On The Downslope

That is—I am rapidly sliding downhill. What are my options? Digging in? Do I try to set my heels against the momentum? Try to recapture some of my wasted youth?

How about I wax philosophical on how not to live your life by examining mine. That would be most depressing. I can only tell you what didn’t work for me. Obviously I can’t tell you what to actually do. I didn’t do it.

There was an old saying in my youth that went something like: Don’t do what I do; do what I tell you to do. It would be said by a parent or significant elder, basically telling you that although they were flawed and did things wrongly, they knew what you should do—you should listen to them. As that has gone on for generations, I’m not sure how effective that approach was. Actually, I am—it was not effective.

If I had my life to live over again, would I do things differently? I would like to hope so. But there is no guarantee. What a waste it would be were I just to remake the same mistakes. Isn’t that what reincarnation is for? To perfect lost lives until perfect. Not sure that’s working for mankind, either.

Although we have made strides again and again in the external world of things medical, mechanical and electronical (made that one up), we, as a human race are declining mentally, socially and educationally. The gap between the haves and the have-nots is growing exponentially. And that is not just financially. I am certain there are fewer geniuses out there and most probably a disproportionate share of them are not using their powers for the common good.

You can say that the bad things in the news aren’t any worse, we are just hearing about them more often and faster. You can also say that the weather is no worse than ever, just that we are better informed.

But I have lived in eight decades in this world of ours, and although there are some wonderfully good people out there and I know quite a few of them, there is more evil than there was and it is spreading far more easily than it ever did before. Our genes and Mother-Nature have not been entirely kind.

So It looks as if my slippery slope is awash with muck and mire, much as our tortured earth after one of our new mega-storms and much as our political system which allows the haves to rise out of the muck and mire by trodding upon the have-nots. So what will I do about my rapid descent?

Think I’ll sit here and play in the mud for a while longer. If things get too bad, I can just go to sleep…

            …or struggle as Sisyphus against that boulder, eternally…

            …or maybe just stop thinking so much and go and do the dishes, maybe work on my manuscript.

Haven’t really solved the world’s problem, have I? Didn’t intend to, just wanted to vent a little.

That Which I Would Do, I Do Not…

It’s an apt theme for this errant (late by two days) blog post. And as I stated on FaceBook yesterday, it’s pretty much the story of my life, along with the maxim, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

My road will surely provide me with a smooth slide down the slippery slope (greased by my overuse of clichéd terms, no doubt.

I am the world’s best (or worst, depending on how you look at it) procrastinator. I have been so successful in putting off so many things for so long, that I have spent my entire life dreaming and planning and not accomplishing much of any of it.

I am so good, I have even procrastinated my own death, surviving with a scary heart condition for over a year now. Guess I am officially past my “use by” date.

The sad thing is, even if I were to overcome this lifelong problem, I probably do not now have the time left to see my efforts to their fulfillment.

I shall not, for instance, live long enough to see any of my novels published by a major house, nor have one appear on the New York Times Best Seller List. I currently self-publish through various channels because of my virtual deadline. (That’s a good theme for another blog post.)

Even though I write visually and can picture movies made from my books, I will never see one on the big screen. Even if a script of mine were picked up now, I doubt I would live long enough to see it to completion.

Why has it come to this? Probably for several reasons, including the fear of failure, perhaps even the fear of success. More likely, I’ve always thought I would have tomorrow, even though it has been proven to me time and again, that tomorrow is not guaranteed. It seems I have forever been granted a new dawn, another chance.

Now I realize, those new dawns and other chances are dwindling down to a precious few. I doubt I even have enough time left to finish my works-in-progress, let alone gain any modicome of success from my efforts.

So, to the purpose of this rambling post: Please profit from my mistakes. “You who have dreams, if you act, they will come true.” The operative word here is “ACT”. “JUST DO IT!”

DO IT NOW—BEFORE IT’S NEVER!

Yes, I’m shouting! Pin that on your mirror and polish it every day. Don’t fade into the sunset unfulfilled. It’s later than you think. The tried and true clichés and platitudes I’ve included still hold sway.

Where Do Writers Write Best?

At my age, I should be able to write anything, anywhere. Truth is, I am most comfortable and prolific in a lounge chair in my backyard with a clipboard full of papers and a pen. Yes, I still write the old-fashioned way, by hand.

Although I find my fingers tire more easily these days, my thoughts are still quickened by the freedom of the open air and its lack of electronic distractions.

The drone of traffic in the distance is music to my ears, and my eyes enjoy the occasional diversion of the Great-Tailed Grackles, White-Winged Doves and the odd sparrow, finch or wren that visit the feeders and roam contentedly among the now-dead blades of grass in my yard.

The chattering of squirrels may occupy my mind for a moment as they skitter up and down the trunk of the old pecan tree, but I’m soon drawn back to whatever world I’m dwelling in depending on the manuscript in front of me.

This winter I find this idyllic situation eludes me frequently, and I cherish the few days it is warm enough and sunny enough to embrace Earth Mother and Sky Father on their current terms.

Neighbors must think me strange, sitting there in the lounge chair layered in a fleece hoody, quilt down jacket and gloves, wrapped in my favorite out door blanket (it has a unicorn on it), my gloved hands holding a pen with precarious purchase, writing on the clipboard held in my lap.

Not too many neighbors know what I do, and the one who does, still thinks me strange. I’m sure the rest think I’m an eccentric old lady they should avoid.

Oh, did I mention the occasional vulture soaring overhead, buoyed by zephyrs high in the air, circling overhead? I find it oddly peaceful, even though I know it’s looking for something dead to eat. But then, I write horror, so I guess it’s not that odd.

Yes, I’m watching one now. I guess it forgot to go south with its fellows. I am enjoying today’s 50 + degrees outside. I’m told tomorrow will barely top 40 and turn windy, so I probably won’t venture out.

But today, so far, I’ve written three haiku, this blog entry, and I’m about to pull out my current manuscript: The Chronicles of Acqueria: The Early Years, my YA prequel to Blood Moon Treachery. I need to finish it before NaNoEdMo in March, when I frantically edit before polishing and publishing.

Before I go, let me ask, where do my readers who are also writers write best? What causes your creative juices to flow? How are you coping this winter?

Happy New Year!!!

I kinda went away from the blog-o-sphere, didn't I? And I lost track of how many days I tweeted in a row in November and December. I guess about as many days as I actually sat and wrote.

Time to get back in the saddle. Next year’s theme will be an old one resurrected (been doing a lot of resurrecting lately). For 2014, my theme will be: Must Write! Must Edit! Must Publish! I’ve got nine or ten novel manuscripts in some stage of completion and probably not that many years left to finish them. And I better add a Must Promote! section. Better get crackin’. Looks like 2014 will be a busy year.

I also plan on writing a haiku a day in January and publishing two if not three chapbooks of poetry during the year, most of it morbid, including the 25^th anniversary Edition of Volume Two of the Castleweaver’s Tales, my dark, medieval fantasy collection. Volume One is available from Amazon. Gotta put it on Kindle soon, but I don’t know how evolved ebooks are with illustrations. Guess I’ll find out.

Thinking of doing some readings on UTube, also. Eldreth wants his voice heard, and I just love to tell about what lies dungeon-deep in the dragon’s lair, the sights no sane man’s seen. What only babbling fools have lived to tell…   but then, I digress. J Another project I might add—a memoir—how not to live your life.

Saving Coco

Saving Coco

By Ann Wilmer-Lasky

    

     Just when you think the world has gone to hell in a handbasket, you run into a group of very special people whose greater purpose in life seems to be to make one little corner of the universe more bearable.

     I have been privileged to be a small part of that group. Although it may never show up on anyone's radar of events, Saving Coco deserves its place in the cosmos.

     Coco, a tiny, not quite year-old Chihuahua cross, appeared on the Roswell Urgent Needs At Animal Control Facebook page. Her time had run out, she was about to be put to sleep, euthanized—certainly more gentle ways of saying she was a stray that nobody wanted, so she was going to be killed, thrown away as a part of our so disposable society. It's so difficult to conceive of something as loving and lively as Coco as ultimately being considered garbage—something we think no more of than being landfill fodder.

     

 Well, let me tell you, this perfect bright, little baby with the perfect giant stand-up ears and the profile of a Great Dane (although a tiny little Chihuahua version) did not deserve to die. Her loving heart deserved love in return. She deserved to finish growing up and chase balls and chew on squeaky toys and make someone's life brighter, just by being a part of it. Now, she will have that chance.

     Due to the compassion and dedication of individuals from as far away as Belgium, and from Roswell all the way to Florida, this beautiful little, loving dog has been given the chance to spread her own kind of love and joy. Here's Coco's story:

     Chez Nany, a lady in Belgium saw Coco's picture—a portrait of pure dejection—and read about her impending doom on Roswell's Urgent Needs Animals page. She found a woman in Florida who wanted to adopt Coco.

     Now, how do you make that happen half-a-world and half-a-continent away for a tiny little six-pound dog with no resources and no hope? You tap into a network of dedicated, compassionate people who know how to make things happen.

     Some friend somewhere between Belgium and Florida was friends with my very good friend, Alice Duncan, an author who lives here in Roswell. Knowing that Alice is also a part of New Mexico Dachshund Rescue, she felt Alice might be able to retrieve the dog from Animal Control, where she was scheduled to be put down the very next day. (True, Coco is a Chihuahua cross and not a Dachshund, but compassion knows no breed boundaries.)

     Although Alice was already fostering three homeless Doxies, along with her own brood of pampered canines, she agreed to help. She volunteered to pick Coco up from Animal Control and enlisted my help to provide foster care for her until arrangements could be made to somehow transport her from Roswell to Florida, a distance of over 1,600 miles as the car drives.

     By the way, the next day, after Coco was plucked from Animal Control, seventeen dogs were euthanized. She would have been the eighteenth. This is a terrible statistic, one that unfortunately is repeated over and over all across this country, but that is another story. One that Coco, thankfully, was saved from being a part of.

     Coco fit right in with my husband and me and our two rescued Dachshunds, Bruce and Chuck, saved about a year and a half ago from that very same Animal Control shelter. (They do try, really, to find them homes, but they are overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of abandoned and unwanted dogs and cats in this area—a dilemma that, as I said, is repeated over and over everywhere I know of.)

     But I digress. Through the kindness and generosity of caring people across this country—friends, both known and unknown to us—Alice and I were able to take Coco to our wonderful local veterinarians, Drs. Smith and Wenner, who offered us a discount and Coco a thorough examination and her shots, and yes, spayed her. None of us will ever knowingly contribute to the population of unwanted and abandoned animals.

     After she soaked up the vets' loving care and the attentions of their wonderful staff, she came back to us to recover and get ready for her journey.

     Coco recovered rapidly. She set about chasing balls and bringing them back to drop at our feet.  She took easily to squeaking her toys and tossing them into the air. She would grab a stuffed 'thing' almost as big as she was, (she weighed a little over six pounds when we got her) and shake it about and proudly prance around the yard with it.

     She had a voracious appetite and refused nothing we offered her. (She weighs just over seven pounds now and has a few more to go before you won't be able to feel her backbone.)

     She took to snuggling up with Bruce and Chuck in the middle of our queen-sized bed. My husband Barry and I were allowed to sleep on the edges of it. After all, we needed to keep them warm. (Big smiley face goes here.)

     

 In the early mornings, she would go out with my husband and help him feed the birds. Of course, the two of them stayed out and played a little catch before breakfast, while Bruce and Chuck and I slept in. (Another smiley face belongs here.)

     And so, Coco lived with us, while behind the scenes, efforts were made to move her from Roswell (which lies in the middle of nowhere) to her pending forever home in Florida, where her new forever mom Caci waited anxiously for her.

     It took about a month, all told, to arrange for her transport—a daunting challenge undertaken by a fantastic group I learned of through contact with their trip coordinator, Julie, called Kindred Hearts Transport Connection, a network of caring people willing to donate their time and resources to move animals such as Coco (as well as Heaven and Earth to do so) to their new forever homes.

     So, three days ago, Alice and I drove Coco (and her acquired toys and all the paraphernalia befitting a traveling princess) to the Roswell Airport, where we met a wonderful pilot named Jim, who flew to Roswell for the express purpose of transporting Coco to Dallas/Ft. Worth, where she was to be housed overnight and then transported by cars (many cars) on a journey with as many lega as a centipede. (a little exaggeration here) and that spans four days time.

     As all goes well, she will arrive at her forever home on Sunday, having touched many lives and having shared her love and her love of life with all of them.

     We wish Coco and her new mama, Caci, all the happiness being alive can bring. We will miss her terribly. (We already do!) My husband now wants to adopt a replacement for her, but really, she would be hard to replace—perfection usually is. I would prefer to keep a spot open to help other animals in need.

     My heart follows Coco to her new home. I only wish I could shake hands and personally thank all the wonderful people who have had a part in this amazing undertaking. I assure you, Coco thanks you all from the bottom of her huge (though tiny in size) and loving heart.

Resurrection, Day One: Back to Life

I almost died a year ago. September last year to be more precise. But congestive heart failure is not necessarily fatal, and I didn't die.

Nor did I return to life or resume my creative writing.

Oh, I did my NaNoWriMo.org challenge last November, and I've been editing the resulting manuscript off and on. But I've not published anything new or finished any old works-in-progress, nor have I done any marketing. I blogged a little while I was depressed, but even that didn't last long.

Maybe I figured if I didn't do anything, I wouldn't die. So, I just took my meds and existed for the last year. Now, a year later, I have nothing to show for the year—except that I'm another year older, my body is another year more worn out and my taxes are due by the 15th of this month.

Then along comes this challenge to resurrect my life and my creative endeavors, or at least to jump on the bandwagon and blog every day this month.

Perhaps the discipline will rub off on other parts of my life, and I'll get back to doing things—anything would be nice.

To help inspire me, I looked up one of my favorite songs from the 90's. I believe my fondest memory of it is from an early Geico commercial. I can still picture some lithe young thing swinging the gecko around and around in the middle of some meadow.

I hope you enjoy the song, perhaps get some inspiration from it.

I'm going to spend the rest of this month reclaiming my life and letting the world know how it goes.

If I die, I die. At least I will have lived one month out of the last thirteen.

By the way, thanks Michele and Michelle for the challenge.

October 2013 Ultimate Blog Challenge

I plan on learning a lot about blogging this month.