After considerable delays, the anthology Our Haunted World" is finally available for purchase at Amazon.com and should soon be available at Barnes and Noble.com as well.
http://www.amazon.com/Our-Haunted-World-Stories-Around/dp/0977095681
My contribution to the volume is "Ghost in the Rear-View." The story is solidly set here in Providence Rhode Island. It’s more than a haunted car story, to which the title gives some hint. It’s a nifty story inspired by a line in the Jim Steinman song by Meat Loaf "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer than They Are." My story focuses on the appearance of a ghost in a guy’s car and moves towards the answer of why she began appearing there whenever he drives past a highway-side graveyard, as can be readily seen by people heading northbound on I-95 just pas Branch Avenue.
It is one of the favorite three short stories I have written. Originally the publisher planned illustrations for the stories, and mine was the first one chosen by the artists for some of its haunting imagery. The illustrations, unfortunately, were later omitted from the publishing plan.
The anthology features some other good writers I have encountered before and promises some great stories. It’s a must-have addition to the bookshelves for my three fans and anyone who enjoys ghost stories.
Showing posts with label Jeff's Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jeff's Fiction. Show all posts
Friday, March 29, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Finding Accomplishment
I get compliments on how well I handle my situation, this limpy-gimpy blind guy routine. Some compliments are direct by words. Others, demonstrated through actions, mean even more.
Things are a struggle, daily and continuously. I’m stating that clearly, without whining about it.
In some ways, I could cope better. My roommate demonstrates awe for my struggle. He says he could not handle it as well. I disagree, because he likes being taken care of. I built my life on self sufficiency, and that has been the greatest loss overall. I know my roommate likes having someone do all his shopping, meal prep and driving. He would not feel an inappropriate shade of shame when he needs to be led from the car to any unfamiliar building. I know this for certain as a roommate and a former employee. He can feel accomplishment for having requested or ordered something to be done and come back later to find things squared away. I always found accomplishment in doing for (and often by) myself.
I still cook, not as well as I once did, but with remarkably few mishaps. On bad days, it is an accomplishment to pour my own coffee and bring it to another room without spilling it. I’ve learned to find accomplishment in small things. I could never paint a fresh even coat in a room again, but I can still change locks.
I believe that luck is an exchange of fortunes and misfortunes that all evens out in the end, between individuals if not for one individual. This whole eye thing, that’s bad luck that forever stole so many of the things that had provided me true happiness. I’ve trudged and limped on since then. The exchange of luck came with my writing. At about the same time as the blood hemorrhage, I started being published regularly. This blog gets good readership, especially since I don’t advertise it outside my website, email signature and Facebook links. My short stories have usually been well received (usually.) I never expected to set literary or commercial worlds afire. Story submission can be grueling and brutal, more often than not a constant stream of rejection for personal and heartfelt work.. Thick skin is necessary. I learned to take pride in the small accomplishments.
My ability to submit to editors is hindered. I used to regularly review all unpublished stories that had been returned for re-submission somewhere else. I can usually now submit only one in the same timeframe. Despite my de-acquisition of responsibilities, I still get called away from the writing with frustrating regularity.
The thing most important to the overall view of my life is the first things that must be put aside. "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans," someone said long before John Lennon popularized a similar phrase.
Things are slower with the writing as with everything, but I am plugging on.
I got real close with the very last story I've written, "Stone Soup." A big "professional" magazine, Abyss and Apex, held onto it for months beyond their normal time. They said they had been considering it closely but ultimately chose other material. A bummer, but maybe because I've been spinning my wheels with the fiction efforts so much lately, I find it very encouraging.
"Stone Soup" a Sivil Galaxi tale based on the old folktale but with a couple of my psychotic twists.
It will be available, someday.
Things are a struggle, daily and continuously. I’m stating that clearly, without whining about it.
In some ways, I could cope better. My roommate demonstrates awe for my struggle. He says he could not handle it as well. I disagree, because he likes being taken care of. I built my life on self sufficiency, and that has been the greatest loss overall. I know my roommate likes having someone do all his shopping, meal prep and driving. He would not feel an inappropriate shade of shame when he needs to be led from the car to any unfamiliar building. I know this for certain as a roommate and a former employee. He can feel accomplishment for having requested or ordered something to be done and come back later to find things squared away. I always found accomplishment in doing for (and often by) myself.
I still cook, not as well as I once did, but with remarkably few mishaps. On bad days, it is an accomplishment to pour my own coffee and bring it to another room without spilling it. I’ve learned to find accomplishment in small things. I could never paint a fresh even coat in a room again, but I can still change locks.
I believe that luck is an exchange of fortunes and misfortunes that all evens out in the end, between individuals if not for one individual. This whole eye thing, that’s bad luck that forever stole so many of the things that had provided me true happiness. I’ve trudged and limped on since then. The exchange of luck came with my writing. At about the same time as the blood hemorrhage, I started being published regularly. This blog gets good readership, especially since I don’t advertise it outside my website, email signature and Facebook links. My short stories have usually been well received (usually.) I never expected to set literary or commercial worlds afire. Story submission can be grueling and brutal, more often than not a constant stream of rejection for personal and heartfelt work.. Thick skin is necessary. I learned to take pride in the small accomplishments.
My ability to submit to editors is hindered. I used to regularly review all unpublished stories that had been returned for re-submission somewhere else. I can usually now submit only one in the same timeframe. Despite my de-acquisition of responsibilities, I still get called away from the writing with frustrating regularity.
The thing most important to the overall view of my life is the first things that must be put aside. "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans," someone said long before John Lennon popularized a similar phrase.
Things are slower with the writing as with everything, but I am plugging on.
I got real close with the very last story I've written, "Stone Soup." A big "professional" magazine, Abyss and Apex, held onto it for months beyond their normal time. They said they had been considering it closely but ultimately chose other material. A bummer, but maybe because I've been spinning my wheels with the fiction efforts so much lately, I find it very encouraging.
"Stone Soup" a Sivil Galaxi tale based on the old folktale but with a couple of my psychotic twists.
It will be available, someday.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Rose Colored Lenses
My fiction piece "Through Rose Colored Lenses" is in its final month as part of the latest issue of the Breath and Shadow online magazine.
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
This is the only fiction story to date I have written about being or going blind, and it’s a black humor satire. Other free reads and links to paper publications that feature some of my stories can be found at www.kozzi.us
.
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
This is the only fiction story to date I have written about being or going blind, and it’s a black humor satire. Other free reads and links to paper publications that feature some of my stories can be found at www.kozzi.us
.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Forest for the Trees
"Things are never as bad as they seem
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees...
"Huey Lewis, "Forest from the Trees"
I have the opposite problem from the old, often unclear expression quoted in that song. "Can’t see the forest for the trees" indicates an inability to see the whole for the individual components. In so many ways, physically and psychologically, I can’t see the details for the whole.
I can’t see what is in my vision clearly. My range of vision is also greatly reduced. At home, to walk from the living room and down the length of the house to the bathroom, I can get a sense of the hallway and know the territory, but any cat that walks under my feet gets inadvertently stepped on or kicked. I can’t focus on the end of the hall and the intervening steps. The hallway is clear unless something independently mobile puts itself in my path.
The bowling alley is a similar circumstance. I am familiar with the place. The playing area itself is one of my safest and most stable environments because lighting is consistent and the approach area is clear, all according to the sport’s rules. Navigating through the building from doors to bathrooms and lockers and the lanes I’m playing on is more difficult. I do as well as I do from years worth of familiarity with the place and massive effort. The specific invariable difficulties are inconsistent lighting, especially unshaded fluorescent lights at the front desk and vending machines. Sundays are easier than Thursdays; my locker is directly across from the lanes on which I bowl. Thursdays require navigation of the entire building. If I focus on the final destination, there’s no way to avoid all the people who will step in front of me, thinking I will see them to avoid them. With the differences in lighting, lack of contrasts and bustling people, it’s a slow walk. I need to concentrate on individual details rather than the entire environment.
Psychologically, I need to concentrate on specific trees more than the forest. There’s many things I procrastinated or delayed over the past few years, often with the thought "My vision will be better next week." That was true for a while, but did not hold true over time. I know now that there are things I will never be able to do again. The landscape of my life is littered with ongoing projects big and small that I need to complete, have someone else complete, or I need to give up on with acceptance of the impossibility for me. Becoming handicapped has been a humbling experience that has taught me to re-prioritize. I’m trying to release responsibilities in a responsible manner, make sure batons are passed in workable ways, where other people can pick up right where I left off with minimal disruption to others who are affected by the change.
My more private responsibilities and desires are harder to prioritize. There are things with eventual deadlines that I feel I should have more progress on. My fiction writing gets pushed aside for all the other things that come up. New writing is easy enough, but editing can be difficult, and my loss in acuity for reading web sites is one factor that has pushed submitting work to potential publishers into the nearly impossible category.
Slowly, and with help, I manage most things. Each task done is one less tree in the overgrown forest.
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees...
"Huey Lewis, "Forest from the Trees"
I have the opposite problem from the old, often unclear expression quoted in that song. "Can’t see the forest for the trees" indicates an inability to see the whole for the individual components. In so many ways, physically and psychologically, I can’t see the details for the whole.
I can’t see what is in my vision clearly. My range of vision is also greatly reduced. At home, to walk from the living room and down the length of the house to the bathroom, I can get a sense of the hallway and know the territory, but any cat that walks under my feet gets inadvertently stepped on or kicked. I can’t focus on the end of the hall and the intervening steps. The hallway is clear unless something independently mobile puts itself in my path.
The bowling alley is a similar circumstance. I am familiar with the place. The playing area itself is one of my safest and most stable environments because lighting is consistent and the approach area is clear, all according to the sport’s rules. Navigating through the building from doors to bathrooms and lockers and the lanes I’m playing on is more difficult. I do as well as I do from years worth of familiarity with the place and massive effort. The specific invariable difficulties are inconsistent lighting, especially unshaded fluorescent lights at the front desk and vending machines. Sundays are easier than Thursdays; my locker is directly across from the lanes on which I bowl. Thursdays require navigation of the entire building. If I focus on the final destination, there’s no way to avoid all the people who will step in front of me, thinking I will see them to avoid them. With the differences in lighting, lack of contrasts and bustling people, it’s a slow walk. I need to concentrate on individual details rather than the entire environment.
Psychologically, I need to concentrate on specific trees more than the forest. There’s many things I procrastinated or delayed over the past few years, often with the thought "My vision will be better next week." That was true for a while, but did not hold true over time. I know now that there are things I will never be able to do again. The landscape of my life is littered with ongoing projects big and small that I need to complete, have someone else complete, or I need to give up on with acceptance of the impossibility for me. Becoming handicapped has been a humbling experience that has taught me to re-prioritize. I’m trying to release responsibilities in a responsible manner, make sure batons are passed in workable ways, where other people can pick up right where I left off with minimal disruption to others who are affected by the change.
My more private responsibilities and desires are harder to prioritize. There are things with eventual deadlines that I feel I should have more progress on. My fiction writing gets pushed aside for all the other things that come up. New writing is easy enough, but editing can be difficult, and my loss in acuity for reading web sites is one factor that has pushed submitting work to potential publishers into the nearly impossible category.
Slowly, and with help, I manage most things. Each task done is one less tree in the overgrown forest.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Blocking It Out
Two things have me thinking about the mentor who took me under his wing when I was 17 and helped me find and develop and focus personal strength through my adulthood. The first was a comment on an old post here ("Finally, a Good Doctor") that asked about how I found center for my writing and overcame start of day writer’s block.
The second factor was the February 18 death of my father. This family trauma predictably ushered in a lot of family drama. I handled everything OK, maybe too well. My father and I had our rough periods. Extended family seem to fall short of understanding how I always avoided the list of disowned kids and grandkids. My family, including myself, we are not easy people. I can’t answer how I held on through specific rough times, but in general, the emphasis and a level of blind loyalty to family is something the old mentor specifically developed, sometimes even when he was also saying "You don’t go mentioning me around there." No, I am assuring my readers, the relationship with my mentor was not a form of "Greek apprenticeship."
The issues of my writing center and getting by with my family both stem to the guidance I received when I was 17 to 18. In short, the mentor had told me about negative things, "Block it out." That’s easier said than done. It’s not advice I was able to say "Yeah, sure," about and just do. I developed the skill over years. I’m still a work in progress.
I started writing at age 13 as a means of escapism. Fleeing to space now known as the Sivil Galaxi gave me a refuge when life on earth got to grim. I blocked out the grimness with distractions. I wrote longhand in those pre-PC days and carried a loose leaf notebook anywhere and everywhere. My father had times of direct pride in what I was accomplishing, but little specific encouragement or interest came from family. It’s possible that any interest they would have shown may have invaded my private places. I don’t think my father could understand that escapism aspect; when I was reading Lord of the Rings, he told me he thought only people with problems with reality read that type of thing.
I blocked out the bad things with my writing, with work, and sometimes with music. I block things out long enough to make any situation less stressful, then I deal with it head on. I have found myself both respected and despised for my tendency to be direct, my willingness to meet confrontation and call out bad behavior with some of my own, my knack of saying what other people will only think. From those kernels planted by my old mentor in 1986 and 1987, I did learn and internalize that not everyone can be pleased, and that what others say, think and do doesn’t matter if I am not treating them wrongly. There’s important distinction there; I question myself. I do not get from others or give to myself a blank slate to trample others. I hold to my beliefs and opinions without deeming those who don’t agree as automatically wrong.
I hope that earnest humility and willingness to agree to disagree comes across in the blog. I’ve seen many people’s surprise when they realize that I enforce my ethos (and pathos) only to my own life and maintain the feeling that everyone needs to make their own decisions about their own lives and tolerate everything on the other side of that line drawn in the sand.
I owe most of these unobvious good qualities to someone who helped me out so much in so many ways so long ago. His time was not wasted, and I have tried to live up to those ideals ever since.
The second factor was the February 18 death of my father. This family trauma predictably ushered in a lot of family drama. I handled everything OK, maybe too well. My father and I had our rough periods. Extended family seem to fall short of understanding how I always avoided the list of disowned kids and grandkids. My family, including myself, we are not easy people. I can’t answer how I held on through specific rough times, but in general, the emphasis and a level of blind loyalty to family is something the old mentor specifically developed, sometimes even when he was also saying "You don’t go mentioning me around there." No, I am assuring my readers, the relationship with my mentor was not a form of "Greek apprenticeship."
The issues of my writing center and getting by with my family both stem to the guidance I received when I was 17 to 18. In short, the mentor had told me about negative things, "Block it out." That’s easier said than done. It’s not advice I was able to say "Yeah, sure," about and just do. I developed the skill over years. I’m still a work in progress.
I started writing at age 13 as a means of escapism. Fleeing to space now known as the Sivil Galaxi gave me a refuge when life on earth got to grim. I blocked out the grimness with distractions. I wrote longhand in those pre-PC days and carried a loose leaf notebook anywhere and everywhere. My father had times of direct pride in what I was accomplishing, but little specific encouragement or interest came from family. It’s possible that any interest they would have shown may have invaded my private places. I don’t think my father could understand that escapism aspect; when I was reading Lord of the Rings, he told me he thought only people with problems with reality read that type of thing.
I blocked out the bad things with my writing, with work, and sometimes with music. I block things out long enough to make any situation less stressful, then I deal with it head on. I have found myself both respected and despised for my tendency to be direct, my willingness to meet confrontation and call out bad behavior with some of my own, my knack of saying what other people will only think. From those kernels planted by my old mentor in 1986 and 1987, I did learn and internalize that not everyone can be pleased, and that what others say, think and do doesn’t matter if I am not treating them wrongly. There’s important distinction there; I question myself. I do not get from others or give to myself a blank slate to trample others. I hold to my beliefs and opinions without deeming those who don’t agree as automatically wrong.
I hope that earnest humility and willingness to agree to disagree comes across in the blog. I’ve seen many people’s surprise when they realize that I enforce my ethos (and pathos) only to my own life and maintain the feeling that everyone needs to make their own decisions about their own lives and tolerate everything on the other side of that line drawn in the sand.
I owe most of these unobvious good qualities to someone who helped me out so much in so many ways so long ago. His time was not wasted, and I have tried to live up to those ideals ever since.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Rosy Lenses
The online magazine Breath and Shadow is carrying my story "Through Rose Colored Lenses" in their current Winter 2013 issue.
My friend who is most involved in my writing was surprised. He thought this story was non-fiction, so was a bit surprised by the content.
I wrote the story in 2010, targeting for an anthology about life in the near future. I was disappointed that the editor did not take the story. He was working for a small time publisher I had worked with. I didn’t take the rejection personally, but some factors added to the feeling of rejection. I had read a bit of work by that editor and thought the edge was right, and that the story worked on at least two interpretive themes of the anthology’s proposed title.
A rarity for me, I followed the project. I discovered another minor published story by the editor and read that. It eased me into an appraisal that the editor was what I deem a Harlan Ellison Wannabe; failing that in writing he was turning to editing. When the contents were announced, I felt a little bad for the publisher for having financed a project that was almost exclusively composed of stories by friends of the editors. Only one of the writers in the anthology had been written by someone now personally known by the editor on some level. I wasn’t angry by the circumstances, but they left a sour taste in my mouth. I shelved the story for two years. The publisher has printed at least one other story by me since then.
Things worked out well enough. Breath and Shadow pays more than the anthology, and they were only the second submission of the story.
Those who know me well enough will recognize by many aspects that the narrator of "Through Rose Colored Lenses" is not me. The story was inspired by the things that set my disabling circumstances in motion, but is not really about them. It’s a satire on the pharmaceutical monopoly and its machinations.
The story’s narrator pretty much gave up while I’ve been stubbornly fighting on.
The story can be read at http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
It’s open online, a free read courtesy of Breath and Shadow.
My friend who is most involved in my writing was surprised. He thought this story was non-fiction, so was a bit surprised by the content.
I wrote the story in 2010, targeting for an anthology about life in the near future. I was disappointed that the editor did not take the story. He was working for a small time publisher I had worked with. I didn’t take the rejection personally, but some factors added to the feeling of rejection. I had read a bit of work by that editor and thought the edge was right, and that the story worked on at least two interpretive themes of the anthology’s proposed title.
A rarity for me, I followed the project. I discovered another minor published story by the editor and read that. It eased me into an appraisal that the editor was what I deem a Harlan Ellison Wannabe; failing that in writing he was turning to editing. When the contents were announced, I felt a little bad for the publisher for having financed a project that was almost exclusively composed of stories by friends of the editors. Only one of the writers in the anthology had been written by someone now personally known by the editor on some level. I wasn’t angry by the circumstances, but they left a sour taste in my mouth. I shelved the story for two years. The publisher has printed at least one other story by me since then.
Things worked out well enough. Breath and Shadow pays more than the anthology, and they were only the second submission of the story.
Those who know me well enough will recognize by many aspects that the narrator of "Through Rose Colored Lenses" is not me. The story was inspired by the things that set my disabling circumstances in motion, but is not really about them. It’s a satire on the pharmaceutical monopoly and its machinations.
The story’s narrator pretty much gave up while I’ve been stubbornly fighting on.
The story can be read at http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
It’s open online, a free read courtesy of Breath and Shadow.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Through Rose Colored Lenses
This story is now live on Breath and Shadow. This is a free read online.
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
Thursday, January 3, 2013
On the Road
I went away in late December. I don’t bring this up as automatic excuse for the lack of posts, although that is the main reason. I use the computer not just with glasses, but also with a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse and at increased zoom levels. Computer things just weren’t possible away from home.
More significant was just how poor my vision has become. Most of the places I go are t least somewhat familiar, none, obviously, moreso than my own home. Removed from that for more than a week, I was totally and completely lost. Even most other places I go locally are familiar, including the same restaurants and grocery store. I do not leave the house alone and can usually get myself at least close to where I need to be within a building. Outside the building, I often cannot tell where the building is.
Yes, it’s gotten that bad.
While traveling, nothing was familiar. I seldom knew what town I was in, and often did not know the state. The layouts of unfamiliar hotel rooms became indecipherable mazes,
I live in a townhouse style apartment on the third and fourth floors of the building. This has become increasingly difficult for a blind guys with a bad foot and permanent reliance on a Crow boot. There’s thirty-three steps up to the apartment, a difficult proposition when empty handed, a challenge when doing something such as carrying groceries.
Away from the familiarity of home and familiar haunts, I was utterly useless. This made the trip harder on me and my companions.
The extent that I routinely utilize knowledge of my surroundings became acutely apparent without familiar surrounding.
Worse, my eyesight is further diminishing daily these days. Away from the familiar, I could not notice the further decline. Once home again, it was evident how much less I could see from barely more than a week’s passage of time.
I‘m coping. Self pitying moods are more common. Despondency is my most prevailing feeling. But I am coping, trying to stay positive.
I can see about a foot in front of me. I can see about two weeks ahead.
"Through Rose Colored Lenses" is due for publication around the 15th. This comedic short story is the only fiction I have written about the experience of going blind. A few days before that, I will be having what may be the last ditch possibility of restoring some level of vision and functionality.
More significant was just how poor my vision has become. Most of the places I go are t least somewhat familiar, none, obviously, moreso than my own home. Removed from that for more than a week, I was totally and completely lost. Even most other places I go locally are familiar, including the same restaurants and grocery store. I do not leave the house alone and can usually get myself at least close to where I need to be within a building. Outside the building, I often cannot tell where the building is.
Yes, it’s gotten that bad.
While traveling, nothing was familiar. I seldom knew what town I was in, and often did not know the state. The layouts of unfamiliar hotel rooms became indecipherable mazes,
I live in a townhouse style apartment on the third and fourth floors of the building. This has become increasingly difficult for a blind guys with a bad foot and permanent reliance on a Crow boot. There’s thirty-three steps up to the apartment, a difficult proposition when empty handed, a challenge when doing something such as carrying groceries.
Away from the familiarity of home and familiar haunts, I was utterly useless. This made the trip harder on me and my companions.
The extent that I routinely utilize knowledge of my surroundings became acutely apparent without familiar surrounding.
Worse, my eyesight is further diminishing daily these days. Away from the familiar, I could not notice the further decline. Once home again, it was evident how much less I could see from barely more than a week’s passage of time.
I‘m coping. Self pitying moods are more common. Despondency is my most prevailing feeling. But I am coping, trying to stay positive.
I can see about a foot in front of me. I can see about two weeks ahead.
"Through Rose Colored Lenses" is due for publication around the 15th. This comedic short story is the only fiction I have written about the experience of going blind. A few days before that, I will be having what may be the last ditch possibility of restoring some level of vision and functionality.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Excuses...
The blog has been neglected lately for a few reasons that accumulate enough to come across as excuses.
First, and always best, is that my eyesight continues to deteriorate. Everything’s harder for me, including the computer, and I can spend less time on here before my eyes just burn out.
That burning out limitations works a few other ways too. I am, eleven months after the reattachment surgery, still on four different eye drops, and some recent events temporarily necessitated a fifth. The drops greatly reduce my vision for a few hours afterwards.
Despite the fact that I am really and truly disabled, I have not yet divested myself of all old responsibilities and some of those became quite taxing over the last couple weeks. Things seem to be under control again. I impressed even myself with some of the things I can do blind and am grateful for the lesson that I could still do some things. But the other side of that coin is that I know I don’t want to be doing most of those things. The effort just takes too much out of me.
The last excuse is my favorite. I submitted a shelved novel to a publisher and got a nibble. There’s promise and potential but far from any type of guarantee, but such a chance needed to be pursued. Again, my functional computer time is physically limited and the holdover responsibilities interfered even with the full writing goal, but I got "a more traditional synopsis" out tonight, so can eke out some time to resume posts.
I will be turning back to general diabetic issues of diet.
First, and always best, is that my eyesight continues to deteriorate. Everything’s harder for me, including the computer, and I can spend less time on here before my eyes just burn out.
That burning out limitations works a few other ways too. I am, eleven months after the reattachment surgery, still on four different eye drops, and some recent events temporarily necessitated a fifth. The drops greatly reduce my vision for a few hours afterwards.
Despite the fact that I am really and truly disabled, I have not yet divested myself of all old responsibilities and some of those became quite taxing over the last couple weeks. Things seem to be under control again. I impressed even myself with some of the things I can do blind and am grateful for the lesson that I could still do some things. But the other side of that coin is that I know I don’t want to be doing most of those things. The effort just takes too much out of me.
The last excuse is my favorite. I submitted a shelved novel to a publisher and got a nibble. There’s promise and potential but far from any type of guarantee, but such a chance needed to be pursued. Again, my functional computer time is physically limited and the holdover responsibilities interfered even with the full writing goal, but I got "a more traditional synopsis" out tonight, so can eke out some time to resume posts.
I will be turning back to general diabetic issues of diet.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Intensity of Feelings
(Feeling it Out: The High Sugar, Part 2)
Unquenchable thirst and heavy urination are the most obvious feelings and signs of high sugar, but far from the only ones.
I generally feel very stiff at the times when my body is feeling high sugar. I say this with the acknowledgment that strictly by testing numbers, my sugar is always high. As discussed in the posts, the numbers and my body feeling can be contradictory. When faced with a decision over the contradictions, I would always choose to listen to my body’s demands.
When I eat dinner towards the end of my insulin cycle, my body can react quickly. I reasonable meal without a lot of sugar content can cause an uncomfortable spike in blood sugar levels, and the urination cycle will often not be the first or most apparent sign.
My ankles get particularly stiff under those circumstances. It can trigger what has been dubbed by pharmaceutical companies looking to push drugs as "restless leg syndrome." Food is in, the sugar goes up, the blood thickens, and circulation reduces. I feel no need to test when this happens. It’s easy enough to think what time it is now and when I took the last dose of insulin. The stiff ankles will always trigger after a meal consumed about 11 - 14 hours after the insulin dose, even when I have eaten very little throughout the day. When the insulin has been absorbed, it is gone and any intake will trigger a blood sugar spike.
I react by taking my evening dose of insulin. I don’t advocate that other diabetics avoid home testing because I understand the danger of the advice when misapplied. I, however, pay attention to the situational factors of my day and their effects on my diabetes.
For me, high sugar feel somewhat different when it is high from food or sugar excess than when the spike comes from the insulin having just run out or been absorbed.
High sugar from the insulin petering out is a vague discomfort. The stiffness is pronounced in the ankles and a more distant feeling elsewhere; it’s almost something that has to be specifically considered than something that would be readily noticed on its own. Thirst will not be automatic, but the tongue just doesn’t taste right and may feel thick on the surface.
I feel more intense when the sugar rises due to actual excess or having eaten something better avoided. The ankle ache won’t be a dull stiffness, but outright "cramping" pain. The overall stiffness will also have intensity enough that motor control may diminish. The tongue may taste fruity and overly sweet in that way that produces the fruity breath that is an indication of diabetes. As a child, I used to look at that last sign as a curse of how my own body would betray me to others.
These signs will usually affect me before the thirst and urination cycle begins.
I pay attention to these signs. I shoot up at first opportunity. The side effects and debilitating conditions that accompany diabetes occur from the sugar being too high. It always made sense to me not to let those feeling linger. Those aren’t comfortable feelings anyway, so I deal with them at first opportunity. Regular insulin will begin improving the feelings almost instantly.
I do not let high sugar feelings remain for long, but in years of effort, I have not been able to rectify the feelings with numbers my doctor feels comfortable with.
Whose feelings should I prioritize, my doctor’s or my own?
Unquenchable thirst and heavy urination are the most obvious feelings and signs of high sugar, but far from the only ones.
I generally feel very stiff at the times when my body is feeling high sugar. I say this with the acknowledgment that strictly by testing numbers, my sugar is always high. As discussed in the posts, the numbers and my body feeling can be contradictory. When faced with a decision over the contradictions, I would always choose to listen to my body’s demands.
When I eat dinner towards the end of my insulin cycle, my body can react quickly. I reasonable meal without a lot of sugar content can cause an uncomfortable spike in blood sugar levels, and the urination cycle will often not be the first or most apparent sign.
My ankles get particularly stiff under those circumstances. It can trigger what has been dubbed by pharmaceutical companies looking to push drugs as "restless leg syndrome." Food is in, the sugar goes up, the blood thickens, and circulation reduces. I feel no need to test when this happens. It’s easy enough to think what time it is now and when I took the last dose of insulin. The stiff ankles will always trigger after a meal consumed about 11 - 14 hours after the insulin dose, even when I have eaten very little throughout the day. When the insulin has been absorbed, it is gone and any intake will trigger a blood sugar spike.
I react by taking my evening dose of insulin. I don’t advocate that other diabetics avoid home testing because I understand the danger of the advice when misapplied. I, however, pay attention to the situational factors of my day and their effects on my diabetes.
For me, high sugar feel somewhat different when it is high from food or sugar excess than when the spike comes from the insulin having just run out or been absorbed.
High sugar from the insulin petering out is a vague discomfort. The stiffness is pronounced in the ankles and a more distant feeling elsewhere; it’s almost something that has to be specifically considered than something that would be readily noticed on its own. Thirst will not be automatic, but the tongue just doesn’t taste right and may feel thick on the surface.
I feel more intense when the sugar rises due to actual excess or having eaten something better avoided. The ankle ache won’t be a dull stiffness, but outright "cramping" pain. The overall stiffness will also have intensity enough that motor control may diminish. The tongue may taste fruity and overly sweet in that way that produces the fruity breath that is an indication of diabetes. As a child, I used to look at that last sign as a curse of how my own body would betray me to others.
These signs will usually affect me before the thirst and urination cycle begins.
I pay attention to these signs. I shoot up at first opportunity. The side effects and debilitating conditions that accompany diabetes occur from the sugar being too high. It always made sense to me not to let those feeling linger. Those aren’t comfortable feelings anyway, so I deal with them at first opportunity. Regular insulin will begin improving the feelings almost instantly.
I do not let high sugar feelings remain for long, but in years of effort, I have not been able to rectify the feelings with numbers my doctor feels comfortable with.
Whose feelings should I prioritize, my doctor’s or my own?
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Anniversary
My quirky mind works by association. Prior to 2009, October 6 was always my "un-birthday," the date of turning age + half. Don’t ask me why this was always so; I barely acknowledge my actual birthday.
Since 2009, 6 October has been and probably always will be the anniversary of the blood hemorrhage that made a sometimes uncomfortable life into something perpetually difficult.
I’ve been in a deep "melancholy" state of late as it is. The blog post records acknowledgment and lets me move on with the day, with my life.
Don’t ask me how I’ve done this through these bleak and darkening three years. Many times I would find myself completely unable to answer.
Today it will be concentrating on getting a fiction story or two out to editors for submission before the glare of the TV used as a computer monitor overwhelms my vision. I don’t submit stories often any more; the task is impeded by the vision and always takes time from everything else.
Perhaps that feeling of so many things left undone is the fuel I use to propel myself forward. I don’t want to look too deeply, though. The blur frustrates me when I look too hard at anything, and I am afraid the charm will lose its magic if I try to understand its workings.
Since 2009, 6 October has been and probably always will be the anniversary of the blood hemorrhage that made a sometimes uncomfortable life into something perpetually difficult.
I’ve been in a deep "melancholy" state of late as it is. The blog post records acknowledgment and lets me move on with the day, with my life.
Don’t ask me how I’ve done this through these bleak and darkening three years. Many times I would find myself completely unable to answer.
Today it will be concentrating on getting a fiction story or two out to editors for submission before the glare of the TV used as a computer monitor overwhelms my vision. I don’t submit stories often any more; the task is impeded by the vision and always takes time from everything else.
Perhaps that feeling of so many things left undone is the fuel I use to propel myself forward. I don’t want to look too deeply, though. The blur frustrates me when I look too hard at anything, and I am afraid the charm will lose its magic if I try to understand its workings.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Through Rose-Colored Lenses
Since "going gimp" via a vitreous hemorrhage in the one good eye in October 2009, I have done little work with my longer fiction. I’ve written perhaps a dozen short fiction pieces, and have not been very thorough in keeping either division submitted to editors; there’s a lot of detail searching, and that’s more difficult these days, obviously. The blog has kept me writing and given me a small regular audience that seems comprised of both known people and strangers. I do write to entertain and inform, so I am grateful to those who take an interest in these more cerebral parts of my life.
Despite the lessened progress on the fiction side of things, I’ve had some great accomplishment. "Advance Gratitude" and "Welcome to the Konvokashun" were accepted by the publications "for which" I wrote each, first time out of the gate. "A Pediatrician in Wartime" and "The Thirteenth Day on Kurko" each saw less than a half dozen submissions before finding acceptance. Other stories that had more difficulty finding just the right editorial match found homes, so hard work has ushered in some good luck, though not enough to balance the bad luck of my new physical realities.
My latest acceptance is also of a story accepted with only the second submission, "Through Rose-Colored Lenses." Breath and Shadow, an online magazine "for and by disability culture," took it. This same magazine published my story "Smokestacks" a few years back.
"Through Rose-Colored Lenses." is specifically remarkable on the blog because it is, to date, the only fiction piece I have done that specifically finds inspiration from and gives outlet to my disability, specifically the blindness, and the circumstances that started this ball rolling into a personal avalanche.
The story is humor. The editor expressed concern that it may be offensive to some, but I figure if humor doesn’t offend anybody, it’s probably not really that funny. There’s a butt to every joke. The story has social satire, with a particular focus on sex and drugs in ways that may surprise. And there’s farting that will make Stephen King proud. I wrote it with a specific anthology in mind, . I think its failure there was more of a personal political issue than a story quality issue. The anthology ended up featuring something like fifteen or so stories, and only one was by a writer with whom the editor did not already have a personal or electronic relationship. As "Through Rose-Colored Lenses" is an "immediate future" science fiction and not part of the "Sivil Galaxi" milieu I have been putting most fiction attention on, I didn’t keep up on submitting it to editors. Breath and Shadow is only the second magazine to have reviewed it.
Breath and Shadow comes to the web from Maine. They are a free, none-subscription web-zine, free for the browsing at all times and to all readers.The story is slated for the winter issue, so should hit the world wide web in January or so. I’ll keep the readers here appraised, specifically as the story fits into the Blindsided! themes and subjects more than any of my other stories do.
Despite the lessened progress on the fiction side of things, I’ve had some great accomplishment. "Advance Gratitude" and "Welcome to the Konvokashun" were accepted by the publications "for which" I wrote each, first time out of the gate. "A Pediatrician in Wartime" and "The Thirteenth Day on Kurko" each saw less than a half dozen submissions before finding acceptance. Other stories that had more difficulty finding just the right editorial match found homes, so hard work has ushered in some good luck, though not enough to balance the bad luck of my new physical realities.
My latest acceptance is also of a story accepted with only the second submission, "Through Rose-Colored Lenses." Breath and Shadow, an online magazine "for and by disability culture," took it. This same magazine published my story "Smokestacks" a few years back.
"Through Rose-Colored Lenses." is specifically remarkable on the blog because it is, to date, the only fiction piece I have done that specifically finds inspiration from and gives outlet to my disability, specifically the blindness, and the circumstances that started this ball rolling into a personal avalanche.
The story is humor. The editor expressed concern that it may be offensive to some, but I figure if humor doesn’t offend anybody, it’s probably not really that funny. There’s a butt to every joke. The story has social satire, with a particular focus on sex and drugs in ways that may surprise. And there’s farting that will make Stephen King proud. I wrote it with a specific anthology in mind, . I think its failure there was more of a personal political issue than a story quality issue. The anthology ended up featuring something like fifteen or so stories, and only one was by a writer with whom the editor did not already have a personal or electronic relationship. As "Through Rose-Colored Lenses" is an "immediate future" science fiction and not part of the "Sivil Galaxi" milieu I have been putting most fiction attention on, I didn’t keep up on submitting it to editors. Breath and Shadow is only the second magazine to have reviewed it.
Breath and Shadow comes to the web from Maine. They are a free, none-subscription web-zine, free for the browsing at all times and to all readers.The story is slated for the winter issue, so should hit the world wide web in January or so. I’ll keep the readers here appraised, specifically as the story fits into the Blindsided! themes and subjects more than any of my other stories do.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Advance Gratitude
My blog readers who might be interested in sampling some of my fiction had a reduced-price opportunity at one story, if they read on Kindle.
Amazon has the Kindle edition of _The Aether Age Helios_ on sale for $0.99 today. I have no idea how long the sale will last.
This anthology is a concept book in the alternate history genre. The concept was a fascinating one: what if the world-changing industrial revolution occurred in ancient Egypt?
The book includes my story "Advance Gratitude," which opens with a dead grandmother and reveals the fate of her "promised one" grandchild.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Aether-Age-Helios-ebook/dp/B005EZHFRC/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1344265375&sr=8-2&keywords=aether+age+helios
My website always links to some free fiction reads under the "Short Story" page at http://www.kozzi.us/short%20stories.html
The stories here range from my "Sivil Galaxi" science fiction to mainstream humor and some of my Rhode Island stories, as well as a 2006 professionally published essay.
Amazon has the Kindle edition of _The Aether Age Helios_ on sale for $0.99 today. I have no idea how long the sale will last.
This anthology is a concept book in the alternate history genre. The concept was a fascinating one: what if the world-changing industrial revolution occurred in ancient Egypt?
The book includes my story "Advance Gratitude," which opens with a dead grandmother and reveals the fate of her "promised one" grandchild.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Aether-Age-Helios-ebook/dp/B005EZHFRC/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1344265375&sr=8-2&keywords=aether+age+helios
My website always links to some free fiction reads under the "Short Story" page at http://www.kozzi.us/short%20stories.html
The stories here range from my "Sivil Galaxi" science fiction to mainstream humor and some of my Rhode Island stories, as well as a 2006 professionally published essay.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Canes and Labels
I suppose I should put this in a more polite or literary way, but that also would just be compensating for other people’s comfort. There's got to be a limit to that, and I choose clarity: The expectation that I try even harder to make others more comfortable with my disability really pisses me off.
This is especially true with the suggestion that using a blind man’s cane would make complete strangers more comfortable.
I owe complete strangers more of my personal efforts why?
I don’t ask for political correctness I acknowledge limitations and ask for little help. If some minor point of compensation seems odd seems like I am asking too much, I readily and politely explain that I am visually impaired.
One recent need for a strange request that required an explanation to a stranger: I had to ask an old bat of a cashier at Home Depot to put my purchase in a bag instead of pointing to the bags for me to do it myself.
The recent argument with two close friends about cane use is far from the first time I have heard the suggestion. People cannot see with my eyes to know how and when I can or cannot see something specific. I am not blind, in the sense of living in total darkness. I am severely visually impaired, and the multiple factors and causes of that do make it difficult for people to figure out what I can or cannot see. I compensate for that already, so don’t ask for more.
The first cane suggestion was from the editor of a "disability culture" magazine who objected to my joke tagline that I do not use a cane because I am too afraid I will beat people with it when they persist in getting in my way anyway.
I think I disappointed the editor by not embracing the equipment and politics of the "disability culture." So far, while acknowledging my growing limitations and being as candid as possible about things, I have not let myself fall into whining, or succumbed to self pity. The most common way I have learned I cannot do things is by trying to do them. I have not internalized being blind or otherwise handicapped as part of my self concept.
Here in Rhode Island, it is considered discriminatory to state that an apartment being advertised is "in sight of" a landmark or "a short walk from" a bus stop or grocery store. I find that absurd. I have no expectation that the rest of the human race should be, or pretend to be, handicapped just because I and other people are. I forget the source–maybe an old Little River Band song?–but have always embraced a line that says something to the effect of "if the human race runs only as fast as the slowest runner, we get nowhere."
I just don’t buy into political correctness at the cost of frankness, and at this point in my existence as a gimp, a cane would be more of a label than a tool.
This is especially true with the suggestion that using a blind man’s cane would make complete strangers more comfortable.
I owe complete strangers more of my personal efforts why?
I don’t ask for political correctness I acknowledge limitations and ask for little help. If some minor point of compensation seems odd seems like I am asking too much, I readily and politely explain that I am visually impaired.
One recent need for a strange request that required an explanation to a stranger: I had to ask an old bat of a cashier at Home Depot to put my purchase in a bag instead of pointing to the bags for me to do it myself.
The recent argument with two close friends about cane use is far from the first time I have heard the suggestion. People cannot see with my eyes to know how and when I can or cannot see something specific. I am not blind, in the sense of living in total darkness. I am severely visually impaired, and the multiple factors and causes of that do make it difficult for people to figure out what I can or cannot see. I compensate for that already, so don’t ask for more.
The first cane suggestion was from the editor of a "disability culture" magazine who objected to my joke tagline that I do not use a cane because I am too afraid I will beat people with it when they persist in getting in my way anyway.
I think I disappointed the editor by not embracing the equipment and politics of the "disability culture." So far, while acknowledging my growing limitations and being as candid as possible about things, I have not let myself fall into whining, or succumbed to self pity. The most common way I have learned I cannot do things is by trying to do them. I have not internalized being blind or otherwise handicapped as part of my self concept.
Here in Rhode Island, it is considered discriminatory to state that an apartment being advertised is "in sight of" a landmark or "a short walk from" a bus stop or grocery store. I find that absurd. I have no expectation that the rest of the human race should be, or pretend to be, handicapped just because I and other people are. I forget the source–maybe an old Little River Band song?–but have always embraced a line that says something to the effect of "if the human race runs only as fast as the slowest runner, we get nowhere."
I just don’t buy into political correctness at the cost of frankness, and at this point in my existence as a gimp, a cane would be more of a label than a tool.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Waking to the New World
Sometimes I wake very leisurely. The morning of the vitreous hemorrhage had been like that, a relaxed morning where I did not open my eyes right away. On mornings like that, I sit in bed with closed eyes as sunlight streams on my face from the skylight.
My mind usually starts up faster than my body does, and I often don’t rush the body to catch up. I sir and think of the active to do list and the week’s agenda and the backburner things I could get done.
The morning of the hemorrhage, more than two years ago now, the sudden appearance of flowing darkness that cast a shadow behind my eyelid brought instant sharp focus to my mind.
These days, my mind wanders. I review all the things I could do, all the things I have not gotten done.
I had roughly sketched out a series of closely-linked short stories yet have not written even one. There’s editing to my main novel-length works that I could exercise with. There’S three longer short stories I could work towards completion. The cycle of submissions to editors never ends.
The stonewash treatment to the hallway next door had remain incomplete for ages. Other things at the properties need tweaking or improving. The yard needs attention, and there’s always a mound of neglected paperwork on my desk.
The seasonal or occasional jobs around the house are also typically neglected. I think of the elderly, incompetent neighbor I had helped a few years back. I had redone her floors because I did not think the state would let her back into her home if the splits and corroded areas posed tripping hazards. Within a few months, layers of dust and dirt crept out from the walls, anywhere her housecoat did not sweep, and I wonder if my floors look like that.
So I will wake and keep my eyes closed and think of everything I could do and should do and have let slide for so long. I start to chide myself for being so lazy and wonder why I’ve let myself get like that and stay like that for so long.
Then, ready for a manic-depressive push of activity for the day, I open my eyes and remember why. The room won’t come into focus through hazes of fog and light. The doorframes are jagged with edges that will probably never be sharply defined again. I move slowly and must stop at both the top and the bottom of the stairs to make sure I have the footing right. At certain times of day that change seasonably, I need to stop when blasts of sunlight strobe my eyes with sharp contrasts that require "unreasonable" focus readjustment times.
I realize that I haven’t let my hidden lazy streak win. There’s so many things I could do, but not very well by my own standards. There’s things I just can’t do.
The rest is just so damn difficult.
My mind usually starts up faster than my body does, and I often don’t rush the body to catch up. I sir and think of the active to do list and the week’s agenda and the backburner things I could get done.
The morning of the hemorrhage, more than two years ago now, the sudden appearance of flowing darkness that cast a shadow behind my eyelid brought instant sharp focus to my mind.
These days, my mind wanders. I review all the things I could do, all the things I have not gotten done.
I had roughly sketched out a series of closely-linked short stories yet have not written even one. There’s editing to my main novel-length works that I could exercise with. There’S three longer short stories I could work towards completion. The cycle of submissions to editors never ends.
The stonewash treatment to the hallway next door had remain incomplete for ages. Other things at the properties need tweaking or improving. The yard needs attention, and there’s always a mound of neglected paperwork on my desk.
The seasonal or occasional jobs around the house are also typically neglected. I think of the elderly, incompetent neighbor I had helped a few years back. I had redone her floors because I did not think the state would let her back into her home if the splits and corroded areas posed tripping hazards. Within a few months, layers of dust and dirt crept out from the walls, anywhere her housecoat did not sweep, and I wonder if my floors look like that.
So I will wake and keep my eyes closed and think of everything I could do and should do and have let slide for so long. I start to chide myself for being so lazy and wonder why I’ve let myself get like that and stay like that for so long.
Then, ready for a manic-depressive push of activity for the day, I open my eyes and remember why. The room won’t come into focus through hazes of fog and light. The doorframes are jagged with edges that will probably never be sharply defined again. I move slowly and must stop at both the top and the bottom of the stairs to make sure I have the footing right. At certain times of day that change seasonably, I need to stop when blasts of sunlight strobe my eyes with sharp contrasts that require "unreasonable" focus readjustment times.
I realize that I haven’t let my hidden lazy streak win. There’s so many things I could do, but not very well by my own standards. There’s things I just can’t do.
The rest is just so damn difficult.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
No Rest for the Wicked
The floater releases held a pattern besides being mostly three month intervals. They all made mu vision worse in an apparently permanent way. There’s been four releases, and the only month that skipped saw the beginning of undeniable gradual regression without a sudden shadow.
I had to seek advice in dealing with them by looking online. That’s not easy for me, but necessary. Most setbacks occurred while I was in the "care" of Doctor Arrigg at Joslin. He did little but shake his head sadly and talk about surgery on the long-dark right eye as a means of getting what backup I could from that. That operation was something he never intended to do anyway. In the meantime, he had wasted more than a year of crucial treatment time and thousands of my dollars.
The advice I gleaned read the same for the floater hemorrhages as it did for the bloody vitreous hemorrhage induced by the Cialis dose: rest easy until the floater absorbed into the vitreous fluid. I did that the first time, even with responsibilities pressing. I sat in the recliner and listened to the TV day after day. When I could, did internet searches and tried to keep up on things. I had been at a good clip with the fiction writing through 2010, but the first setback curtailed that. The ever-growing backlog of responsibilities has kept those ambitions curtailed. I only have so much computer time before the screen burns the eye out for the day.
Absorption into the eye took a few weeks, and more recovery of function took longer.
With the second setback, I considered more of my experience than the book learnin’. I had slept in the recliner for months after the hemorrhage, as advised by online articles. After a few months I was just missed my own bed upstairs. Absorption of the bloody haze seemed to pick up speed when I began lying down. I had assumed that this was just the time of the healing process.
I did not rest as much after the second setback. I couldn’t. While plowing was over, shoveling at the properties remained, and by that time in the winter of 2010 even enterprising neighborhood kids didn’t want to deal with it anymore. Three apartments were empty and needed work, and countless projects remained backlogged. Squirrels were invading one house as mice were invading two others. Electrical problems developed. A newer and higher priority always emerged. I couldn’t rest anyway.
And the healing process went more quickly.
I rested less after the third setback. By that time I felt shame for the length of time apartments had been empty and was having problems farming assistance. Despite assurances of payment, some friends were charitable in offering help but had little desire to follow through and/or weren’t as capable as they thought they were. If I wanted things done, I needed to do them myself.
I had to seek advice in dealing with them by looking online. That’s not easy for me, but necessary. Most setbacks occurred while I was in the "care" of Doctor Arrigg at Joslin. He did little but shake his head sadly and talk about surgery on the long-dark right eye as a means of getting what backup I could from that. That operation was something he never intended to do anyway. In the meantime, he had wasted more than a year of crucial treatment time and thousands of my dollars.
The advice I gleaned read the same for the floater hemorrhages as it did for the bloody vitreous hemorrhage induced by the Cialis dose: rest easy until the floater absorbed into the vitreous fluid. I did that the first time, even with responsibilities pressing. I sat in the recliner and listened to the TV day after day. When I could, did internet searches and tried to keep up on things. I had been at a good clip with the fiction writing through 2010, but the first setback curtailed that. The ever-growing backlog of responsibilities has kept those ambitions curtailed. I only have so much computer time before the screen burns the eye out for the day.
Absorption into the eye took a few weeks, and more recovery of function took longer.
With the second setback, I considered more of my experience than the book learnin’. I had slept in the recliner for months after the hemorrhage, as advised by online articles. After a few months I was just missed my own bed upstairs. Absorption of the bloody haze seemed to pick up speed when I began lying down. I had assumed that this was just the time of the healing process.
I did not rest as much after the second setback. I couldn’t. While plowing was over, shoveling at the properties remained, and by that time in the winter of 2010 even enterprising neighborhood kids didn’t want to deal with it anymore. Three apartments were empty and needed work, and countless projects remained backlogged. Squirrels were invading one house as mice were invading two others. Electrical problems developed. A newer and higher priority always emerged. I couldn’t rest anyway.
And the healing process went more quickly.
I rested less after the third setback. By that time I felt shame for the length of time apartments had been empty and was having problems farming assistance. Despite assurances of payment, some friends were charitable in offering help but had little desire to follow through and/or weren’t as capable as they thought they were. If I wanted things done, I needed to do them myself.
Shameless Plug
I generally keep the blog and my fiction separate (there’s that compartmentalization thing again)but of all stories I have ever written or probably ever will write, this one deserves an extra push.
Some have noticed my "bitterness" about the blind thing while others have noted the humor I try to infuse (and other have noted both with the connection between angry people and that over-the-top Three Stooges humor.)
WTF?!
Paperback or Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982991347
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/wtf-rose-mambert/1107930675?ean=9780982991343&itm=5&usri=wtf%3f%21
I do have to add a language advisory to this one as I do usually avoid excessive cussing in my writing, but what’s a few F-bombs between friends? is finally available...too late for Christmas, unfortunately. If you only ever get one anthology with one of my short stories, this is the one! This urban fantasy is full on with my warped, politically incorrect humor in a sharp satire about Providence during the shameful Ciccillini administration. "The Rats of the Renaissance City" in WTF?!
es, the book's cover illustration was inspired by my story!
Some have noticed my "bitterness" about the blind thing while others have noted the humor I try to infuse (and other have noted both with the connection between angry people and that over-the-top Three Stooges humor.)
WTF?!
Paperback or Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982991347
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/wtf-rose-mambert/1107930675?ean=9780982991343&itm=5&usri=wtf%3f%21
I do have to add a language advisory to this one as I do usually avoid excessive cussing in my writing, but what’s a few F-bombs between friends? is finally available...too late for Christmas, unfortunately. If you only ever get one anthology with one of my short stories, this is the one! This urban fantasy is full on with my warped, politically incorrect humor in a sharp satire about Providence during the shameful Ciccillini administration. "The Rats of the Renaissance City" in WTF?!
es, the book's cover illustration was inspired by my story!
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