Not Sure About This

I like my classroom. Everything seems to work, it has nice maps, and a view of the playa. But I’m in the High School section. I can no longer see over the students and spot incoming administrators and parents. Maybe I should get a mini photo-drone to station near the administrative section’s door . . .

State of the Author

Frazzled. And mildly annoyed, but life happens.

I hope to have the next Baba Yaga story posted this week. Everything’s set, it just needs one last read-through and the cover art credit added.

I may be having to have oral surgery this week or next. Cracked a tooth – sideways. Hey, I’m good, what can I say? Depending on how bad it is, it may have to be removed and an implant put in. I’ve been to this rodeo before, several years ago, thanks to a Corn-nut (TM). So if I’m slow approving comments or responding, you know why.

The third Baba Yaga story is started, and there will be a fourth. That should (she types with her fingers crossed) wrap up the set so I can get back to doing the three other things that I’m supposed to be writing.

 

Books I Regret

Some books I regret giving away. Some, mostly read for graduate school, I regret losing hours of my life to (like the one book I ever burned)*. And a few I wish I had never read, or had not read until I was much, much older, if then. When you turn a 12-13 year old loose in the adult section, a little supervision might be in order.

Book Addicts Anonymous

Hi, my name is Alma, and I’m addicted to reading and to books. And there is a slight difference, although you’d never know it from my shelves (and desk, and floor, and closet, and my parents’ house.) All flat surfaces not required for perambulation or emergency egress are covered with books. The shelves are double-stacked, triple in some places, and I think the cover on my Kindle is starting to bulge from all the files. But I can stop any time, really.

The Car Went Creep Creep Creep*

Panhandle road-builders all drive pick-ups. That’s the only explanation for the deep dips in intersections and the very high railroad crossings, steep parking-lot entries, and eighteen-inch curbs. Or they lost a high-school girlfriend to some nerdy gear-head with a GTX or Porsche.  It can’t be just for drainage and train safety, nope.

Saints in Space?

So, a few weeks ago, Brad Torgersen stepped up onto the soapbox at Mad Genius Club and knocked one out of the park, in your humble blogger’s opinion. But a visitor in the comments’ section brought up an idea I’d like to chew on a little, although it was not the individual’s main point. The question is: Should we wait to return to space until Earth is perfect? Or, to phrase it a different way, should only saints be allowed into space?

Sales Changes

For those of my readers who buy from Barnes and Noble and Kobo:

On Friday, August 21, I will be removing my titles from those services. The lack of sales over the past two years does not balance what I could be earning by enrolling more works into Kindle-Select. I am sorry that this is so, and I apologize for any problems and inconvenience this causes my readers who prefer EPUB format.

If Books had Seasons . . .

The catalogues inundating my mailbox have switched from summer to “pre-fall” to fall. It is 98 F outside and I’m looking at heavy wool sweaters, snowshoes, arctic-weight sleeping bags, and other stuff that just makes me sit and perspire. And makes me wonder, what if books had “seasons”, like fashions do?

Le Tour: Or How I spent July Mornings

My name is Alma and I work my schedule around the Tour de France live broadcasts. It is the ONLY sporting event I plan my schedule around. No, I don’t ride. I don’t even own a bicycle at the moment. I don’t have a team I root for any more, or a favorite rider, although I usually cheer for the guys trying to get their first stage win, or whoever is working the hardest that day, and I always admire the guys who push through after bad falls. So why am I glued to the tube in July? Well, it’s complicated.

Thy Neighbor’s Produce . . .

I got caught ogling the neighbor’s tomatoes.

My parents’ neighbor’s tomatoes, actually. I was up on a ladder checking to see if a squirrel had fallen into the neighbor’s yard and saw that they are growing heirloom tomatoes this year. Lots, and lots, of beautiful tomatoes in all different colors and shapes. Bright red, blue, yellow, big fat ones, cherry tomatoes, probably about a dozen or so different kinds, both in pots and in the ground. I just stared. And heard someone clearing her throat, so I waved a little and eased back down the ladder. (Squirrel had missed the yard and was in the alley.)