Modern Skepticism, Attempt At Reconciliation

Skepticism. No word has gained a worse reputation in a short amount of time. The expression started a long time ago, with good prospects, high hopes. Greece, I think. Yet there it is now, sinking like a stone...

What it truly means to feel skeptical as "in doubt" of people or ideas I think every person alive knows. It is an intrinsic part of being human to have the feeling, that something is wrong, "off", a certain fact, an idea, maybe even a generally considered truth. Similar to a sense of foreboding - when you think something bad is about to happen - it can be quite overwhelming. 

That's why I'd like to define skepticism as a state of feeling, not being, because unlike the philosophical movement, it is not a product of thorough thought or opinion formation - no, feeling skeptical is typically what happens before that process starts, maybe even the foundation for it. Theoretically, you could remain in skepticism mode for a longer time period, but people usually don't. Same as with feelings of premonition, it is a state of mind that passes once the occasion, the trigger for it is gone.

A world pandemic is a substantial occasion for skepticism, because not only does the virus target our lives, the safety measures to contain it challenge our ways of living. And the truly agonizing part is, that we can't escape the situation, and the complete control it exerts on all of us.

Some say these feelings of lacking control are justified, others say, they are excessive, and a small price to pay for all our physical health. Whatever your position on it may be, the fact is, that at the moment, many people feel confined, trapped, and that feeling is real and needs to be taken seriously. 

Confinement usually starts when someone's personal freedom is in some way limited, controlled, watched over, even a public topic of discussion. "How to sneeze" is a new etiquette, same as not showing one's nose and mouth in confined spaces. "Not be too many" is a hard rule to follow, maybe the hardest. I think, this may be the one linked to skepticism the most.

I have a suspicion, that at its core, skepticism is a direct result of feeling confined. Societal normalcies like being close to each other, hugging or talking to someone while seeing their face are tumbling right now. People are afraid to stand too close, thus, we as a people, feel separated from our own tribe. But the tribe is our history, our existence, our everything. It has always been the solution, not the problem. It has been the most basic human need ever since we stepped out of the mud and decided to live on dry land. So, feeling skeptical, when our world is turned upside down, is a completely understandable reaction.

Too symbolic? Oh, well.

It may take crazy turns once we decide to "side" with Covidtruthers, ProCovidmeasurists or anyone, who, motivated by a feeling of skepticism, is loud and opinionated. These are not tribes we can rely on, but a mere "signaled" affiliation to some people we feel close to in our shared anxiety. And we feel the need to attach to someone, something, during this crisis. So what can we do?

I don't know. We need to try and get through it, somehow, and let the feeling run its course. Usually, what happens after skepticism is opinion formation. Let it be based on facts not fear. Don't let fear overrun your thoughts. This may sound simplistic, but you just tell your fears to shut up for a minute. "Shut up fears, while I check these facts." These fears will be much quieter, once you've collected your information.

Let me just say this: we belong to one tribe, all of us, even the loud obnoxious ones, who seem to be on the opposite side of what you feel is right. Don't let anyone or anything drive a wedge between you and someone else. We all share the same anxieties, we are all afraid. We all want to survive this, and there are no two sides to beating this virus. Let's just agree that separation is not the answer, neither to the virus, nor to the feelings we have concerning this matter.

And speaking of an enemy image: this virus is more than enough, so we really don't need any fights amongst ourselves. Let's just try and kick its ass instead. 

Love in the Time of Corona

It has been way too long since I did this. Way waaay too long. With the constant stream of everyday life, I haven't been listening to my muse..but now...corona! Doesn't it sound like a pretty royal excuse to not leave the house and do something all by our lonesome?

All joking aside, the fears and dangers of corona have been largely discussed and mused about these past few weeks and I don't plan on doing a special on healthcare here, on this blog. What I'm more interested in is how to spend this newfound time we have on our hands - due to being housebound. To stay put can be a scary command for those of us who are used to busying themselves socially, in large groups of people.

I imagine, it can be quite awkward silently reading a book. Or staring at a wall, thinking, if you're not used to doing something like that. Philosophers supposedly do that all day, but these are a rare breed of people with really special needs. You may not see the immediate appeal, but I think being quarantined can be an awesome experience; it all depends on your expectations. And as a couch potato queen, procrastinative genius, lazy-boned blob myself, I promise you, if you just let it happen, you will have a blast.

There are no rules for procrastination in times of corona, except maybe to not let panic mode destroy your precious time of being in the moment. So I would not recommend on doing corona-related research on the internet. Mortality rates, nah. Stay up to date, yes, but pandemic crises reports? Only when directed by Roland Emmerich!

I have several ideas on how to spend the next few weeks. Gardening is high on my list, it would have been anyway, because it is the type of outdoors solitude I enjoy with the advantage of not having to sneeze into my crooks. I plan on reading even more, but that of course means I have to park my two kids, currently home bound with me, somewhere, where they, in turn can procrastinate all by themselves.

Shut up, you, I'm raising a new generation here!

I want to finally immerse myself in The Witcher 3, I want to watch the new season of Better Call Saul, I want to do some more illustrations, do nothing at all, paint a cabinet, declutter my kitchen. This time I will have, it's not all me running wild. I imagine it is much like life in a monastery. Solitude, a nice herbal gardening project, and lots of walking around in my robe, turning inwards for reflections and stuff.

Well, the reality will be, that I'll probably have to do a lot more kids stuff than I planned on, and I have a sneaking suspicion that solitude, when prescribed, will throw me into a reactant spiral of "You can't tell me what to do!" unrest. So maybe I'll start a rave or something, just to be a bit subversive. Other than that: greener pastures, my friends.

What are all of you going to do? Will you befriend yourself all anew? Will you practice being alone with your thoughts? That doesn't mean being asocial, you know. It just means that you, for a certain time in your life, are enough and content being around you. It's good. You're close family. Being you is one of the best things you have in your life. So, take care. Have a ball, you.

Home Is Where...

I'm in the business of arriving.

We bought a house and moved into our new place of residency two weeks ago. My boxes arrived before me, they came in a large truck while I drove up to the house with my kids and a couple of suitcases. It's good that we're all here now, finally. I know I'm supposed to be dancing. But in terms of being here, finding myself at this new place, I'm still on my way. It's a funny thing, when you leave behind an area that's trusted, well-known roads and short cuts and a house that is so familiar, you know every noise you're about to hear when someone from your family moves through adjacent rooms. 10 years is a long time. New house, new town, and it doesn't sound or smell familiar. It will someday, but it takes a lot of time. I think I need spring, yes, maybe that would be a great time to arrive, to meet everyone and shake a couple of hands. Right now I feel like I'm at the airport, waiting for my luggage to arrive. Everything's in boxes and I don't know where anything is. And my kids keep saying they want to go home. I can't argue with that. Home is a state of mind I haven't gotten around to just yet. I tell them and myself, that this is our home now. The other house is empty, another family will move in there shortly. We are here. They then nod, as though they'd understand, but I know that they don't. How can this be, their glances ask. The large truck came, it took all our belongings and it brought them here, I tell them. How can this be, I ask myself. And it's hurting a little to think that someone else will be living where we lived, invading our space. Yes, we moved. Yes, I am still moving.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Southampton Quarrels

Hi there and welcome back to my blog, warriors! Today I'm looking forward to making the rounds and sharing another part of my recently published fantasy novel Anoethau. Critique and comments are always welcome, and I hope you enjoy today's snippet. :-)

After fleeing his parole, Artie, the protagonist, finds himself at a place called Southampton, England. Most commonly known for the Titanic commencing its first and final voyage from the Port of Southampton, it is also a place of pubs and heavy drinking. This is what happens, when Artie finds himself in the midst of it...

The next thing he knew; there was a large object flying right by his face. 

It landed behind him on the road and from the sound of shattering glass, he recognized it as a beer bottle. People yelled at each other in front of another bar only a few feet ahead and there were three or four men in a drunken fight out in the street. The loudest of them wasn’t involved in the actual fighting, but shouted from the sidelines to the ones pummeling on one another with their fists.

“Get on with it you sissy,” the agitator yelled, laughing.“If I lose the money, I’ll start beating on you too,” he shouted, slouching at the corner to the open bar door.

Artie didn’t want to get involved in their quarrelling, but he knew, if he passed the group, they would make him get involved. From his experience with fights in prison, he figured that his best bet was the offensive mode, but he was a little too drunk to spin the plot all too clearly. 

“Hey Dickhead,” he slurred at the agitator from a distance, “how much money did they bet on your stupid face?” 

Dumb, I am dumb, he thought, but it was too late.

Synopsis

A play on the famous Arthurian legend, Anoethau tells the story of Artie Kendrick, an ex-convict, who has spent the better half of his life in prison, and now prefers the solitude of his house to being in the company of people. Backyard gardening is a newfound and most welcome hobby of his, until, after days of heavy rainfall, he discovers a strange artifact in the puddles of his vegetable patch - a sword. It's not just any sword, since it was given to him by a mysterious woman named Viviana, who introduces herself as a deity of another world. The gift comes at a tremendous price: with it, Viviana wants him to kill her arch enemy and save her world from destruction.

Anoethau on Amazon 

My Kid's in Color

My kid is really strange. He's odd with words and people, and sometimes with his hands and feet. Watching him among others is watching him being in his own world. Most of the time, he doesn't even take note of the world around him. Nor does he seem to care. He doesn't participate in other children's play, and he doesn't get the rules they set up amongst themselves. To his own world, their rules have no meaning.

He walks across the blanket two girls spread out to have a picnic. He does that over and over. I think he likes the color, red and white, and the fact that there's squares on the fabric. And he likes the feeling of walking on it, because it's soft and he has no shoes on. That is all. In the meantime, the girls get furious. "Don't walk across that blanket anymore. How hard is it to understand, stupid?"

I can tell you now: it is very hard. Yes, my kid is stupid. He's not really noticing that he's upsetting the girls. But they, in turn, are also stupid. Because they're not getting how great it is, to just be walking barefoot across a blanket without thinking of anything but your feet. Without thinking of the rules of girls, the rules of having picnics in public, or properly socializing with people. I mean, seriously, how cool is it, to not care about anything besides what it feels like to walk across a blanket?

And how awesome is it, to just run around without a destination until your cheeks are all red, and you get so exhausted, you're barely able to breathe? How awesome is it, to be that weird? I can tell you, it is super crazy awesome! Because normal is boring, and normal is redundant, and throughout history, normal has been done to death. And while normal probably would be easier for me to handle and easier to explain to the outside world, I wouldn't want to have it any other way.

You see, I gave this boy some of my traits. I may be partially more aware of what's going on around me, but that doesn't mean I always agree with the demands of world. In fact, many a times, I do have some problems getting along with world.

I can feel your vibe, little boy. I see what you're all about. And if I were just a little bit braver, I'd be doing what you're doing. I'd be walking without my shoes, just walking and feeling the soft fabrics of my world.

Autism And Other Minor Concerns

As human beings we worry a lot. We don't seem to ever stop. We worry about our health, our safety, money, sometimes even stupider stuff, like which car to drive in our thirties, which meals to eat on a Sunday. If a burglar may kill us in our sleep, or if cancer will do the job during the light of day.

As parents, we worry about our kids, if they get enough sleep, if they eat enough of everything, if their poop's consistency is to our liking, if they experience enough of anything. These are somewhat understandable parental worries.

So, I, newly a mother of two, have been asking myself: am I doing a good job mother-wise. It's highly questionable, I will ever get an answer other than the one I can provide myself. Something scary has been going on, and it has been going on for quite a while. We have been concerned about our son's speech development for a few months. It hasn't progressed normally, even along the normal parameters for boys (expected to being slower than girls), he is far behind. At two years, kids should be able to produce 50 to 200 words, they should be able to understand up to 400 words. Plus they should be able to do such things as look a person in the eye, and, not resort to screaming when having to perform certain tasks asked to do by other persons than the immediate family.

Well, you, what can I say. Our boy didn't do well in any of said tasks. Until recently, he didn't say a single word, he didn't interact socially with people outside the family, and he didn't perform to the pediatrician's satisfaction. The result of this was an under-average performance in the developmental test, and the pediatrician telling me that judging by his behavior, my son may be in the autism spectrum. All I could say was, yes, well, OK. I didn't add the classic retort "That is yoooour opinion!" and "I'll get another opinion, you!" . No, I didn't. My reflexes were a bit off that day.

I tried to find flaws in their test, the whole setup. I couldn't. It is a standardized test, with the same conditions for everyone, so the results are representative for his age group. I then alleged a conspiracy. Doctors being greedy money makers who want to sell you stuff and services. Maybe they are. Still, they couldn't sell you anything if there wasn't a kid in need of those services.

I was next in line. It's me. Too much iPad, too little parenting. We jokingly call the iPad parental unit c in this house, just to give you a little grasp of its importance. So, it had to be me. Either something I did wrong or something my crummy genes did wrong to cause that in my boy. As it turns out, my genes are rather likely to cause that kind of disorder. Not gluten or the iPad. At least I think they don't. As it turns out we know so little about autism, or the brain in general, that there's plenty of room for all kinds of crazy theories.

"If he has it, it's all my fault, OK?" hubby said to me, while we were driving in the car. Hubby's so sweet. "I mean look at me, the way I am." Awww, my sweet little Asperger! I replied that we're both a couple of odd people with some variance of social strangeness. So in my mind, it has to be a rather explosive coming together of crummy genes. Romantic, if you think about it. We combined our flawed gene pools and what came out was an even bigger water, a big muddy sea of crummyness. Awwww!

And that changed my perspective. Yes, we're both old and horrible but we created something genuinely unique. Not saying that special always means good or easy. But no matter how this turns out, if it really is autism, some other disease or nothing at all, our boy is extraordinary, the way his brain is clocked, the way he sees and assesses objects, people, concepts. I like to watch him watch the world and it's fascinating and endearing. And that is something to be happy about rather than sad or worried. He'll be an interesting human being no matter how this plays out. It won't always be easy for him to find his place in the world. But in this world, there should be a place for interesting, off-beat, difficult and lovable.

I'm off!

I guess the time has come to admit it, so I'll finally admit to it: I'm off. I'm blank. I'm vacant. Being creative, making time for other things besides maintenance of life (hah, gotta love the specifics): it's all gone. Off the map. Me, the person who wrote each and every day and blogged half-regularly: was it just a fluke? Or a placeholder? Am I being overly dramatic? Well, I guess it's a little bit of all of the above.

I'd like to cling to the hopes of having a tiny little residue of energy left to go on - creatively speaking. Some day. I haven't given up the idea of a writerly career. But to get there, I have to write. Every day. Stay in shape. Honestly, it wouldn't be hard to make time if I really wanted to do it now, but the truth is, these days I'm burning on a low flame. And I prefer sleep over writing.

With a second kid, I somehow feel ridiculous talking about the importance of art and leisure. It has little meaning to me. I'm not saying that I found it elsewhere, because there's no infinite wisdom buried beneath baby poop and vomit, but these are the pressing issues in my life right now. Life upkeep. Hey, by the way, here's the test to find out if you are a real writer: If you have the choice between writing a story and cleaning up a spilled drink that drips down to the floor, what would you do first? If you choose writing over cleaning up, congrats, you are a writer! If you are like me, and you can't do anything else, knowing that something is dripping, you are not. Or maybe you have OCD.

There are a couple of other options, for those of us who want to combine the everyday life with writing. I thought about it. Writing about the everyday life. Unfortunately I can't mash up these things. I'm not a baby blogger. I just don't have it in me. And I rarely find other baby blogs to be insightful or original, least of all entertaining - except for the Baby Bible, which I've come to enjoy quite a lot.

Me, I don't want to talk regularly about the ups and downs of being a nurse, janitor, baby feeder. Unless those babies have magical powers hidden beneath their diapers that is, then I could write about it and call it a fantasy story. And in regards to writing about being a parent, there's not much to go on either. My quintessential parental insight basically comes down to one rule, namely "try not to kill kids". Well, there could be a funny angle to this, but it's more like a pun: "Today: tried not to kill kids, and barely succeeded." But that's about it.


Why didn't I jump in while I had more time? It's easy. I'm afraid. I'm afraid no one will care about the story I labored over, and worse, that it's an utter failure, and no one will care,  which is basically worse than having a million bad reviews. Having a sucky story and no reviews. Annoyed people still are an audience. If no one is annoyed, is it like the proverbial tree in the forest? Does my writing even exist? Seems like at the moment, I can't answer these questions.

Right, I do care a little too much for someone who doesn't put any effort in having their story published, don't I! Hah, maybe there is a grain of hope. A little one.

What To Expect When You're Not Expecting

I can't say that I ever officially decided to have children - I as in my conscious decision-making self making a choice. I was quite unsure until my thirties if it would be a good idea for me at all. I presume what happened after the glorious age of 30 was that my primate brain did something to me. The cliché of the loud ticking noise, I suddenly began to hear it. First unobtrusively, then, all the time. The tinnitus I got from this must have smashed the insubordinate parts of my brain, the ones that used to yawn whenever I got the feeling I had to do something or to be a part of something, to fit some kind of stereotype. I never exactly knew how to behave around children. I was not relaxed being around them, still am not, at times. Yet it happened one day, when I saw a mother lovingly with her child in her arms, that I noticeably gasped for air. It felt liked suffocation. I wouldn't define the feeling as wanting something. I realized I didn't as much want one, as I needed a child. For my sanity. For my primate brain. This post is not a guide. This is about how I tried to remain sane during the long years of not having one, but needing a child, and badly so. In hindsight, I merely partially succeeded.


Let me think. No. Let's say you've already found out you want a child and you're working hard towards that goal. You've tried for a while and it didn't work out. Or maybe it worked, but then it didn't. What do you do to pass the time until it does? I've had three strikes in five years. Unfortunately none of them made it through the first trimester. Starting fresh after a miscarriage was hard each time. You're losing confidence in your body. You're getting super obsessive about every little circumstance that may or may not be responsible for you not getting pregnant. First of all, you have to accept, that certain things are simply out of your hands. Think positive if you can muster up the strength, but if you can't, don't feel bad for being angry. It is frustrating. It makes you crazy. Babies is probably all you can think about. If all you can think about is what you can't have, that is one very sad mental spiral to be in. It may seem as far out of reach to you as sitting on a rusty bike and dreaming about a Porsche. And then again, it may just be around the corner. Your body is torturous. Biology is a bitch. You know.

<< Don't put your life on hold This is important. You can't stop everything else, because you want a child. If you live as though you were pregnant to become pregnant, you're not doing yourself any favors. Eating raw fish, cheese, or drinking coffee or a glass of wine, lifting stuff, it's all allowed. Yes, you may blame yourself if it doesn't work out at the end of a cycle. You will do that no matter what you do, what you eat, if you did or didn't do sports, if you ate or didn't eat certain foods. I wrecked my brain each time I miscarried or didn't conceive for what I might have done wrong. The list is incredibly long when you're looking for something that can't be found. It's not that third cup of coffee. The most likely thing is that it didn't work out for a myriad of reasons. None of them are in your control. Nothing you do will guarantee the right circumstances. What did I do right when it finally happened? Nothing. Everything. I ate whatever I craved for, chocolate, mainly. I drank lots of coffee. I was too lazy to work out, and around conception time, I read a really boring fantasy book. Find the answer anywhere in there? If there is one, it says, try to mentally detach yourself from the biology behind getting pregnant. You can't finetune the incubator. Trust it, for it knows best.


<< Create your own voodoo You feel like you need to do something. Yes. Doing something seems to put people in an exceptionally positive mood. Treat your body like a temple. Imagine you're a fertile riverbed or whatever. Be aware that voodoo is voodoo. There is no medicinal value in dancing around a totem pole except the one you create in your head - placebo the hell out of it! Your state of mind is important. Placebo is your friend. Go massage your stomach with your left hand. Bath in mud. Stick needles in your chi, feng shui your bedroom. It's all good and healthy as long as it makes you feel good and there is no real chemistry involved. Stay away from strong substances. Let the doctors handle strong substances. You go to your happy place and relax.


<< Be aware of hormones There's one tiny little piece of chemistry you need to be aware of: progesterone. Especially if you have passed the presumably best childbearing age of 20. Progesterone can have influence on the actual occurrence and continuation of a pregnancy. If you're having trouble conceiving or sustaining a pregnancy over a period of time, go see a doctor. Let them monitor progesterone and hormone levels throughout your trial runs. It will help you figure out a possible deficiency and help you fix it. I took progesterone during my last (successful) trial. It may have helped. I took it some time earlier that year and it didn't. No guarantees, but chances are, it will more likely help than hurt your efforts.


<< Don't be mean to your partner (unless he or she is responsible - then, go ahead and nag him or her endlessly about it) Kidding, of course! It's so hard to stay rational. I've tried to explain this to men several times. Being theoretically able to father children until they drop, they don't seem to fully grasp the pressure-filled window we're in. It can put a serious strain on relationships when fertility is an issue. Fertility. Even the word sounds discriminatory. Whatever you do, try to hold on to the big picture. Testicles are not baby juice jars. A man is not just a donor, a woman is not an oven. Don't reduce people to their baby-making qualities. I know it sounds like a d'oh sort of thing to say, but it can be hard when you're on emotional edge. What you should think and talk about are possible consequences. Talk much. You need to be able to talk about your options. How much do you want children? More than you want to be with your partner? Think about it, and without being resentful or fearful, just play it through in your mind. Can you imagine alternative scenarios? Then think about it some more. The important and excruciating part is to not guilt your partner into staying the childless course if the problem is on your end. It's scary to think that way, but you need to do it for the sake of your relationship.


<< Cuddle your inner child

Be kind to yourself. You're of worth, you are or were at some point someone's child. What you do and how you feel is important. Find an outlet for your frustration. Do things you want to do, things you know you couldn't do with a child. Travel the world, take that crazy job offer in Helsinki. We're all just finding ways to pass the time. Having a child means passing over time to someone else entirely. You will stay the center of your own life if you don't have a child. There's an upside to that way of existing. People say that having children is the most important thing in life. I know it has changed a whole lot for me, and opened my eyes to another perspective entirely. I have never felt such love for anyone or anything in the world. It's unbearable at times. But in a larger sense, it's not that important for the world if I do or do not have children, at least not as much as it is for myself. I find that caring for someone, for a partner or a pet can do that also. My cats were my babies long before I knew my son. It doesn't matter that they never needed me as much as he does at the moment. Cats are self-sufficient beings. My son will be self-sufficient as well at some point. The transition will be painful, but I care for them either way. Cleaning the cat toilet or cleaning a diaper. One's a little less messy than the other, but in the end, it's all coming out of the same area. Poop, everywhere! Doesn't matter whose. It's all love. Good old sappy love.

First Page Review: Spellbloom

Hey everyone, and hello to first page review! Always exciting to get a little bit of feedback on the first few words of a story. This is taken from the first story I ever thought out and wrote down, titled Spellbloom, a contemporary fantasy tale. It is the one story closest to my heart, but it is yet to be finished on paper. I'm so hestitant when it comes to writing this story. In the hopes of getting more experienced at storytelling, I never want to touch it to not spoil it with mediocre writing, if that makes any sense. :) I started writing it two years ago, and I'm not even halfway finished, but I edited bits and pieces of it. The picture you see is a home-brewed graphic experiment that may or may not be the real cover for the book one day. 

Looking forward to reading your comments and suggestions and I can't wait to visit your blogs and to read your stories. :)

1.

Pador stared at the portrait in silence. The face in the picture frame stared back at him. He knew that the years had given him a few hard lines around the mouth, and the painter hadn’t wasted any time sugar-coating the truth.

The people of Indova called Pador rigorous, a man purported to rule with a strict vision of things that needed to be done. He had never seen himself that way. The things to be done most rarely are what everyone agrees with, his father used to say. Unlike Pador, he had been the leader of a family of 4, not millions. Pador sighed.

At least in the picture he looked the part of the leader, Pador thought, carrying the bearings of Indova on his chest, the blue cloak hovering over the black cliffs of the Seam, the traditional symbol for the first Mage Rebellion nearly 300 years ago. His ancestors had fought in that battle, and many of them had lost their lives.

He had always worn his blue cloak with pride, ever since the day he got elected. He had made a name for himself in the Academy, and he was a reasonable choice for the Council. The fact that he didn't want the job was of little importance and just went to show how the laws of Indova bestowed all power upon the election committee. The committee had seen aptitude and farsightedness in equal measure in him, and none of the other candidates. Sometimes Pador still thought they'd made a terrible mistake choosing him, but his advisor had told him that his doubts proved him to be the right choice all the more. 

Pador knew his duties, and well enough to realize that anyone would have a hard time ruling a country, at least if he tried to do it well. Sometimes however he caught himself thinking that there might be someone out there who would enjoy it more than he did. He sighed again, a heavy and deep sigh – resonating back at him from the walls of the hallway. He turned around to go back to his office. He longed for this day to be over, but it wasn’t even close to noon. He had several ministers to meet still, representatives to greet with a smile on his face and their pleas to suffer through. He would be able to visit Janey thereafter – if it wasn’t too late in the day. He had been looking forward to seeing her all week, yet he hated visitation days because they would only sound in another 6 long days of waiting. He missed the times when he saw her each day, the times when they were freshmen in the Academy and their assignments would bring them to different places all across Fallwyne. He was a better man with her by his side, always, and a happier one, but unfortunately, there were other things to consider, more important things such as her health. Janey was his wife and he loved her dearly, but he couldn’t risk exposing herself to him more than once a week. He was poison to her, and she needed all the time she could get to recover from his visits. It was the only way they could be together at all.

Pador opened the large wooden door to his office and saw Aeron sitting in one of the high visitor’s chairs. He got up to greet him as he saw him enter, “Ah, there you are”. His black cloak swirled as he rose. Pador always thought that there was no one who wore the Guardian’s cloak as well as Aeron, although there certainly were Guardians who took their responsibilities more seriously than he did. They had been friends for over a decade, and now wasn’t the time to question his work ethic. 
“Do you have a minute or two?” Pador knew, that, with Aeron, it would never only take a minute or two, but he nodded.   
“What’s going on?” he closed the door behind him. Aeron sat down again, this time on the corner of Pador’s large writing desk, in between red document folders and a pile of mail.

“Wintershedge has sent word of their arrival.”

“And?”

Apparently the girl has already fallen ill with the bloom.”

“What!? Oh no!” Pador was dismayed at these news. He started pacing up and down the room.

“How bad is it?”

Aeron hesitated. “She’s…functional, but very weak. The journey was exhausting for her.”

“Is she bedridden?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“Good gods.. how did this happen so quickly?”

Pador massaged the few stubbles on his chin. “That’s bad…  I shouldn’t have sent them away together..”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, we don’t know the details. There is still a possibility that she’s just sick with some other illness.

“Please,” Pador said, “you know as well as I that there is no one better suited to judge the onsets of second bloom than their people.”

Aeron didn’t respond. 
“We should offer to help them, bring them back to the city after…. they are done..” He sat down. The regent's chair was heavy and cumbersome.
"I had no right..."
He felt Aeron’s hand on his shoulder moments later.

“You did it for Janey.”

So...happy!

Remember good old me; me whining, me complaining? In fact - I'm known for that - with whiny rant being my street name and all that. That's a big part of this blog, ranting, finding some kind of fault in many of the things regarding..well, all things. It's as vague as that. I guess you could call it "judgmental". So what happened? In short: I don't find fault in things anymore. I have been walking around in a haze of awwww! Pretty scary. Could it be as simple as squeezing out life, giving birth to another human being?

Yes, I guess it could. I must have shed some of the bad stuff as well as baby and baby juice. Awwww! (Ok, I at least manage to make fun of me.) So, dear audience, what is more annoying - someone who complains or a happy, mildly besotted person who smiles a little more often and lets go some of the stuff that would have bothered her before. Please don't answer - rhetorical question!

There is an undeniable creativity in being mildly angry at the world. Finding quirk to all things is an original activity, like you wouldn't believe the calories being burnt that way and the satisfactory feeling you get by being able to do this without having to do squat thrusts. Well, for now, goodbye soul-eating quirk. Not sure that I liked you all that much to begin with. Say hello to silly momma, your bundle of joy. Still some kind of edge, but more fuzzy and covered in chocolate.

This change must be a residue, caused by some of the hormones, right? It must wear off at some point. Because I didn't just have brain surgery. And I can't remember having suffered any other kind of other head trauma. I'm not eating differently. I'm not even doing anything differently except for the additional baby routine. Sleeping less, well, yes, there's stupid in that. Other than that, nothing. Nothing but contentment and not a single cloud in sight.

I guess the demons of the world must be assembling rrrrright now..

My NaNaWriMo Experiment

Initially I had some doubts about participating in this year's NaNoWriMo. Would I be able to do it again? Last year's story took a lot of preparation, and I basically had every small piece of it figured out months before I started writing it. I drew charts filled with all kinds of character data, gave each one of them a background, an origin story with childhood memories, a set of life experiences that explained how they became that person. And even though none of that was part of the actual storyline, it was for me to know, and to see them in my head as real persons, not stereotypes, who would act in a way that was consistent with who they were. I went for it and added trivia, such as body height, weight and hair color, even dental info and I thought about which actors would play them in a movie (knowing what they sound like helps me writing dialogue).

This year, I'm writing a prequel about the things that led up to last year's story. Some of last year's work still comes into play. But since I didn't have the time to prep for the other stuff, there is more freedom to explore what happens between crucial plot moments, and some of the new characters are developing as I write them. Some might say that that's not the way to do it. You need a plan, then write. I agree that having a plot outline isn't nearly enough. Although I like the process of winging it, some of what I write already turns out to be editor's food. I have no trouble filling those pages, but some of it lacks direction or amounts to drivel that could have been avoided. Certainly those unplanned moments can always lead to new ideas to explore for another story. And the fact that not everything is purposefully lined up is an awesome writing experience for me - if only to know that I'll never ever do it like this again. We'll see. It might very well be that on November 30th I'll end up with a lot of words, and none of them adding up to a viable story.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Dog In Tow

Hey there, warriors, and welcome to this week's wewriwa. Let's just jump right back in where we left off last Sunday. Artie has just met a woman, who asks him to take her dog Cabby with him on his journey to Wales. He has good reasons to say no....

He didn't want or need any of that. With a dog in tow, every part of his journey would become more difficult. "What's wrong with your dog? Why would you want to get rid of it?" The dog gave a whimper, as if taking offense at the implication. The woman's eyes were hidden behind dark shades, but Artie could feel her glare. "I don’t want to part with him" she said, breathing heavily, "but this is what I am supposed to do."

Cabby the dog, as sketched by me

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