Tea for Two

Hiro came back into the room where he had left Carrie for a few minutes while gathering the tea supplies. He carried them in on a bamboo tray that was ornately carved with flying, fire breathing dragons. He walked to a low table and set the tray down.

"Have a seat," he motioned toward some pillows scattered around the table. Instead, Carrie stood gaping at the tray. Hiro sat and began to mess with the equipment.

"What is that? I've never seen anything like that." Carrie was baffled by the contraption sitting in the center of the tray. She knew what the cups and saucers were.

"Almond cookie type treats to go with the tea," Hiro answered.

"No, the contraption in the middle, what is that?"

"Oh, isn't this something? It is a Denubian teapot. From some future where this planet, Denub, catered to drinkers of fine tea. It does something that makes tea perfectly. I have no idea what it is made of, but it works within seconds to produce some of the best tea in the Universe. It runs on batteries, so it doesn't matter that my house here isn't wired for power."

"What? I thought you were a Samurai from some distant past and you dress like someone from the past and you have a teapot from some future?"

"Cassie, this is The Station. Everyone from everywhere is here. What happened when you shopped for your journal?"

"Well, I walked down the street and found a dry goods store and it turned into a Wal-Mart in front of my eyes and then I entered and purchased what I needed. Now that I think about it, it was laid out exactly like my Wal-Mart at home, not like some different Wal-Mart where I couldn't find anything. Isn't that handy?"

"It's not handy, it's how The Station is. But if you had wanted to shop in the dry goods store, you could have. Or it could have become any store in your era or any store in the future. What sits on that area here in The Station is a store. It become any store you want it to become. You could have shopped at … name some fancy store from your time."

"Niemen-Marcus, or Saks Fifth Avenue."

"Yes, you could have shopped there, if you had thought of that."

"Well. Mr. Samurai from the past, how did you think of a Bamboozled Teapot Store of the Future?"

Hiro laughed. It was deep, rumbling sound. "Denubian. You aren't the first person I've spoken to here. I met a Denubian who talked about the Universe's Best Tea and then was able to concoct the store. Do you think that Samurai look exactly like I do now? We don't. I really should have my hair tied in a specific topknot, but that always made my head itch. It isn't required here and so I don't do that. I carry my weapons because that is comfortable for me. Anything that I particularly liked, I've kept; that which I didn't, I've discarded.

"I've actually kept this portion of my house just as a Samurai house would be in 1600 Japan, but back in the kitchen, it's all modern. Circa 2300 in your time."

Carrie was stunned. She had no idea she would be able to have all of eternity here. She grasped now that she was the Author of this portion of her life and her Boss was without control here. She smiled to herself, but Hiro noticed the curl of her lips and smiled in response.

"Well, can we have some tea?" she asked. Hiro pushed three different areas of the teapot and within two minutes the couple was drinking some of the best tea ever made in the entire Universe.

Cassie Visits Hiro

Cassie examined Hiro's clothing while they moved toward their destination. He was dressed oddly and she asked him about it. He told her that his kamishimo (outfit) was simply a kataginu (a vest) over hakama (wide, flowing trousers) and was traditional Samurai clothing. Cassie looked at his feet encased in funny socks and wearing hemp flip-flops.

Hiro noticed her stare, "The socks are called tabi while the shoes are called waraji."

"I see what you mean about foreign words," Cassie chuckled. I'm getting some of what you say in English, but many words remain Japanese. "So you are a Samurai? How does that work?"

"Actually, I'm ronin. I have no daimyo and so am no longer an official Samurai. My Boss concocted a story about me saving my now-dead daimyo's child and then I was left to suffer the consequences of his decisions. I am not supposed to allow myself to live without a daimyo," Hiro said softly. "But with a mission from him at his death, I was still under his auspices and so I did not seppuku – what you would call 'fall on the sword' and now continue to inhabit this realm without the need for following all the rules of my culture, bushido."

Cassie tried to absorb the alienness of what he was telling her. But what she really wanted to do was touch the beautiful clothing. The shoulders on the vest were exaggerated and yet they still barely covered the expanse of chest to arm. His arms were highly muscled. The cloth itself seems to shimmer and was beautifully done in muted colors with a delightful pattern. The sash around his narrow waist held two swords.

Hiro brought Cassie to a spacious, airy, but simple house. As they entered, Hiro took the longer sword, his katana, and laid it aside. He kept the shorter sword, his wakisashi, and a small dagger, tanto, tucked into the top of his tabi were left. Cassie asked if he were expecting danger.

"One of the tenets a young Samurai learns is that he must always be prepared for death, his own or someone else's. I am always armed. Always."

"Well, this is going to be interesting. I usually don't even have a nail file with me," thought Cassie as she tried to absorb the notion of violence inherent in Hiro's culture.

"My reason for being at the fountain," began Cassie, "was to begin writing in a journal. I thought that if I gathered information and help from other characters, I could somehow figure out more about The Station. Although, it seems vast and complicated, I think knowing more would be better than knowing less, which is all I have now."

Hiro could remember the terror he first felt upon arriving here and he nodded in agreement. Knowledge was power across time, space, and all the dimensions.

"Perhaps I could make tea and we could discuss what I have learned," offered Hiro. He went off to gather the proper equipment together.

Cassie remembered reading about the difficulty in preparing ceremonial Japanese tea and she wished she could just have a cup of coffee. But she didn't want to offend a heavily armed man. "Sure," she said, and prepared to wait for tea.

Cassie in the Courtyard

Cassie looked across the open space of the courtyard to the fountain placed in the center. There were benches scattered around the park, allowing for different vantage points and she chose a seat in the sunshine and against the wind.

The fountain splashed playfully as fountains usually do. Cassie wondered if they ever splashed malevolently, and figured they did that on the other side where people gazing at the spray were hit with mists of water when the wind gusted.

She took out her journal and began to write. The first thing one must do in a journal is inscribe it with name and date. She knew she was Cassie, but her surname was uncertain. It changed with the incarnations her Boss gave her. It was, perhaps, irrelevant. She knew who she was and that was sufficient. She wrote inside the front cover: "Cassie." What was the date? The Station had no real time. Characters from across time, space, and even dimensions all gathered here. So to have to enter a date was going to be impossible.

Cassie mused. She pondered. She considered, thought, deliberated, and finally decided.

Across the top of the page she neatly inscribed: "Day 1." That was a solution. The puzzle was currently solved. Now, she needed a topic. What should she write about?

She sat comfortably in the sun, feeling warmth without overheating and with the sun behind her bench, she had no need to squint. She was content in this place. Perhaps instead of writing, she could take a nap. She closed her eyes momentarily. She knew she had not been asleep when a voice disturbed her.

She opened her eyes to a glorious sight. He was tall, dark, and handsome. His hair was slightly long and his eyes were almond shaped, he seemed Oriental. He was very muscular, his chest and shoulders were broad and his hips were narrow. His legs were long and braced by a couple of sheathed swords. He was dressed oddly rather than in Western style slacks and a shirt. "Hello," Cassie said in a low voice. "Do you speak English?"

"Not really, but at The Station it makes no difference. I've been here for years and have found that we all speak and hear in our own native tongues without need for translation. The difficulty can lie in words that have no meaning in the other person's language and so an occasional foreign word creeps in. Have you been here long? By the way, my name is Watanabe Hiro, but please call me Hiro."

"Did your Boss really name you Want To Be A Hero? That is unfortunate, but at least you got an entire name. Does your Boss always play in puns?" Cassie sighed. She was hesitant to ask but plunged on, "I only closed my eyes for a second and you appeared here. How did that happen?"

"First, my name is not a pun, but an honorable Japanese name, it is only sounds funny in English. Second, my appearing here was one of the quirks of The Station. There are many and they are all-pervasive. Even though I have been here for a long time, I've not discovered all there is to know. You are a recent visitor?"

"Well, I wouldn't call myself a visitor. I'm a recent inmate or perhaps prisoner. I've looked through the Boss Viewer and figure I will be here for quite some time. Have you watched your Boss?"

"At first, but it gets less interesting the longer you stay here. I'm no longer as dependent on the Boss as I once was. I've decided to become who I should have been when he created me. I've made a better life for myself here than I could have had in any of his books. Would you like to see where I live?" Hiro looked back over his shoulder in the direction of his lodgings. Then he turned his lustrous, dark eyes back to Carrie and slightly raised one eyebrow. "I won't hurt you."

Cassie looked at her journal and then back up at Hiro. "Why not," she thought, "it will give me something to write about." She picked up her supplies and said, "Sure." They walked away. Hiro had a strange rolling type gate and Cassie had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

Ah, an adventure.

The Station Exists

There is something called flash fiction or fiction shorts. They are very short stories that take only a minute or two to read. I've been playing with these over at MWC and thought I might try writing them more or less on a daily basis here. The following short is based on a concept created over at MWC. They are publishing a book via the lulu.com site using these. But I thought I would just write some of my own and put them here.

Cassie as Writer

Late in the afternoon or perhaps in the early evening, things started to look up. Cassie found herself in a position of power for the first time since arriving at The Station. This horrid venue was the place where characters went when their authors were not working with them. It was sometimes considered a respite, but often was more of a prison.

The locals could peer through the Boss Viewer and watch their Boss working away. Some of them would laugh and point, others would sadly shake their heads. If they could see the Boss working, they were in The Station, and thus the story was not about them.

Like the Hotel California, people could come into the place, but leaving was only at the request of the Boss. It seems that many Bosses create characters and then never use them. They simply discard them and go on to other projects. These abandoned souls then come to The Station looking for some company and end up trapped in the world of Not Quite Useful.

Cassie was 5'5" tall and weighed 117 pounds. She had red hair and green eyes. She was athletic and quick witted. She was intelligent with just a touch of meanness, not enough to find her cruel, but just an edge to her. Her Boss would reuse the premise calling her by different variations of her name, Cassandra, Cassiopeia, or Cass. She wished to be working, but knew that the Boss was more inclined to write non-fiction and therefore she would be out of a job most of the time.

She tried to find some satisfaction in her idleness and came upon a plan. She would write a journal of the events as they occurred in The Station and see if with all the help of all her trapped friends, she could make something concrete to help them all.

Today she left the bar area and strode out into the town. There was a main street bathed in sunlight. It was free of the smoke and smell of the bar itself. The town was beautiful and she decided that this place would make a wonderful backdrop for her journal writing.

She felt as if she had a least a small purpose. Maybe no one in the other world would ever read about her. Maybe over there she was forever locked in the Boss's imagination. But here she was real. Here she was alive. Here she had her own thoughts, dreams, aspirations.

She looked out over Main St. and found a dry goods store. She mused that it was anachronistic for a 21st century woman and before her eyes is morphed into a Wal-Mart store. She strode up to the behemoth, entered, noticed that the greeter was one of the regulars from The Station, and went to the stationery department.

She left with a journal, some pencils, a few colored pens, and a smile in her heart. Not only did she now have a purpose, but there were no cash registers. This place wasn't really so bad, once you got used to it.

What Makes a Good Mother?

When I was first a mother, I worried about this question and gave it considerable thought. And yet – I went back to school before my newborn infant was even three weeks old. I put my needs before his own and finished my college degree. He never knew it. He only knows it now because I've told him. I had babysitters arranged and when that didn't work out, I simply missed classes. That college degree financed a good portion of his childhood. I think I made the right choice.

Now that my children are grown, what makes a good mother has entirely changed. What makes me a good mother today is being available without being intrusive. At least that is how I see it.

I have three grandchildren who I have yet to celebrate Christmas with – on Christmas. And right now I fear that I may never get to share the holiday with them ever. They are again in Ohio and I'm not sure they are coming back.

One of their other grandmothers feels a close tie to their mother. This is fine. All mothers should have close ties to their daughters. It is good to love and cherish your children, even when they are adults. I love and cherish my own children even though they are adults. I even love and cherish Amy's daughter even though she is an adult.

What I can't fathom is Amy's total selfishness. Amy needs her children with her. She successfully coerced her other two grown children to abandon Hilton Head Island in sunny South Carolina for the Mecca-like region of Cleveland, Ohio. They were called back "home" last year after Thanksgiving.

Amy would be pleased if Sarah and the kids moved back there with or without Joe. Reasonably speaking, Joe's job is in Hilton Head. The company he works for is small and without a branch in Cleveland. Joe can't simply transfer. And he would have to give back the company van.

Cleveland is in the rust belt. Unemployment is rising steadily in the area. The steel mill is only working in a partial capacity and the auto manufacturing plants are closing. Many of the smaller, light industrial plants were there because of the presence of the auto industry, so they are closed as well. This is not a place to go to find a good job.

When doing the math of hours spent with the grandchildren, I have figured that we spend 4 hours per visit, which isn't always true, but I was being generous. We go about 3 times per month, and only for 11 months. That figures out to 5.5 days. But if we be generous and say an entire week, that is still less time in actual hours that we, the close grandparents, spent with the babies the past year, than the distant grandmother.

I can't imagine the stress placed on Sarah by her mother's unreasonable wishes. Sarah is being coached and goaded into ripping her children away from their father because as every sane person "knows" it is more important for a creeping-up-on-thirty daughter to be close to her 50ish mother than it is for a1-, 2-, and 4-year-old child to have his or her parents. Amy's desires are going to ruin five people's lives, at least.

Joe will be bereft without his children. His income is currently within the bounds of supporting a family, but child support payments, even for three kids, aren't going to be enough for everyone to live on since there will need to be two households. He doesn't make that much money. So he will be financially ruined while his ex and children still won't have the funds to live on.

Sarah will be trapped in the winter ice and snow of Cleveland, without a car, three kids without their clothing, furniture, or toys. Unless someone can figure out how to get all this stuff transported north and can foot the bill for the transfer of goods. It is expensive. She will be financially strapped, stuck indoors with three kids without the helpful parent who actually cares for his children beside her.

And the babies. The most important person in a child's life is the same-sex parent. So the grandsons get really shafted here. Joe adores his daughter too and she, at only one-year-old, appears to be Daddy's Little Girl. She lights up when Daddy comes into the room. She loves her mother, too. But she would surely miss her father.

The preschool for the oldest grandson won't be available in Ohio. It seemed horribly wrong to me to take him out of school for even the two weeks of the "Christmas in Ohio for more than month" trip as it was. He was doing so well with his speech therapy, actually beginning to speak much better. Sacrificing him for Nonny's happiness is wrong.

Then there are the peripheral people who could be destroyed or injured by this one woman's desires. I will miss seeing the babies, of course. But it will kill my soul to see my son so wounded. I understand that not all couples stay together forever. I could understand the unhappy couple dissolving their union if it was THEIR problems that caused the dissolution. This tearing apart of a family for an outsider (and yes, I do think that the older generation folks are outsiders – it isn't our family) is beyond comprehension.

But this is untenable. Every time Amy comes to Hilton Head or they go up to Ohio, the two parents fight like cats and dogs. Amy cries that she misses her daughter. Amy insists that a good daughter would be with her mother. And the stress on Sarah must seem insurmountable. Sarah must know that the place for a grown woman and her children is with the father of those children, especially since is an engaged parent who actually interacts with his kids and loves all of them.

Amy, if you ever read this – this is not about you or even me. A good parent gives a child roots, and then wings. It is time to stop being so clingy. We sacrifice for our children. it is the parent's job to sublimate desires for the good of the child. Now it is time to let the "kids" who have become parents, to let them parent. I can only hope that Amy gets everything she deserves.

Waiting

Over a year and a half ago Dick had surgery. A year later he was to have a follow up procedure to make sure that he was remaining healthy. But a year after the surgery we were traveling in Alaska. Then there was another little unrelated health scare that needed attention. Then there was a non-hostile corporate takeover which was really quite hostile, but that is a different story.

So, a year and a half later, he is finally having that follow up procedure that will tell us that he is remaining healthy. After working in the "health care system" for more than two decades I know that the only safe appointment is the first one of the day. After that it is all a crap shoot, so to speak.

Today he was not the first appointment. That had some consolation. We didn't need to be up before dawn. However, there is also a down side. It means that schedules are never smooth and that appointments really aren't. His scheduled time was for 10 AM which meant that for some reason, we had to be there two hours before at 8 AM.

I knew better than to even think that I could last until well into the morning without coffee, so even though I am sure it was rude beyond belief, I made coffee this morning. I had three cups before leaving the house. I could see no benefit to my having a crushing headache while waiting. I did apologize, but it probably wasn't enough.

We left the house with more than enough time to get to the hospital. It was pouring. It was still dark. I am not that great of a driver. I hate driving in the rain and in the dark. But we had no choice and so I drove. And all was well until we were within about one-half mile of the hospital and traffic stopped. We waited and waited and cars were not moving at all. We surmised, correctly, that there was a wreck. We were close to the on ramp for Route 26 and Dick suggested we go up an exit and then come back.

I turned onto the highway and got up to 65 MPH for a good 30 seconds or so before there were all sorts of lit brake lights. It was another three miles of stop and go traffic to the next light. The highest speed we reached while in this mess was a whopping 25 MPH, but that didn't last long. We mostly cruised without me hitting the gas. We finally got off the highway, went around the ramps, got back on the highway heading west, and reached the hospital 27 minutes after first coming to a stop. We were on time, barely.

So we got to the hospital two hours early. That is standard procedure. Just like the military. Hurry up and wait. Which meant of course that we waited. I have my laptop with me. I see so many people with laptops when I volunteer that I thought I would lug it around. I was hoping that a large institution that already has computers with Internet access throughout, would have wireless points to make the visitors (and perhaps some of the patients) happy. Nope.

I will be suggesting this when they ask me how it went. Having access would have made this whole morning less stressful – at least for me.

So, at 10:10 (please note the time of the "appointment") we were told that the doctor was delayed in surgery and therefore Dick's procedure would also be delayed. Probably another hour. Great. I was already really tired of solitaire.

Finally, after playing god alone knows (because I didn't check before I closed the game) how many games of cards, and writing one three-page story for The Station shorts, they finally came to take him off for his scheduled appointment just 1.3 hours late. I understand. I wouldn't want my surgeon rushed if I were the patient. It isn't so much the delay in the case, it is the fact that we had to be here so much ahead of time.

So, now I am in the waiting area. It is loud and chilly. I'm not real sure why it is so cold. If I didn't have a burning up laptop on my lap, I would be shivering. And now I'm writing the story of my morning. Trying to kill some time while I wait.

I'm here today at this hospital, spending more time for a 45 minute procedure than I would have if I had been at my regular place on Friday morning – the sister Summerville hospital where I volunteer for 4 hours per week. I would have had to be there later, I would have been home sooner.

All I can say is that this better be good news. The nice part about this whole thing is that I can't upload this to my blog until I get home. See above about wireless connectivity. So, before I upload it, I will enter what the doctor tells me. I'm sure it will be that all is well. And I was correct, all is well.

My December Life

So, you may be asking yourself, just what has she been doing since last she wrote here. Well, I have been quite busy.

I have been having trouble with my left great toe since October. I spent one evening in the hospital and two weeks on antibiotics. I wore only slippers for weeks and finally got up to cloth tennies. But my foot wasn't healing in what I considered a proper fashion. I went back to my family physician who sent me to a podiatrist who told me that I should have the nail removed. And so I did. He said it wouldn't hurt. He lied. It didn't hurt while he did it, but I'm all the way back to cloth tennies again. And my foot is even uglier than before.

I have been to the world's ickiest Christmas party. It was a business Christmas party and there was little joy or peace either on Earth or at the restaurant. It was extremely tense and very unfestive. They didn't even give the boss a Christmas card that had passed around the office for people to sign. All the boss got was the check. Not even a toast. Nothing.

I've baked several kinds of Christmas cookies. Chocolate cherry with chocolate frosting cookies, best kefli, thumbprints, fruit drops, cherry cookies with dark chocolate kisses, cream wafers, and chocolate snowballs. I've not only baked and frosted them, but I've eaten quite a few of them. Probably too many, but skinny is overrated.

I next took a long weekend trip to Treasure Island, Florida to visit the in-laws. Everyone was doing just fine and Ryan is the cutest one-year-old boy in the entire world. We played with the baby, saw a boat parade, and just happened to visit Mario's Restaurant on Madeira Beach where they have the world's very best cannoli. I had cannoli. It was great.

Then back home and back to the local Italian Ristorante where the horrid Christmas party had taken place. This time it was again with business associates – but unlike last time, these were nice people and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The evening was pleasant and full of good cheer. Just like Christmas should be.

I've been writing several shorts for MWC's The Station and the members have opted to put them together and sell them as a book on Lulu.com. I have no real idea what any of that means, but what it meant personally was that if it was ever going to get done, someone had to do the editing. Two people volunteered, neither one had the time to do it, and so I spent two days copying and pasting and finding and replacing and reading and adjusting and emailing the finished product off to the guy who said he would put it together.

The other horrid task for the month has been reading a book for my book club. It was science fiction and I enjoy science fiction, usually. It took me three weeks to read this book. The book was 422 pages long. The back story took 66 pages. There were more pages of weaponry explanations and tactical maneuvers than any old lady needs to read. I struggled through the book and finally finished it with a good 4-5 hours to spare. It is the first of series of books that now number 11 titles. When I asked why I should read the next tome, I was told that they get better. In 422 pages I had only one-dimensional stereotypical flat characters, but if I gave the author another 800-1200 pages, it would get better.

I have finally gotten back to writing for RGQ and/or my own series of books. But I'm less interested in it than I should be. Once I get writing and into the swing again, I'm sure that my enthusiasm will again perk up.

I still have some Christmas projects to finish and shopping to do. And then I should write something for my blog. Because, you see, I am in terrible danger of being reprimanded by my son for not writing on my blog. It's just so sad.

Keeping the Faith

Bruce, my not boss who doesn't pay me to write, again asked me how my book was going. He sent me links to two books on Amazon. Both were about how to become my own literary agent. That would be marketing.

The trouble with me, as I see it, is that I'm a writer, not a businesswoman. I know a lot about business. I know about profits and loss, I know about accounting and bookkeeping which is more than just a fun word with three double letters in a row. I know that in order to sell something, you need to have a buyer. No buyer? No selling.

I know that I can write. I am not sure how well I can write, but I know that I can write better than the average person sitting in front of a computer. I know this because I am often confronted with other people's writing and frankly, mine is better – even if I do say so myself. In fact, other people have told me that mine is better which is probably a much better measurement than my own self delusion.

I have a book. I have an entire book. Written. What is next on my list of things that need to get done is finding a place to sell my book. I want to be a seller, not just a writer. Therefore I need a buyer. In order to find a buyer, I have to let people who might actually buy the thing know that I have something to sell.

This is tantamount to dating for the newly single. It is easier, safer, and less stressful to stay at home and sit on the couch. However, it is really difficult to meet new people from the couch unless you have a roommate (only two double letters) who invites people into your living room for you.

I am sitting on my couch waiting for some publisher to phone me and ask if I have a book I would like to sell them. "Why, yes I do!" I might reply. "How thoughtful of you to give me a call. Let me just get that mailed off to you." And later that same evening … my book hits the stores. If you are going to daydream, might as well go big.

I know this isn't how publishing works. I know that Print On Demand is risky. I also know that POD is how many new authors get their start. And then I also know that some publishing houses look down their sleek noses at those who have had to succumb to POD, assuming that they didn't write well enough for a real house to take their book. That may be true, but my stumbling block is in even asking the publishing house in the first place.

Other people who read my writing tell me that it is interesting and would have a market. I wish I had the faith to put myself out on a limb and get this thing out to the world. I'm sure they would enjoy my book. I enjoyed it. So they should, too.

Come sit here on my couch with me. We can read it together.

Flash Fiction

I've tried writing fiction and I simply can't do it. Well, that isn't quite true. I can write a very small vignette or an extremely short story. But I can't flesh out the "rest of the story" as Paul Harvey might say.

It's very difficult to create a whole character who behaves consistently across time. It is also difficult to put that character into a story that makes sense, introduces the character, permits or even demands the character to expand to fill the tale, and make the whole thing work.

I can, I find, write flash fiction. There isn't much to the character development. There is only a brief flash of a portion of a story that might work. I don't really know if I am any good at it, but I can do it. I'm sure that with practice I will get better.

Someone over at MWC came up with a brilliant plan. There is a mythical place called The Station where fictional characters go. They may be wisps of characterization, they may be stories started and not finished, they may be stories that were completely written and didn't sell, or they may be established characters whose author, aka The Boss, is now working on other projects.

This idea is so wonderful for me. I know that I'm not capable of fleshing out an entire character. But I can create a smaller version of someone who might have been if the Boss were a better writer. I can tell a small tale because I don't have the skill to tell a large tale.

I sit alone in my house and converse with other talented people, varying degrees of both time and talent to be sure, and put out a small story and see what comes back. Tangentially connected, completely stand alone, or using characters from someone else's creative mind. I find the stories compelling for a variety of reasons.

The stories are interesting in and of themselves. But they also show the frustration felt by other story tellers who have a character that just isn't making it. None of my characters make it, which is why I write non-fiction. I don't have to create anybody, just tell a small portion of their story and call it my own work.

I've met some wonderful people with great senses of humor. The word connection threads show the oblique way people who love words can play with the damn things. But more than that, they are permitting me to see a side of writing that I was unaware of. I read voraciously. But that means that I read what is finally published. I don't see the work before the publication. What an eye opener.

So, I'm off to MWC again and peeking at the writers, some published and some not, as they play with words. Something I've always loved to do. And now I have an entire playground.