The classless society

Last day of physical therapy for husband. I forgot to bring a book, but I found a magazine I hadn't seen before so I picked it up.
Architectural Digest.
Wow, what a snooty, slick, expensive publication.

I determined that I hated all the chi chi room arrangements. The décor was far beyond anything I have ever seen in any house inhabited by any human being of my social class. Yes. I admit that there may be some sort of class and I may be in it, but it sure wasn't the class pictured in this magazine.

One sofa cost $81,000. ONE LOUSY SOFA! I sincerely doubt anybody ever even sat on that sofa! The room was sterile white. White carpet. White cat. Off white sofa. No table, but some sort of prongy thing in silver on the floor. I thought it might be a fancy magazine rack, but it was empty. Or it was just art. Anyway, there was a stack of books on the floor...too pathetic to have a bookshelf, but plenty of room for a very expensive sofa.

Lots of houses with incredibly expensive and sterile everything. Kitchens of stainless steel, clean as a whistle, a wine cooler the only sign that it was even used...certainly no dirty dishes in the sink, but the very best granite countertops. Everything gleamed and glistened from sunlight pouring through floor to ceiling windows.

The bedrooms, however, were aflame in reds and orange. Who could sleep with those colors blazing around the platform bed? Again, books on the floor and no shelves. I now think there must be libraries in these houses because the owners are getting the books from somewhere and the maid servants have yet to put them back.

I don't want a house like that. I want a home, full of love and laughter. Tons of neat crap that ought to be thrown away, books on shelves and on bathroom floors. Signs of life...not picture perfect abominations. I want to live, not be part of a spread in a magazine.

It's a pity that there are houses like this. I feel sorry for the help.

The Writers' Conference

Once a year I get to go to my Liberty States Fiction Writers' Conference. Two days out of my year, out of my life, that I consider more educational than four years of college and three trips to Disneyworld. Without the rides, though, and no little kid voices echoing through my head for a week or more.
Anyway, this was MY weekend.

Over a hundred, dunno exact numbers but it looked like a thousand, people who live, eat, and breathe writing out their thoughts, or reading the thoughts of others for the sheer pleasure of escape.

An opportunity to learn, but more importantly, interact with these people.

One is never, ever too old to learn. Even the ladies who tidy up the hotel rooms have something to teach us all.

I did not pitch The Mermaid Arms because I haven't touched it in months.  But I did get a boost of motivation, which I really needed. Many people are anxious for me to finish the story. I will do it.
I do keep on promising this, don't I?

We shall see.
But thank you to every single person who attended the conference...I think I spoke to most of you and learned so much!

See ya next year!!!

Ya gotta have friends

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8Iwmcs1hps

Can you hear Bette Midler?

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the Liberty States Fiction Writers' conference.
I can't wait to get there.

Writing is mostly a solitary occupation. You sit at a desk and write longhand...some of the greatest stories in the world were written that way. Some are written at a computer, which is something I never thought I would do and now do with ease. Some, alas, were and still are written in a chilly garret, away from the rest of the world, by someone starving for attention...or just someone to read their precious words.
The garret floor is littered with their ideas.

Sometimes, that's the only place for them.

But to be surrounded by fellows who understand your need to express yourself. Who know why you go silent or why you get so agitated that you break into conversations because you just had this GREAT IDEA and if you don't let it loose, you will forget it. They know and they grudgingly accept it because they, too, have felt the need.

One can write alone. But if the purpose of writing is for others to read your words and understand...you have to get your words out of the computer, out of the pen or pencil...so your words can be appreciated by others.  That's what you crave. You want someone other than your mother to say, Wow, that's good stuff!

Or--if it is drivel, somebody ought to let you know about that, too.

But to be safe...sometimes it is best to leave it on the garret floor.

Why?

Speaking of FB--someone wrote that people keep asking to friend her, people she doesn't know. She wondered why people want to friend her.

I met this woman, a fellow author, once, long ago. She was sweet.

So I wrote back that people like to accumulate friends...sometimes they have a goal...want to reach 1000 friends, 2000, more before they are cut off.

It makes some people feel important to have all these friends look at their stuff. If these friends actually do look at their stuff.

 

There used to be an advertisement on television where some teenaged looking girl is so proud to have 600 friends on FB. When asked if she knew them, she just stared blankly at the camera.  Of course she doesn't know all these people, much less consider them friends.

 

FB is a good way to advertise your writing, a good way to show the world how you feel and what you had for dinner. As for the advertising, you can reach even more people if you pay to advertise, which I do not.

 

But my 300 friends! I love you all, I think.

I've been rather picky about accepting your friendship.

Sometimes, on my author page, people "like" it and I have nothing to say about it. I have some likes from all over the globe, mostly Africa.  Reaching out, that's what it is.

I guess somehow, I make people feel better to have stolen their way onto my page.

 

No, I will never visit Nigeria, even if you are a prince or a king. There are snakes, lions and giant bugs in Africa. 

No thank you!

 

Foodie stuff

I  thought about writing a food blog, being one of those people who eat in restaurants all over a certain city and take a photo of what they order then go on to describe how good or bad it was.
Problem: I don't live in a city and most of the food I do not prepare for myself and my family comes from any one of four Chinese take out places within a five mile radius of our house.

Sometimes we get pizza.

Tonight I gave my husband a choice. We can have country spare ribs for supper or we can have Chinese food. Just said it softly, planting the seed of inspiration. I wasn't even sure whether he heard me or not because he's so hard of hearing.
I guess he did hear me.

So, we decided to take food over to Mom's so she could have something different to eat, even though she claims not to be able to taste anything. (What a pity!)

This one particular restaurant offers Wor Shu Duck, a personal favorite of mine. It's never prepared the same way in any restaurant that offers it. Never.
Tonight's was absolutely delicious.
Different than I've ever had it.
I'd do it again if I could be guaranteed it would be done this same way.

No photos, sorry.
It was good.
Duck is good. Skin was crispy. Meat tender. Sauce and veggies lovely.

We even got free cans of soda.

So, even though today was a real nothing day from lack of sufficient sleep, supper made up for it.

Every once in awhile, not cooking country style spare ribs is a good thing.
We'll have them tomorrow.

Keeping posted

I write these blogs that nobody sees.

I write my heart out and nobody cares to comment.  That's probably because they haven't seen the blogs!

 

I used to pour my heart out on LiveJournal. Then the Russians bought it and my entries got very screwed up and unreadable.  All those words, all those actual stories, I do hope are still in the archives, but to be safe, I printed out copies of them. So my stories are in a folder on paper.  Only problem is that the type font is about a 4 and to get them into the computer will take years.

 

Why do I bother?

 

I've always kept journals. I've written while under duress, under stress, in hospitals, on vacation, while sitting in misery and happiness...I've written down my feelings.

 

Sincerely, I doubt anyone will really give a damn about my words. Years from now, providing there isn't an end of the world, perhaps one of my descendants will find something with my name on it, in a long forgotten vault or stack of paper, and read what I have to say.

 

Fat chance.

 

This seems to be nothing more than a place for me to vent.

 

So be it.

Questions

Where does the dirt come from that covers up ancient sites?

Is it blown in from the desert somewhere?

Does it just grow naturally?

 

I can see sand covering up the Sphinx in Egypt. It is surrounded by a desert. No rain to wash away the dirt.

But how about the sites in Europe? In London, archaeologists keep digging up burial grounds and buried silver from Roman or Viking times. I can see if something was deliberately buried to protect it from marauders, but how about finding whole cities underneath carparks?

 

I think too much.

With the accumulation of dust in our house, I can see that it would take millennia to cover the whole house, but still. We're on our way.

 

How come Stonehenge wasn't buried?