Archive for February, 2007
Trying to figure out a topic for posts over here is tough. It shouldn’t be, should it? Does anyone else have this problem? I mean, on MY blog, I just write about any old thing that strikes my fancy. Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes I don’t even care. But over here? Yeah, I get nervous. That’s silly, I know. If anything, it should be less stressful here, since there are so many other people that post that one stinker from me (and I don’t mean “me” but acutally, you know, ME) shouldn’t be so obvious. At the most, it’s only up here for a few days, right? And really, it’s not like what’s written in the post really matters over here. Most people just drop in to read the comments.
Knowing that, I’d like to talk a bit about the comments. Those glorious comments keep us entertained, don’t they? Through those comments, we find out a little more about each other, what’s going on in our lives, the moods that we’re in, the health of relatives, the mental stability of friends. So many things are said in the comments, aren’t they? It makes me wonder how much thought actually goes into the comments that we make.
Some of us are all over the comments. If a new comment is made on a post, you know that someone will respond soon. That’s reassuring. Certain people can be counted on for certain types of comments. McB is pretty quick with responses, isn’t she? Knowing her, counting her as a friend, that doesn’t surprise me. She’s very quick-witted, very snappy, very intelligent. I count on her to have a funny comment. BCB always has great comebacks, doesn’t she? I think she’s responsible for more coffee on my screen than anyone else. Jen-T is good for an “Oh I can’t believe that happened to her!” story, usually involving either travel, or cooking, or frogs, or beds. OH is great for the “younger” perspective, though sometimes I wonder if she’s really as young as she says. She seems much more mature than most of the college kids I know. RG is usually full of some kind of advice, isn’t she? And it’s usually pretty good. CMS is always so kind, and Penny is always so sweet, it makes me want to move to Canada just to be near them on a regular basis.
There are so many others though. So many people have come into my life throgh this blog. So many people have made an impact on me through this place. It’s become a place that I visit on a regular basis, even if I don’t make a comment every time. I have to check in, just to see who’s said what, who’s been here, who’s left their mark. It’s not like there is one person that is more important, or funnier, or nicer, than any other. Every single person that comes here brings something unique with them. Every person that comes here leaves their special mark on the lives of the others.
I know I’ve thanked you guys for being such an encouragement to me, holding my hand (and my hair!) through joining RWA and signing up for my first conference. But have I thanked you just for being YOU? Have I thanked you for your endless supply of good cheer, or your limitless patience, or your constant support? No, I’m not getting all sappy. It’s just that in this day and age, it’s seems rare to have found a place where I feel comfortable letting my hair down, so to speak (and yes, it IS growing back, thankyouverymuch!). It’s nice to be able to slip in here and say “My day was crap, because my friend Renee, who has breast cancer, was in surgery today, and it’s all I could think about, and I got nothing done, and didn’t want to post, and just wanted to curl up on my bed and cry for a while”. I can say that here, and know that when I check later, there will be words of comfort, and much needed hugs, and people will actually stop and say “Oh dee, I’m with you”. And tomorrow, when I check again, people will actually remember, and ask me how my friend is doing. And people all around the world will say a prayer for Renee today, because I asked them to, because it matters to me, and because they know that when they have something happen, I do the same for them. I’ve found this incredible place here, where people care, and always have open arms and strong shoulders and ready laughs.
And it doesn’t matter if my post is really good, or really off topic, or if you feel or understand every word that I’ve written. Yeah, the post is nice. But the comfort? The friendship? It’s apparent in the small talk. It’s there in the comments.
February 26th, 2007
some of us won’t be able to see soon, so till the next post:
quick updates:
Welcome Kim.
Hi RSS, who hardly ever comes to play with us over here.
and three, MCB started a pool for when Wapa’s DGB was going to be born. (this is in wapa’s time, so remember the time zone switches from her to CB Land).
RSS votes for Monday February 26th at 6:05 PM
MCB, who came up with the idea, hasn’t voted yet.
I (not me), OH, say Sunday, Feb. 25, 2007. 2:13 am
since we don’t have a prize yet, i say whoever wins (besides getting to call themselves the winner), get’s to read BCB’s chapter 2. i should probably clear it with her though…
geez, i just remember all the betting i used to do in school. all that gambling. it was so much fun. and i made some good money. great stuff.
and remember folks, in thick or thin, elephants or shine, the CBs are here *battle cry*
February 24th, 2007
I’m knee deep in Girl Scout Cookies- I can’t figure out how to make this thing post later- I’m tired- I’m admitting it- I’m recycling a writing- I did this last year when I went back and took a grammer/comp class as preperation for taking my GRE.
Confessions of a Reader
A lone woman in the back of the room stands and says, “Hello, my name is Nikkie, and I’m a reader.” Everyone in the room turns to her and says, “Hello Nikkie.”
Scenes similar to this are played out in support groups across the country every day as folks find themselves needing help dealing with their personal devils. But what about the rest of us, those who love our devils and can’t imagine life without them? Those of us who have “socially acceptable” devils? What do we do for help? I need to know, because I am a reader.
Reading is my first true love. It is the thing that gives me the most joy, the most comfort, and most annoys the people in my world. Much of my life is shaped by books. I own more bookshelves than most people I know. I won’t buy a purse if it doesn’t have room for my wallet and a book. While other people have lists of things to be done around the house, I have shelves of books to be read. I am even in my current profession because of a book.
I thrill to fiction where the characters are so well drawn I feel like I have made a friend. I delight in travel books that are so vivid, I know my first trip will seem as if it were my second. I relish history that explains cause and effect with such logic I can look at other events and identify the turning points. I cherish science that is so clearly written that complex ideas become manageable. I believe in fairy tales. This is the gift of my first love. This is the gift of reading.
I know The King James Bible was written in such flowery, arcane language, because the translators wanted it to stand above other, common books. I know that Merriwether Lewis’ dog was named Seaman. I know Salt Lake City eats more Jell-O than any other city in the United States. All of this is in my head because of reading. I am compelled to read. Other humans need food, drink, and air to live. I need books. I will read anything that is close at hand when I am denied books. This is why I know the ingredients in Rice Chex cereal.
Oh, and the friends I have made both real and imaginary. I was on a first name basis with Laura Ingalls Wilder when I was young even though she had died over a decade before I was born. After I met Kit Tyler, a teenaged girl from the Caribbean who found herself living in Puritan New England, I learned that other girls felt odd and out of place. I discovered that while some thought nonsense words were silly, others made a living from them after I read the poetry of Shel Silverstein. I have talked books with adults and children and with people from many countries and continents. I have defended, argued, and giggled while talking books. I have watched new friendships build after introducing my real world friends to my literary friends.
Like the full moon that shines in the sky, reading has a dark side. I tend to jump into a book and forget where or when I am, a problem that has caused me to miss assignments in school, to be late for work, and to get yelled at by my parents. I took a book to my sister’s college graduation. I have had library fines in the hundreds of dollars. I have become frustrated and thrown books because an author made the heroine TSTL (too stupid to live.) Being a reader is my personal devil, the devil that chose me.
In the middle of the night, when I’m all alone and the world is a scary place, I pull out a beat up copy of an old favorite and prepare to leave this world behind. I go somewhere safer than the one I inhabit day in and day out.
“Hello. My name is Nikkie. I’m a reader.”
February 20th, 2007
we need a post, so here it is.
i should probably spend this post embarassing my friends horribly, since they are coming over soon, and heck, why not?
am i that mean? why yes, yes i am.
but instead of all of them, i’m going to focus on one of them. i’ll call her G. it’s ok, that’s one of her nicknames. it’s short for something that i’m told may offend some people, so that’s good enough. a nickname. her real name’s Becca.
oops.
before i met the CBs (and really, what an important day in all of our lives, when’s our anniversary again?), there were very few big readers. actually, there was only one, Lisa, who’s main focus was all those old classics i hate, like Dostoeysky (haven’t read C&P yet, which i should, but i’m still recovering from the brother book). yes, yes, he had many important things to say, etc etc. whatever. he was boring. so we didn’t have very many long, drawn out conversations.
sometimes i would talk someone into reading a book, and we’d talk about it, and it was great, but those were once-in-awhile conversations.
and then she came into my life, with a selection almost as big as mine (ok, maybe not that far, but close), with a willingness to go into a bookstore and not leave for many, many hours later, with a collection she wanted to share and discuss and laugh over and be sentimental about, the whole nine yards.
a group of friends are coming over tonight. we’ll eat food, watch movies, play Disney charades and maybe partner scrabble, and we’ll talk and laugh and catch-up and make future plans. but during all that, my friend and i will talk books. because before the CBs, there was G.
February 17th, 2007
The year I wrote for the local newspaper they made me, the romance writer, do the Valentine’s column. It was not what they expected. It’s ironic that my day to post would be today so I’ve pasted the column that generated a lot of discussion when it originally appeared in the newspaper.
I’m a romance writer.
I examine relationships, the dynamics involved when two people become a couple. I put characters in situations where love really does conquer all.
While my body is seated in front of the computer, my mind wanders through the gardens of imaginary experiences. I rush headlong into the heady emotions of passion, desire and lust. My fingers tremble when my heroine moves forward into her first kiss with the hero, the man she doesn’t know she’s destined to spend the rest of her life, or the next 300 pages, with.
Surrounded by scented candles, evocative music and touch stones to remind me of various different textures, I delve into a world where everything is designed to bring out the romance in life. Hearts and flowers, grand gestures, moonlit walks along the water and every other cliché you can think of exist for me. True love conquers all, life is full of happy endings and two people can spend the rest of their lives in passionate, loving monogamous relationships.
I believe in every word I write.
Which is why I don’t like Valentine’s Day. It puts a lot of unrealistic expectations and demands on two people. Why is that on one day of the year, we are supposed to forget who and what we are and become some greeting card’s version of a couple?
In all the years I was involved in a long term relationship, the hype of Valentine’s Day caused more friction between us than any disaster every did. The card had to say everything I knew he couldn’t. Elaborate displays of expensive flowers, mountains of chocolate and tickets to the latest musical – I wanted it all. All the ads, marketing and women’s magazines insisted I had the right to expect it. On that one day of the year if nothing else.
And if he didn’t give it to me then he didn’t love me.
Valentines’ Day was hell for both of us. Too much pressure to “prove” our love for each other. I can’t remember the number of times we broke up on Valentine’s Day. Okay, so maybe ours wasn’t the lasting, til-death-do-you-part kind of love, but we’re still friends today and have found the way to laugh at the silliness that twisted us in knots.
The insanity of mid February only got worse when I became single. All the hype made me feel like I’m a pathetic loser for being all alone on the most romantic day of the year. The world revolves around lovers. If you aren’t one, you’re nothing. I know better than to buy into that thoughts process, but trust me, it can be hard to remember.
The best Valentine’s day I ever had, I spent doing something I love with the person I love most – myself. I splurged on a huge gift, packed myself a picnic lunch and headed off to the track. I went to the Daytona 500.
Exhaust tickled the fine hairs of my nose, ash and rubber rained down on the stands and I shivered in the cold Florida dawn. I was ecstatic. The roar of engines drowned out everything but the sound of my own heart racing around the track side by side with dueling metal machines.
It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. Romance doesn’t come in boxes, or vases. It’s about the connection, the energy that flows between people. There was a lot of energy at the track. And for that one day a couple of years ago, the romance came from the recognition that I deserved to do something frivilous and outside of expectation. I gave myself something I truly desired. I connected with some long ignored part of myself and enjoyed the day.
I write about romance, the daily occurences that show two people that they are strong individuals who enjoy one another. They stand side by side through adversity and laughter. They balance each other. Romance happens every day, is expressed in the strangest of ways and only occurs when people know and trust themselves as well as each other when they are connected on some level.
Valentine’s Day is just another day. Yesterday was romantic, tomorrow will be more so because the connections will be stronger and more developed. In writing and in life.
The second best Valentine’s Day was the night that article appeared in the paper. I cooked a giant pot of pasta and invited my friends to come for dinner. Single or couple, everyone was welcome. We had wine, flowers, chocolate, lots of laughter and great conversation. The love we felt for each other was strengthened that night.
This year, I’m in the midst of moving, my kitchen is chaotic,surrounded by boxes but I’m going to make up a batch of sauce. Please stop on by, have a glass of wine and enjoy the evening with me over here at the CB Bar and Grill where the love of books, Bob and Jenny and shovels has sustained us through some interesting times. Now that’s romance!
February 13th, 2007
13 Feb 07
Thanks! You can ignore this now.
_________________
Are any of you within convenient, and I stress convenient distance of New Hartford, NY? Now or in the near future? Email me, if so.
Thanks! zlamarr @ gmail . com
February 12th, 2007
My sister visited this weekend. Well its not this weekend that you are reading this, but rather this weekend that I am writing this. But it seemed like a good topic for the Grill so you’re getting it now. Well not NOW now; its actually later. But its now for you. Are we clear on that? And what does that have to do with my title, you may be asking yourself.
I have a LOT of books. I freely admit that I am a book hoarder. Not every book I’ve ever read, but if its one I have really enjoyed, or an author I’m particularly crazy about … you might have heard of one or two of them … I have to own the book. Yes its an expensive hobby; but hey I don’t do drugs, smoke, gamble or drink to excess. Hey, I said to excess. Anyway, I deserve to have some vice, right? And its not like this one hurts anybody. See I knew you guys would understand. Also, they are mostly not laying around cluttering things up. Mostly. Okay a few have found their way to unexpected places, but most of them are on shelves and fairly well organized. Grouped by author (though not necessarily alphabetically) and somewhat by genre. Considering the volume of books I have I think that’s pretty danged good.
So back to my sister. I guess you could call her a minimalist. She detests clutter. Nothing wrong with that. The thing is, my books drive my sister buggy. I don’t know why since they aren’t in her house and aren’t laying around cluttering things up … mostly. But its not clutter anyway, its BOOKS. Also, as I said, they aren’t in her house so what’s the big deal? But she never misses an opportunity to nag me about getting rid of all my paperbacks. The hardbacks she grudgingly considers acceptable. But the paperbacks she considers trash. Huh? I was talking to a friend earlier today (that’s my today, it would be a few weeks ago for you) and, as she pointed out, the content is no less for the difference in covers so what’s the big deal? Some of these I’ve had for many years and are like old friends. Some may even have monetary value; but that’s not the point.
I had this flash, a vision of the future after I’m gone, and it worried me. I saw my sister cleaning off my bookshelves with a garbage bag at her feet. *shudder* So I emailed a friend of mine (a different one; yes, I have another one) and told her I was going to will all my books to her to keep them out of my sister’s hands. Even if my friend doesn’t elect to keep them, she’ll at least respect them. I may distribute a few to other people as bequests (so be nice to me), those people who I know will understand what the books mean to me. But the important thing is to keep the books safe. That was this morning (once again, this was a few weeks ago for you). This afternoon (a few weeks ago) my friend emails me back to say that she’s honored although she’s not sure she could read them all in three lifetimes. Well, I’ve read them all in less than one lifetime (assuming its going to last a bit longer) and anyway, its not like she has to deal with it NOW because, hey, I’m still here. I just want to know that my old friends will have good homes and I trust her.
I know we all read, but who else ‘collects’? Do you have a system? Do you have some ‘old friends’?
Discuss. Whenever.
February 10th, 2007
Seems like I should be able to sneak this in between BCB and McB on the weekend. Right?
You know that little project I mentioned in a previous post??? That had nothing to do with a possible crafters page for our future website. No. It is something else, something real world, something…well, secret. I know many, if not most, of you CBs will want to play when you know what it is, but since it’s A SECRET, I can’t tell you unless you email me: zlamarr @ gmail . com And if you would put “SECRET CB PROJECT” in the subject line, it would be a big help.
I’ve got two volunteers, but I need lots more. You don’t have to necessarily be an avid crafter, you just need to be a confirmed CB with a vivid imagination. I think y’all can handle that.
I may have to draft Lori to help with the organization, if she’s willing, since we know she’s good at that. You don’t have to be living in the same area with me. Theresa in Edinburgh is going to participate. There will be fun, there will be pics, and there will be a travel journal at the end.
I do need a couple people who can sew - small stuff, but sew. And someone to make up the travel journal, and the rest is pretty much up to your imaginations. If we could maybe get Bryan and Louis involved, I could use a guy POV for part two of this game.
I hope I’ve at least made you curious enough to email me to find out what the heck I’m talking about. Don’t make me track you down! This could get ugly. Bwahahahaha.
zlamarr @ gmail . com “SECRET CB PROJECT”
February 9th, 2007
Oh. My. God. It’s ten o’clock on Tuesday night and I just realized I’m supposed to write a post for the CB Bar and Grill tomorrow. Wait a minute, didn’t I just write a post? It seems like I just wrote a post. How did it get to be February? So I checked the schedule. Yep, I have to write something tomorrow. Um, that would be today. Now. And my brain is fried. I’ve filed too many tax reports lately. I don’t have anything to say. What am I going to write about?
All I do lately is work. But I can’t talk about work. It’s confidential. And boring.
I could write about personal stuff. There is some crazy personal stuff going on. Except it’s too personal to put out there in public. Plus who is going to care about that?
I could post a scene from the book I’m writing. Except it would be out of context and wouldn’t make sense. Even in context it might not make sense. Who knows? And then there is that whole thing about not planning to publish it under the name “BCB” and if I’m going to post an excerpt I really should use the name I plan to publish under. But then no one would know who I am. Sigh. This is getting complicated.
I could write about the dog or the cat. Except they haven’t done anything lately except eat and sleep. And they say owners resemble their pets. Pffft. Sometimes I read.
I could write about the kids. Except I haven’t talked to either of them for about a week. I assume they’re doing college stuff. No one wants to hear about that. OK, I don’t want to hear about that.
I could write about the weather. It has been unusually cold here lately. But not really cold, just a bit brisk. And it hasn’t even snowed. Well, it snowed a little last week. But then it melted. Not much more you can say about that.
I could write about the last movie I saw. Except that was so long ago, I have no idea what movie it was.
I mean, really, my life is so boring lately I’ve been reduced to writing on my own blog about taking a nap, for god’s sake.
So now I’m starting to panic. Maybe I could ask someone else to write a post? Except it’s almost eleven o’clock. And that would just be mean. Besides, I claim to be a writer, I should be able to write something. But what?
So, OK, maybe I could go over to the blog and ask everyone what they want me to write about. Someone must be awake, right? Except they’d probably just say, “It doesn’t matter, write about whatever you want.”
And that’s when it hit me.
It. Doesn’t. Matter.
What the hell was I thinking? This is the CB blog. It’s entirely likely you all won’t even read the whole post before you dive into the good stuff: the comments. The post is sort of like the marquis on a movie theatre. You skim over it to see what’s playing now, but basically you’re in a hurry to get inside to see the show. It’s like the cover of a book you’ve been waiting to read. Sure, you’re going to glance at it to make sure it’s the right book, but then you’re going flip it open and skim over the copyright stuff and dedication and title page until you get to the guts of it — so you can read the good part.
So go on. What are you waiting for? Click on the link that will take you to the good stuff. The comments. I know that’s what I’m going to do.
In the meantime, I’ll try to add some fun and excitement to my life. So I’ll have something a bit more interesting to say next time.
But I only have a month until I post again. Don’t expect miracles.
February 7th, 2007
Did you? Really? Was that when you discovered THE TRUTH?
I must have been about 8 years old. I knew that I should never go into my mother’s closet anytime, particularly near Christmas. She never said a word. How did I know? Remember I’m terrified of snakes. She had put a paper snake on the closet shelf, and it fell down on me ONE TIME ONLY. I never went into that closet again, even if she asked me to. But that defining moment wasn’t at Christmas.
My father’s closet was never booby-trapped and never held presents; he was always good for a ten dollar bill as a present. I happened to open the closet door, and there was a sheet tented over something BIG. Innocent that I was, I peeked at what had to be my brother’s present. It was a four poster fancy dancy doll’s bed. Covered that treasure up and tiptoed out of the room. That Christmas Santa brought me a four poster fancy dancy doll’s bed. My folks gave me a Betsy McCall doll. I smiled and grinned gratefully and oohed and aahed.
And never touched dolls again. Stupid Santa. Stupid. No more magic bunnies or tooth fairies either. Stupid Santa.
February 3rd, 2007