to the bathroom, knowing you’re not going to make it in time, but somehow do…and then the world spins as your guts cheerfully turn inside out and you’re certain your head will explode with the force of the churning, horrendous chaos bolting from your mouth and nose, and searing your tissues to ashes with the resulting Niagara Falls blast of stomach acid.  And if you’re lucky enough for it to also be blaring from the other end like the Space Shuttle taking off, well, then, my friend, you’re in for a Lovely Night.

My so-called Lovely Night finally deposited me in the emergency room around 2:30am on Sunday in a dehydrated, gasping mess.  The lady behind the counter took in my bedraggled appearance, clutching a bucket, wobbling in place, and sweating profusely, and cheerfully told me to take a seat in the waiting room with the other unfortunates.  Six hours later (we won’t discuss the definition of “emergency” here), I came home, pumped full of liquids and anti-nausea meds, and fell into a dead sleep for about 12 hours.  I’m now twice as rumpled, sick to death of Gatorade and Jello, and have a headache that would make Chuck Norris cry like a little bitch. But no vomiting and no explosive...well, let's just say the Shuttle is back in the hangar.  (Thank God.)

I came across a list of things people say when you have a stomach virus, things they should never say.  Remember Chuck Norris crying like a little bitch?  That’s cake walk in comparison what the sick person will do to you.  I am in full agreement.

1. You’ll probably lose some weight, haha!

Haha. Oh, how original, you made a funny. Think of how much weight you’ll gain when your lip is so huge from where my fist connected with it that you have to drag it around behind you.  Giggles.  Tee-hee.

2. Oh, just take some Pepto-Bismol, GAHD.

I’d love to take some, if it would stay down, asshole. Allow me to shove the bottle down your throat. Oooh, take a big chug now, don’t choke...GAAHD.

3. Ew, like I can’t stand it when people throw up.  Like, gross, if they throw up then I throw up.

Aww, poor lambkin.  Like, there’s the door.  Bye, Felicia.  Get the fuck outta here.

4. Do you have a fever? You look sweaty.

No, really, Sherlock?  Try vomiting constantly for 9 hours and see if you don't goddamn sweat.  I don't need to go to the gym for a month at this rate!  My chest muscles ache like I've been bench-pressing the Empire State Building!

This beast is supposed to be gone in 2-3 days from onset.  That makes tomorrow my 3^rd day.  I think I might make it.  I might even try eating something other than wibbly strawberry gelatin tonight.  Until then, where’s Chuck Norris…?

Stay healthy, guys.

-Rebecca

Book 3 is Here!

After days of rewrites, fixes, nits, picks, and lots of swearing, the next book in the Dragonspawn Legacy series is finally done!  The Kindle version of "Dragon Resurrection" was approved tonight, and the Smashwords and CreateSpace versions are pending review as I type this.  Hopefully they'll be approved tomorrow!  It's ready for your hot little hands, so go get it!  Click "Purchase Our Books" above and click the link for the store you want.

UPDATE:  Smashwords version is now ready - check it out under our "Purchase our Books" tab.  The hard copy is on our way to us to get proofed!

UPDATE 2:  Hard copy is out and looks fab!  Also ready at Barnes & Noble!

In the meantime, check out this cover!  Is this not badass?  That dragon is freaking awesome, and that font is one of my and Rya's favorites because it makes that 3-D effect just pop!  We're excited - hope you enjoy!

Surviving Dante’s Inferno

It’s hot.  Ridiculously hot.  Several hundred levels of Hell hot, including Satan’s kitchen, Satan’s armpit, Satan’s butthole, and other places and parts of Satan that probably exist and shouldn’t and I don’t care to know about them.  All I know is that I’m miserable as hell and I’m counting down the days to 17 inches of ice and snow, and at this point I will gladly withstand several hours of Elvis Presley crooning “Blue Christmas” until I impale myself on an icicle, as long as said icicle is cold and refreshing.

People love summer.  Gosh, they just LURRRRRRVE summer.  Summer!  Yay, summer!  There’s dancing snowmen who love summer.  There's memes all over Facebook telling folks how they want to be sitting on a completely secluded beach (always empty!) with a cold drink and an umbrella, giving us that stellar vista of blue water, clear sky, and perfectly-placed flip-flops, toes-up in the sugar-white sand, probably with some type of tropical flower (plastic optional) of an contrasting color (orange or pink seem to be the norm) artistically placed somewhere nearby, with a lovely sea shell set at a 45-degree angle or some shit like that.  Summer!  Yay!

Yeah.  Yay.

You SUCK.

Here’s my reality check, in the middle of this August day:  Summer is nothing but steaming, muggy, baking, frying, wretched fucking heat.  Enormous electric bills because of the 9,423,203,472 fans and air conditioners set up in my house to keep the temperature palatable.  Lightning storms whose fat black clouds promise lots of rain and then just splatter out a couple of drops.  Water shortages.  Dead grass.  Dying plants, which I spent a fortune on in springtime and am now struggling to keep the bastards alive.

And, of course, bugs.  Let’s not forget the goddamned bugs.  Not flittering butterflies and blinking fireflies, like you see on the Facebook posts of the “Yay Summer” crowd.  I’m talking BUGS.  Billions of enormous cicadas shrieking their sex songs in the trees until well after 9pm, falling on me from the branches when they lose their grip on the bark.  (That’s always a good time.)  Praying mantises the size of sanitation trucks munching out on monstrous crickets while hanging out on my front door, conveniently camouflaging themselves from my view until my hand is almost on top of them.  (Insert steamwhistle shrieking here.)  Wasps, whose sole purpose in life is to sting everything that moves, simply because…well, because they’re assholes, that’s why.  Unidentifiable creatures with hundreds of legs and eyes, hiding out, watching, just waiting to see what I’ll do when I notice them. 

And since it’s mid-August, it’ll soon be time for Spider Days!  Yes, Spider Days, ladies and gentlemen, that time of year when the Arachnid Olympics takes place around my homestead.  Spiders with 2-inch leg spans compete to see who can build the most vast, State-sized webs…webs they build anywhere and everywhere there’s a place to fasten a piece of web.  Between telephone wires.  From low-hanging tree branches to the ground, usually on my back-porch path.  My favorite is between my carport wall and my car, which I can’t see at 5:30 in the morning, and of course I walk right into them.  I get my entire cardio exercise for one week done in the screaming spider web dance I perform when that happens.  I don’t care that it’s 5:30 in the morning, I’m in the middle of a fucking web, that spider could be anywhere on my body, and I will NOT be silent! 

I am counting the days until winter, people.  Until then, I will hunker down beside the A/C, and will continue writing the next story.  I will continue to pour water on my fading plants.  And I will buy Raid.  Lots and lots of Raid.  Butterflies and fireflies, beware, I don’t check my spray.

Think snow,

Rebecca

Trouble Ticket Woes

As a rule, I admire the information technology technician.  Anyone who can take apart a box of bolts and boards and chips and assemble it into a working computer has my utmost respect.  I for one am lucky I can turn my computer on and use Word to type up these little vignettes into some semblance of order; anything out of the norm is completely my fault and nothing to do with the workings of, say, Windows 10.  That being said, my experience at the office today with said IT staff has me wanting to pin them all on the nearest dart board and skewer them with sharpened microprocessor chips.

Will this goddamned thing just...work...CORRECTLY...

Today started a new venture in my office.  As part of a consolidating/streamlining government effort (translated as, “Let’s shuffle everyone around until they’re completely miserable and see how many of them retire in protest”), my little team got moved into another office.  Now the way the office works is that each office has its own group network drive.  So if you move from Office A to another office (Office B, natch), your profile needs to be moved to the Office B network…so when you get to work on the first Monday of the new pay period, you open your computer and see the new Office B network.  Tada!  *cymbal crash* You happily continue working, while coffee steams gently at your elbow and birds chirp happily outside of your window.  Right?

Wrong.  Welcome to governmental IT contracts, where two dreaded words dominate the landscape:  “Lowest Bidder.”

Now, I would not be a IT customer support rep for any amount of money.  I would never be able to deal with people who think the CD tray is a drink holder.  I really do take my hat off to them.  But today it was hard to be grateful for their services.  Last week, Office B informed our Customer Support Center that our little team was going to be coming in from Office A.  Could they please transfer our limited access folder on the Office A group drive to a prepared folder to Office B, and give us access to Office B’s network?  Effective June 27.  And thank you very much.

Now, how many tickets do you think that request constitutes?  I’d say 1 ticket, wouldn’t you?  Nope.  That would be 3 tickets.  I don’t know why there’s three IT tickets in that request.  I found that out when I got to work this morning and found that we were still part of Office A’s network.  Better yet, our limited access folder, with all of our work, was gone, presumably transferred to Office B, but since we were still on Office A’s network, we couldn’t see the goddamned thing.  It’s Monday, my coffee is now cold, and the bird on the windowsill has shit all over my desk.

This is no big surprise to us at my office.  We are stunned into silence when something IT-related is done correctly on the day it’s supposed to be done.  Nevertheless, I dutifully forwarded the email to the CSC, asking what happened, and that we were still on Office A’s network, and that the limited access folder was gone.  This generated 2 more tickets, with the vague description, “Network connectivity.”  Now how on earth are you supposed to figure out what the problem is by that description?  Christ. 

I finally called and got a guy who sounded like he had just gotten out of bed.  I explained the problem and told him for God’s sake do NOT open yet another ticket on this subject.  The response:  “Wha?”  I explained again, slower this time.  His response:  “Didja try rebooting?” Of course, I replied through clenched teeth.  I then had to explain what “network connectivity” meant – and added that it was their description, not mine, so maybe he should update it. He said someone would call me back and – you guessed it – he filed another ticket. 

The remainder of the day provided gems like this: 

• “Um…okay…hm.  Someone will have to call you back on that.” (This was the guy who called me back from the previous “someone will call you back.”  That constitutes another ticket.)
• “Where are you in the complex?” (I’ve been in the same position for 10 years, people.)
• “Are you working from home?”  (Did I say I was working from home, jackass?  No.)
• “Wait, you wanted to move?  You need to generate a move ticket.”  (Already did that, 2 weeks ago!)
• “If that ticket was a request to move networks, you need to update it to make it a move ticket.”  (Which generated another ticket requesting that the first ticket be updated to a move ticket.)
• “Did you try rebooting?”  (Yep, they asked this more than once.)

I left at quitting time and came home and stared at the wall.  Tomorrow I’ll have the strength to continue.  Right now, I just want to read a book and fall asleep.  Hopefully I myself will reboot.  Without a trouble ticket.

Happy surfing, guys.

- Rebecca

For Love of the Mouse

That is ABSOLUTELY CORRECT...at least in my book!

Ah, summer.  The lovely time of year when you decide you Deserve A Break and start looking forward to destinations unknown or happily familiar.  Whether it’s sunning on the beach, running down Main Street with your mouse ears strapped to your head, or freezing your butt off while climbing the snowy mountains of Nepal, it’s still a getaway.

My getaway is always the 2^nd example above – namely, Walt Disney World in Florida.  For kids, you say.  Commercial and overrated, you say.  Say what you wish, WDW is my Mecca.  My first visit was in 1972, and though I was a wee tot, I still remember the wonder and the glory of my first sight of Main Street U.S.A.  I also remember my sister teaching me how to color with crayons on the long, long way down I-95 (“one direction only, and stay inside the lines”), and sleeping in the stifling back of the crappy Chevy Vega covered with a 1970’s “far-out” psychedelic patterned sleeping bag, which got blotched with my vomit when I got carsick.  

Incidentally, that long trip down I-95 to Orlando is where Rya and I first asked each other "What If" and came up the idea that became our books.

But I digress.

At first, we used to stay at a friend’s house or a relative’s house and drive over to Disney for the day.  Yep, long haul from Clearwater or Fort Meyers.  But in 1977, all that changed when we discovered Disney’s Fort Wilderness Campground.  From that day on, we enjoyed 2-week summer vacations in the trees around Bay Lake, in what is probably the best campground in the entire world.  We don’t camp, we “cahmp” – meaning we had a 35-foot Terry travel trailer with all the amenities – but even tent campers live like kings at this campground.  Disney World is the only place in which my parents turned me, my sister, and my cousin loose, with a reminder that dinner was at 5:00.  We knew where we were going, we knew all the transportation routes, and we knew when to be back and where to meet.  (Those were the days before everyone started fearing child predators and terrorists and so on and so forth.)  We saved our allowances all year so we could buy our Disney shirts and our balloons and our River Country and park tickets and fruit punch/steak sandwich combos at the Polynesian Village Resort pool, which was our favorite pool on the property. 

People always say, “GAHD, you’re going there AGAIN?  Aren’t you sick of it?” Simply, no. Many times my husband and I try to make some vacation plans elsewhere.  We always manage to talk ourselves out of everything and end up making plans for another Disney trip.  It's as familiar to us as a condo on the beach is to others:  We know what to expect, how we’re going to sleep, what the pool temperatures will be like, what restaurants to go to.  Our daughter works down there, so we get to see her.  The scale isn’t tipped in our favor, it’s fallen over; one side is pretty much lying on the table, while the other side, way up in the air, feebly waves a travel catalog and mutters, "But...but..." Sorry, scale, Central Florida needs our funding.

Now that I’m an adult (at least I’m supposed to be acting like one, but I don’t), nothing has changed.  I’m still all excited when I call the kid and tell her to make us some reservations.  I look for the South of the Border signs on I-95, and I always stop for orange and grapefruit juice at the Florida Welcome Center.  (I take meds that aren’t supposed to be taken with grapefruit juice, but fuck it, I’m in Florida, and it’s a Dixie Cup, for God’s sake.)  I turn into a happy 5-year-old when we pass under the “Welcome to Walt Disney World” sign.  (We drove PAST it one time and I am still traumatized by that experience.)  I simply don’t care that it’s 100 degrees with 98 percent humidity that feels I'm shoving my way through hot butter and that I’m soaked to the skin in seconds.  I’m in the Happiest Place on Earth.  There's fireworks and Citrus Swirls and Pirates of the Caribbean and the Main Street Electrical Parade and 150 pounds of merchandise with Disney characters imprinted on them.  Nothing else will do.  I'm an addict, and I'm proud of it.

I’m leaving next week.  I’ll tell Mickey hi for y’all. *throws mouse ears in suitcase*

--Rebecca

Feed Me!

There are some days when you’re just hungry for no reason.  Today is one of those days for me.  I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk with nary a grimace, and ask for seconds.  A doctor might call this a drop in blood sugar.  I call it “the frantic search for sustenance or I might just kill somebody.”

I will SO hurt you.

Lunchtime could not have come soon enough.  Yes, I actually had the willpower to wait until lunchtime, chugging a bottle of tepid water, staring at my clock like a crazy person.  Finally the numbers flashed and I was out of my chair like there was a fire, racing for the cafeteria, cackling, shoving people out of the way…I gleefully grabbed a huge, tantalizing bowl of hot chili, a bag of barbecue chips, a cup of Greek yogurt, and a Coke, threw money at the cashier, and high-tailed it into the lobby…

…only to remember that today is Wednesday, and it’s Weight Watchers Day, and my ex-leader is in the lobby, looking right at me, smiling like a predator.  

“Hi!” she says brightly, beady eyes flashing over my stash.  You have to pay for bags in Monkey County so I put that extra nickel toward that extra large chili bowl, and everything was stacked up like a foodie Jenga game.  I could almost hear her totaling the calorie count in her head.

“Hi,” I replied, throwing her a grimace that passed for a smile.  Lady, do not judge me right now, I will take you out.

“Looks like quite a haul there,” she giggled.  I hope she didn’t hear the growl.  That could have been my stomach, or it could have been a warning, I don’t know…but I said something idiotic and ran for the elevator.  Bitch was eyeballing my Saltines.

I ran for my office, gleefully locked the door, and dove in to lunchtime heaven, the destruction of which took about 10 minutes tops.  I sat back with a sigh, stomach distended, lips and fingertips orange with chili and barbecue seasoning.  As I’m cleaning my hands with my little wet wipe, my brain made a warning sound. 

SIGNAL HAS NOT BEEN RECEIVED.

Shit. 

If there’s one thing I learned from that Weight Watcher’s class, it's that you need to wait for your brain to receive the signal from your stomach that it’s full.  Apparently I have faulty wiring.  Sometimes I get this signal loud and clear; other times, I’m not aware that the storage facility is rapidly approaching maximum capacity.  Only one time have I reversed gears from eating too much – and that was terrific spaghetti, too, dammit, which is probably why I ignored the mayday klaxon.  Today, however, appears to be one of those days in which my gastric process has blown a gasket and all I can think is that giant plant from “Little Shop of Horrors” screaming “FEED ME SEYMOUR, FEED ME!”

So okay, lunch was done.  I decided to ignore the clamoring and see if I could go the allotted 30 minutes – the time it’s supposed to take that signal to get from stomach to brain.  Naturally, that didn’t happen; within 10 minutes my hands were shaking, my eyes were bulging, and I was on the prowl for sugar.  Any sugar.  Packets.  Sugar cane.  The cardboard box that says "Sugar" on the side.

I can’t keep an emergency stash of candy on hand because I’ll eat the entire thing in seconds.  My co-workers have bags of candy in their offices that they take to meetings to share with others, and out of embarrassment, I stay away from those bags, because at this point I’d clear them out and they’d be left in meetings trying to explain to the chocolate-bribed executives what happened.  I can’t leave them in that predicament.  After all, chocolate-bribed executives are dangerous.

But I work in an office building, which has secretaries, who always have candy.  Always.  I know this for a fact, having been a secretary once myself.  I am surprised it’s not a job requirement.  “Must type 120 words per minute, know the intricacies of Microsoft Office, and keep candy dish filled with miniature Snickers at all times.”

So out the door I went, trying to look professional, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead as I headed for the division secretary's desk around the corner.  My stomach felt like I'd swallowed a bowling ball.  God, I was full of food, and I was still maniacally hungry!  This sucked!  Stupid non-working brain signal! 

I made it to Catherine’s desk, ostentatiously checking my mail slot for non-existent mail.  She smiled cheerily.  “Is it too hot in here?” she asked, noticing the sweat beads.

“Nope!” I replied back, eyes searching for the candy.  There it was, in a little basket near her computer.  Oh God, Reese’s cups.  Full size ones.  Probably melted, because yes, it was too hot in here.  Didn’t care at this point.

“Ooo,” I said, trying not to slobber, “Reese’s!  Mind if I grab one?”

“Of course not!  Help yourself!”  So I did.  To three.  I didn’t even make it back to my desk and they were gone in one chomp.  I don’t even know what I did with the wrapping.  Did I even unwrap them?

Would you believe three full-size Reese’s cups still didn’t send the hunger signal?  Nope! Off I went with wallet in hand, grumbling to myself by now; I’m a bottomless pit, this is all going to my ever-burgeoning waistline, how the hell do I stop this, etc.  Our office building does not maintain vending machines on each floor, so I had to go find one tucked in the confines of another floor. Stair climbing.  Exercise.  Don't judge me.

Why is it, when you find a vending machine, that (1) the goddamned thing won’t take your money, and (2) someone always walks in to see you buying a second bag of M&Ms and looks at you like you’re the most disgusting person on the face of the earth?  I immediately grinned guiltily at the well-dressed young man who surprised me this time, while all the while I wanted to do this:

GET...OUUUUT!!!

But finally, FINALLY those M&Ms hit the switch.  I’m now sitting at my desk feeling bloated, and I’ll probably be reaching for my bottle of Tums later, but for now, the monster is sated.

Now…what’s for dinner?  Hmm.

--Rebecca

The Bag Lady

Any woman knows how it feels to cart around your life in a bag.  Some of you are smart enough to just use a wallet in your pocket, and I don’t know how you do it.  Millennials just put everything in their phone and I, a child of the 80’s, just freak out about that.  I have to carry around a pile of stuff – medications, a calculator, pens, a monster jangling pile of keys, note pads, coupons, a protractor (that’s a joke, although I really did carry a protractor for years, to my husband’s great amusement, just in case there was an obligatory angle that needed measurement), and of course I go nowhere without my trusty Kindle.  My hoard of goods always gave my where-is-it seizure-prone Type-A brain a wink and a buddy elbow of reassurance, knowing that if I needed that little container of hand sanitizer or a pair of tweezers, I was good to go. 

Not even close, bud.

I look at vacation pictures of myself from years past and I’m always the easy one to pick out in the crowd because I’m the one slouched over from the weight of the large canvas Disney tote with the camera, the direction book for the camera (in case I accidentally push a button that turns the camera into a little walking robot that laughs maniacally and runs away), the raincoats, the suntan lotion, the extra bottles of water, etc.  The weight of that vacation bag and the weight of my Brobdingnagian laptop bag that passes for a purse has given me a permanent groove in my right shoulder and has pumped up the muscles in my entire right arm – I can hardly pick up a cat with my left hand, but my right hand could probably hoist a hippo over my head and juggle it. 

But just how much stuff do I really need to carry around?  Other than my perambulating pharmacy, a wallet, and my Kindle, I can leave most of this stuff at home.  In fact, yesterday I decided to clear out the canvas tote I usually take to work with me.  I hadn’t looked in the bottom of this thing in years, and the results were quite comical.  Here’s what I found:

• My old heating pad, which I thought my husband had stolen years ago, and he swore he had his own.  Point to husband.
• A dish towel.  I guess I had this in case there was a random plate at work that needed to be dried.
• A bottle of Coke Zero.  God knows how old it was, it didn’t even fizz when I shook it.
• A shattered CD case containing an old self-recorded CD that I had never put back.
• A cracked CD case containing the pictures of our 2010 New England trip, pictures that my husband swore he gave me and I was pretty sure he hadn’t.  Another point to husband.
• A copy of my SF-171 (government employment application) from 1989.  Done on a typewriter!  I thought that typewriter was hot shit back then.
• A copy of my wedding certificate.
• A half-bent blue folder, frayed around the edges, containing…nothing.  This was ominous.
• A YMCA Activ-Trax workout form from 2011.  Probably the last time I went to the gym.
• A Christmas card from a co-worker. 
• A half-bag of mixed cough drops.  They appeared to be okay, and the wrapper came off of one easily, but I wasn’t going to take the chance.
• A plastic container of earplugs.  Again, they appeared new, but for some reason, they completely grossed me out. 
• Dust bunnies up the ASS.  Did something move in here and just shed? 
• Probably about 10 lanyards, in all sizes, shapes, and colors, mostly stamped with some odd government acronym (like iSOCCER – yes, that really stands for something, but I don’t give enough of a damn to look it up).
• A pair of white cotton underpants.  Seriously.  Was I planning a trip to the ER while at work – because, God knows, we always have to have clean underwear!
• My arthritis gloves.  Both pairs.  I bought the second pair when I couldn’t find the first pair.
• And finally, at the bottom, an entire package of the office supply saviors called “punch hole reinforcements.”  My husband calls them “paper assholes.”  (This is apparently a Naval term, but boy, did it apply yesterday.)  Anyway, the package had burst, and the adhesive backing over the years peeled off of nearly all of them, so they were stuck to everything…the underpants…the gloves…the lanyards…the dust bunnies.  I added a colorful adjective to the Navy term when I saw this mess (as in “fucking paper assholes”).  My dedication to this bag was evident as I was picking these things off of every square inch. 

These things suck.

So there you have it.  I’ve learned there’s a definite thin line between a woman carrying a purse and an honest-to-God hoarding bag lady.  I will continue taking that canvas bag to work, but it’s a lot lighter now.  As for the monster purse, well, I actually graduated to a smaller purse a couple of years ago, and while I went through the serious withdrawal of not having a sewing or makeup kit at all times, I gradually learned to move on.  I still have the protractor, though, but it’s on my iPhone now.  Yes, there’s an app for that.  Time marches on.

-- Rebecca

Being Sick

Being sick sucks. . .period. There is nothing that aggravates me more than catching some sort of funk. Last time I was sick was more than five (yes five!) years ago when I got some stomach bug. The years since then, nothing, not a cold, not even a sniffle.

And now. . .for the first time in over 20 years I have the flu. . .yup, the god damned flu. I haven’t gotten a flu shot in over 25 years, and now suddenly I am raging sick.

I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT!         

I have too much to do. I can write for a little while, but then I have to get up. . .I have no focus – look a squirrel – Like I said, being sick sucks.

I hate everybody.

And the medication the doc put me on. . .well it has psychotic side effects – look a pink polka-dot squirrel - So now I am seeing dragons in the kitchen and werewolves in the hall. Stellar! Look a purple and blue striped squirrel – They can stay. . .but that god damned bogyman in the foyer that looks like a clown needs to go!  

SQUIRREL!!!

Oh look, there goes a lion. . .no, wait. . .that’s live; just my ginormous kitty Zeus. He’s a wrecking ball of a cat – squirrel – I’ve never seen a cat that big that wasn’t a Maine Coon. Just a little ol’ barn cat with no known parentage to speak of – squirrel  –  Maybe he’s part mountain lion. . .we do have those around here. I mean, he is three times the size of my dog. But then again my dog is the size of a gnat – did you just growl at me you furry brat?

SQUIRREL!!!      

SEE! NO FOCUS!

And I need to write. . .so here I am spending four hours for this little blog. Did I mention there is a minotaur in my closet? This medication just might be more fun than drinking – squirrel.

My head is going to explode. Maybe I should just vegetate in front of the idiot box.

But first, I have to get rid of that bogyman. . .where the hell is my claymore. . .

-- Rya

Dealing with Writer's Block

For a week, I’ve sat here staring at a chapter I haven’t looked at since 2011.  I’ve got notes all over it.  “Need to expand this.”  “What does this mean?”  “Move this somewhere else.” 

Expand to what?  What does that bit mean?  Move it where?

A whole goddamned week.  What is the deal here?

Today I’ve read the same sentence over and over and my brain has turned to guacamole.  Guacamole is mush.  Awful-tasting mush.  That being said, I’d really like some Mexican food tonight for dinner.  No, I have spaghetti to make…or I could just go to Wegman’s to get some Chinese.  Oooh, egg rolls.

FOCUS, dammit!  See what I mean?  Get back to the stupid chapter!

Sigh.  Okay, this isn’t that hard.  It’s only 6 pages, for cripe’s sake.  I flex my fingers, look out the window, and…oh, look, the bird feeder’s empty.  Is that pileated woodpecker back again?!  Hot damn, I need more peanuts down there!  Did I buy any today…?  Dammit, I didn’t get woodpecker nuts.  Nuts.  Do I have any more peanut M&Ms over there?

Shit.  There I go again.  

There are three things I need in order to get myself into what I call "The Zone."  The Zone is my place of motivation, the push-button combination to unlock the Swiss Bank Account vault that is my wealthy stash of imagination.  It is sometimes a bitch of a place to find, but I do know how to look for it.  I need these objects, and a little bit of luck.

1.     FOOD

I keep talking about food, so I must need a snack.  That’s one way to keep your mind motivated, people – feed it.  So excuse me while I go grab a nibble…

(minutes pass)

Okay, I’m back with a cup of hot tea (with lots of Jack Daniels, natch), and a bowl of grapes and tangerine sections.  (I don't have any more M&Ms, so let's settle for Healthy Eating.)  

Back to work.  (taps fingers on keyboard) Okay, we’ve got dragons in an alternate realm.  Dragons falling from the sky and becoming…ow, is this a seed in this tangerine?  (taps some more) 

Nothing.  I’ve got nothing.  But I do notice I’m tapping my fingers a lot.

2.     MUSIC

When you’re as easily distracted as I am, you need two things from the musical realm: 

An awesome set of headphones.  Mine are the wonderful Bose QuietComfort 15 AcousticNoise-Canceling variety, terrific for blotting out screaming neighbors, ringing telephones, and my husband's TV show, and allowing me to turn up my music to stratospheric heights without disturbing people on the West Coast.

A magnificent playlist.  Nothing to sing; all instrumental.  I can’t sing and type at the same time because I’ll type out all the song lyrics instead and King Arthur will be belting out “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People and Rya will wonder what the fuck I’m smoking when I turn these chapters over to her to read.  

The Knights of the Round Table can't be doing this...it would be hilarious though...

So for me, it’s soundtrack music.  Inspirational and awesome.  I have a 95-track list full of Hans Zimmer, John Williams, and John Barry – masters all, the jewels in my triple crown of imagination-filled tunes.  Oh, I have others, but nothing inspires quite like these guys. 

3.     QUIET.

No texting.  No phones.  I’m so easily diverted from the task at hand that the simple noise of a cat running down the hall with a toy will break me out of concentration and I’ll be left staring stupidly at the screen wondering what the hell I was trying to say.  Hence my side notes like “What does this mean?”  Fuck if I know…(hits delete button).  Knowing my luck I'll remember around midnight or 2am, but it'll be too late by then.

Sometimes, I enter The Zone without knowing about it, and my fingers develop a life of their own; 20 minutes later, I sit back and rub the ache out of my overheated, twisted digits, and stare at my cerebral vomit on the screen.  My response is always the same:  “Where the hell did that come from?” And unlike real vomit, the chunks are pure magic - at least they are in our little world.  

I really need to be there right now.  I’m fortified with natural sugar and enough alcohol to send my neural net tripping into the void, my headset is in place and switched on, Hans Zimmer’s score to “Inception” is cued.  “Need to expand this,” eh?  Fine.  One way ticket to The Zone, please, Maestro. 

--Rebecca

The Pen is Mightier than the Winter

Hey everyone.  It’s been a lovely week here at FarCrutch Productions.  We’ve been smacked hard in the face by Old Man Winter, who finally got off his lazy ass and dumped close to 30 inches of the white stuff on the D.C. area last Saturday.  (Guess he was making up for the 70-degree Christmas Day that had my allergies asking what the hell was happening.)  I got in my 6-month exercise regime by shoveling the thigh-deep snow on front walk and back porch, which nearly cause me to have a heart attack – take THAT, Richard Simmons, without a single note of “Twisting to the Oldies.”  

Oh my GAWD!  There's so much SNOWWWWWW!
(*Smack* Get a grip, Richard!)

Well, maybe a twist in the sacroiliac region that required me to swallow nearly ¾ of a bottle of Motrin by nightfall, but hell, it was exercise.  At any rate, I owe my lack of heart attack to my loving husband and his robotic, complaint-free shoveling technique, as well as our wonderful neighbor and his monster snowblower, after ours bit the dust.

That's a lot of white stuff.

So after making paths all over the place so we wouldn’t be floundering in clustered flakes, I made a nice pot of Canadian Maple tea and downloaded a bunch of songs for a new playlist; with my stereo headphones firmly in place and tea steaming in my big Tigger mug, I launched myself into writing mode.  Rya (currently enjoying the delights of Florida) had dusted off the first chapters of Book 3, which we have entitled “Dragon Resurrection,” added some updates, and sent them to me for review and input before she left.  Within a few minutes, I was completely immersed in the next adventures of our time-traveling heroines.  We’re hoping to get something out to you guys by springtime or early summer.  We’ll keep you updated and we’ll post some tidbits on our Facebook and Twitter pages as we move along.  Until then, I’ll leave you with a quote from Douglas Adams.

“Anything that happens, happens.  
Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen.  

Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again.  

It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though.”

No, it doesn’t.  Stand by for something to happen, folks.  It’s coming.

- Rebecca