Adventures in Ghostwriting

Well, here I am again at the weekend and wondering where that whole week went. Actually, I'm wondering where that whole month of July went, last thing I remember I was laying in the sun and saying thanks for the long fourth of July weekend. Maybe it has something to do with my new job.

I'm a ghost writer now. It's kind of like being a ghost rider but instead of the cool bike I have a ergonomically correct desk chair. Still, I'm using my extraordinary talents to fight the menace of blank internet websites, and so far, I'm kicking butt with over 90% of my articles accepted for publishing.

Yes, it looks like I did not do a whole lotta writing in the past month, but the truth is I wrote one hundred and seven articles in the month of July. My one hundred and seven articles were posted on various web sites and under various names. Some of them were bought with a contract that said someone else was going to claim they wrote it and I could not ever tell anyone otherwise. Notice how, right now, I'm not naming any names? That's because I respect and honor my contracts.

Some of my articles were posted under nome de plumes. This is cool, because remember back in April? I wrote that whole article on getting a fine nome de plume? (April 16th, a Wednesday) Well, now I have a few of them. I'm Gretta Buttinski, Juan A. Bee, Leslie from Camden, and Drinkin A. Cuppajoe, among others. I've been so many different people in the last month I'm starting to feel like I have multiple personalities.

I've written dozens of 125 word blog posts, 250 word product reviews, 300 word articles, 400 word articles and the dreaded 700 word articles in which I must use the key word "guano" at least 3 times but not more than 5 times and the key phrase "guano maneuvers" at least 4 times and not more than 7 times and I must provide an attention grabbing headline of not more than 65 characters which uses the key term once and ends in the word "sparkling". I must have no more and no less than 6 paragraphs and each paragraph must have at least 40 words. Oh, and please be positive, no references to drugs or alcohol and for heavens sake, don't try to be funny, if we wanted humor we would ask for a funny 700 word article about guano maneuvers.

In the time it took to write the 700 word directions, they could have written the article themselves and saved a few bucks! But hey, then I wouldn't be working as a ghost writer.

I've written reviews on washers, dryers and lawnmowers. I've reviewed dance classes, moving companies, drum lessons, craft classes and emergency room visits. I've given advice to guys wanting to get their old girlfriends back, girls wanting to know how to deal with a cheating spouse, people wanting to get a cheap flight to South Africa, people wanting to know how to pick a hair style that fits their face, and parents wanting to know how to take a family of 6 to Six Flags with out breaking the bank.

I've given instructions for taming fly-away hair, making gift boxes, decorating the front stoop, giving a tea party and keeping the babysitter, once you find one that is really good. I have advised the love lorn and encouraged the backsliding bible thumper. One of my favorite how-to articles was about how to be safe on the open ocean in a 40 foot sailboat, and what to do if you get close to a storm you can't outrun. ( Secure everything, put on your pfd's -personal flotation devices, set off the homing beacon, close the hatches and call the Coast Guard, Dummies!).

So, as you can see, my many life experiences are coming in pretty handy now that I am a ghost writer.

Hey, and the pay isn't bad, considering I am working in my pj's only three feet from the coffee pot and three feet from the refrigerator and I don't have to listen to some idiot called a supervisor and I don't have to commute. I can work when I want and choose my jobs from a daily list of literally thousands of jobs. I can work for a couple hours, go for a bike ride, then work for another couple hours- no one cares! The only down side I can see is that my bloggers butt is sore and my mousers shoulder is acting up, otherwise it's not a bad gig. If my coffee pot and refrigerator were located on a beach in the south pacific, I would say it's perfect!

So, listen, I'm definitly thinking about you, my readers and I am working to submit at least two fresh posts to my blog each week, so check back later, I will have something new for you.

Prolific Writer Stalls

You may have noticed that in the past month I have posted less than usual. You may be thinking I'm running out of fresh ideas. My bubble of creativity has burst. I'm a 7 month old washed up has-been.

You would be absolutely wrong!

The fact is, I now have a part-time job writing. Yes, I'm getting paid to write, and the time I spend on that job is taking away some of the time I had previously spent writing for this blog. I am what you would call a free lance writer, ghost writing for other people's blogs and web sites. Now, the pay isn't much but the job certainly is giving me some practice in writing about subjects that I know nothing about. Just like a real writer! It's also challenging me to write faster, and stay with in the guidelines for the articles I'm submitting.

So, let this be a warning to you all-so called "expert advice" on the net is not necessarily written by experts- it could be written by someone like me! Testimonials could be faked, written by people who never in their life went to that school, but happen to have extraordinary imaginations. Reviews of products and services could be written by someone who never has taken a salsa lesson but can pick up a phone and ask how much it would cost to do so, all the while sitting in front of a computer in jammies and slippers.

My Own Good Advice For Writers Part 5

My last post has now been edited, and corrections made. The aftermath of the big yard sale was a whirl wind of catching up on my usual weekend chores, getting ready for the week ahead, and trying to find just a smidgen of down time in which to lie on the couch like a beached whale and maybe read a book or watch a good movie. Sunday went by so fast I hardly knew it had arrived.

Through out that whole day I percolated on my after-the-yard-sale article. I danced to and fro with it, waltzing with words, kicking up my heels with concepts and generally flouncing around with various funny thoughts about the whole affair.

I just couldn’t seem to nail it down, and I really didn’t feel like writing it just yet. Now, I’ve been one of those artistically inclined individuals my whole life, and as a teenager I tested the waters of “artistic temper -mentality” – there were times I just was not in the mood to get the creative juices to gush. It gave me an aura of artistic regality, but it just didn’t lend its self to being a really great artist. There were too many reasons to say I’m not in the mood. I finally gave it up, and for years now I’ve been a “just do it” kinda gal.

If it’s on the schedule, I finish the project. So by Monday I was gnawing at the bit to get my percolating into a post and publish it for my loyal readers. I’m really working on my ability to write on demand and produce enough really good articles to fill a spot in a weekly publication, you know, so when the New York Times comes a calling I can say yes to a hefty contract for a weekly column. Then I can take my lap top, fly to Tahiti and work.

Any Hoo- I glued my butt to the chair Monday morning with a time frame of about a hour. My day job was waiting and I just knew if I didn’t get that post posted, I would be thinking about it the whole afternoon. I “Just did it”, and finished up 15 minutes before I was due at my day job. I really didn’t have much time to do any editing. I did run the spell check. Feeling like a pro- I sauntered off to work, knowing my mind was free from worry. I made my self imposed deadline; I was on my way to being a productive member of the authors’ society.

Not long after, the article and its contents started scratching at my mind. OH! I realized I had forgotten to say something important. Then my mind started scratching faster, like a dog with fleas. Should have added this to that paragraph? Did I intersperse past tense with present tense? (a common mistake for me) Did I tell the entire tale in first person or did my voice waver from paragraph to paragraph, first person to observer? Did I miss a comma? Did the spell check say yes to putt when I meant put? Did I mistakenly conjugate my adjectives?

Pretty soon my mind had scratched itself into a frenzy and I was dancing around with my article while I was trying to do my day job. This is very distracting. I kept praying to the Patron Saint of Writers that no one from The New Yorker was checking out my sub-par post. I was wishing my regular readers would be so busy at work they did not even three minutes of their boss’s time to check out my latest post. I couldn’t wait to get back to the computer and fix my common mistakes, left hanging for the entire world to see because I wanted to fulfill my obligation as a serious series writer and post on a regular basis!

So my own good advice for writers is this- Always polish before you publish. Otherwise you might end up like yours truly, with a mind scratching and dancing and percolating all over the place, while your half baked post is fluttering in the breeze for all to see like a pair of underwear on a clothes line.

Sudden Spike in Popularity Mystifies Writer

Thank You all you new fans who stopped by to read my post and check out my profile in the last week.

It is so much fun to check the counter and see that it's really starting to count! It's exciting to know that my writing is attracting people. Maybe when I grow up I really will be a writer. Yeah, yeah, I'm a writer now, but I mean one who makes I living writing, or at least a secondary, "multiple streams of income" kinda income from writing.

I mean, here it is 5 months after my first post, and in the last week I've had more new readers than in the previous 4 months and 29 days. I've been averaging 20 new readers a month, I've had five times that in the last week!

For those of you who have not blogged- when you read my posts you don't register on the counter, because you are assumed to be a previous reader. When you read my profile you are counted, assuming you are a new reader, smitten with my writing and checking out this fabulous author's profile.

All I can figure is it has to do with the last post and SATC fever. I wrote something that someone enjoyed reading and wanted to share with friends. They may have clicked on the little envelope and sent it to all their SATC fan friends. They must have been so charmed that they had to look and see who wrote this witty and articulate accounting of the SATC movie. They viewed my profile.

So, Thank You.

I'm working on the next post, I have a few ideas swirling around up in the ol' noggin', I hope by the end of today they will solidify into something worth posting for my growing and greatly appreciated audience!

I Used a Bad Word.

I think I must be turning into a writer or something. I think this because long after I posted my last post, it kept scratching at my brain. Not the whole thing really, just one word, The last word. It kept popping into my head like a skinny little meerkat popping up out of its hole to check for invaders.

Before to long I realized I had used a bad word. No, not a cuss word, but a bad word. No, not inherently bad, not a word that started fighting in grade school, robbing in high school and killing in college and is now doing a life sentence in San Quentin, no, not a bad seed word. Just a bad choice of the last -stepping- off -into- the- void word. Meaning not the best word to end the post with. The last word echoes in the readers brain, and is the last impression fused to the readers tender mind.

I did not go back immediately and change the word, I was kind of busy and I still hadn't decided what to change the word to. There were so many choices. A bevy of words presented themselves to my brain and said " will I do?". Most were rejected after a quick look, some made it to a first then second audition.

I still hadn't decided what the new star of the last line of my last post would be when I made a huge mistake. I picked up the new Dean Koontz novel. I settled into the couch and started reading and the horror overtook me within moments. Dean is a master of the good word. No, I don't mean the Bible, I mean the bestest word for the moment in any narrative. He is an artist, painting grand swaths of color, texture and feeling into each sentence. His descriptions are indescribable. You don't have to read the whole book to be entertained, although it would be a mistake not to. You really just have to start reading the book and you will find each sentence a joy, a masterpiece, an example of perfect word choice.

I went to bed after Odd Thomas and the girl sprinted themselves out of harms way for the first time. I say the first time because being a Dean Koontz fan I know that this is just the first brush with- well, I can't tell you who, and just the first of many times in the story that our hero, Odd, will sprint out of danger. Now the girl is with , well I can't say who she is with while Odd is, oh I can't tell you that either.

Even as I slept the word came back to taunt me. Bad word, bad word, bad choice of word. I saw 3 story brick letters in my dreams, lined up to spell out the many good words available to fill the ending word spot in my post. I was not disturbed by this dream, just fascinated with all the words I could choose. Upon awaking I went directly to the computer, right to this blog and inserted my new word into the starring role in my last post, the ending word.

Now my mind is resting easier, good word in place. I must be turning into a writer or something.

Cup O’ Joe

I woke this morning thinking, as most mornings I do, of a cup ‘o Joe.

Wait-Why do they call it a cup of Joe? And who is they?
Well, I found a few theories on the origin of the popular moniker for coffee.

In 1914 the secretary of the US Navy admiral Josephus Joe Daniels abolished the officers wine mess, from that time on the strongest and apparently therefore the drink of choice was coffee. It was dubbed a cup of Joe. By 1931 the slang was popular enough to be included in the reserve officer’s manual.

Some people think that the slang is derived from the fact that coffee was a common man’s drink, and Joe was the name for the common man. I also found this interesting suggestion and wondered if it could be true - The old 16th century Scottish word joe, which translates to joy, is the explanation behind this name for coffee.

And, since we are learning about slang for coffee- here’s another popular one: Java became a popular name for coffee in the 19th century because the island of Java was at that time the major source of the world’s coffee.

Personally, every time I hear coffee termed Joe my mind envisions a tall, cool gumshoe straight from the 40’s. His face reflects his weariness; his posture is slightly slumped as if he is bone tired. His clothes are wrinkled, suit with a skinny tie anchored to the ground by a scuffed pair of shoes caked with dust. Even the black Fedora on his head looks like it could use a rest as he pulls it off and gives it a shake, dust filtering up into the pink cast of early morning light. He sets the hat on the counter. His chiseled face is covered with a days stubble because he’s been hunting clues not sleeping, eating or shaving. Even in his weariness there is a strength that could be trusted. He was definitely a man who could get the job done. He leans over the counter in a dim greasy spoon, motioning with a hand for the waitress to bring him a cup o’ joe as he lights his cigarette with a strike anywhere match.

Now back to the story-
I was waking from the nothingness of my solid sleep. As my eyes opened, there was a vision of my favorite cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee floating in front of my eyes, like the proverbial oasis in the desert, so real I could almost reach out and grab the mug from the sky.

That type of vision can motivate me to hop from under the cozy covers, even on a cold day. I’m picky about my Joe, like most people I have my own personal recipe for making the perfect cup. It involves a French press coffee maker, a coffee grinder, some really dark oily beans and half and half not milk- thank you, but honestly, the beans are definitely the key to a good cup of coffee.

Coffee belongs to the botanical family Rubiaceae, which has some 500 genera and over 6,000 species. Most are tropical trees and shrubs which grow in the lower storey of forests. Other members of the family include the gardenias and plants which yield quinine and other useful substances, but Coffea is by far the most important member of the family economically.

According to legend, human cultivation of coffee began after goats in Ethiopia were seen becoming frisky after eating the leaves and fruits of the coffee tree.

The first written record of coffee, made from roasted coffee beans, comes from Arabian scholars who wrote that it was useful in prolonging their working hours. The Arab innovation of making a brew from roasted beans, spread first among the Egyptians and Turks and later on found its way around the world.

Coffea Arabica is the one I like. It is indigenous to Ethiopia and Yemen. It is believed to be the first species of coffee to be cultivated, being grown in southwest Arabia for well over 1,000 years. Coffea Arabica is considered to produce better coffee than the other major commercially grown coffee species -- Coffea canephora (robusta).

Robusta is a species of coffee which has its origins in western Africa. It once was grown mostly in Africa and Brazil. In recent years Vietnam, has become the world's single largest exporter. Approximately one third of the coffee produced in the world is Robusta.

Robusta is easier to care for than the other major species of coffee, Arabica , and because of this it is cheaper to produce. Since Arabica beans are considered superior, Robusta is usually limited to lower grade coffee blends.

C8H10N4O2. That is the formula for caffeine. I just love chemistry, don’t you?

Caffeine is a bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant drug and a mild diuretic (speeds up urine production) in humans and other animals. Caffeine was discovered by a German chemist, Friedrich Ferdinand Runge, in 1819. Caffeine is also called guaranine when found in guarana, mateine when found in mate, and theine when found in tea; all of these names are synonyms for the same chemical compound.

Robusta, at 1.7-4.0% caffeine, has about twice as much caffeine as Arabica with 0.8-1.4%.

Does that surprise you? I just said my favorite coffee has less caffeine, and, because I like the really dark roast, it has even less caffeine. Recall that age old adage – the greener the bean the more the caffeine? No? Well that is how it goes and the fact is you can practically roast the caffeine right out of the beans. My French roast has less caffeine than a cup of Folger’s.

You are probably thinking “Good God Almighty! Why would she like coffee with less caffeine?”

Because it’s not about the buzz. It’s about the flavor, the warmth, the smell. It’s about my favorite mug snug in my hands and taking a few minutes to let myself wake up before I fling myself into the day. Honestly folks, why would I need a bunch of caffeine after I just slept all night? Now, ask me about my one cup in the afternoon, and that might be about caffeine, but the morning, the morning is about flavor, savor and time.

The gumshoe surveys his surroundings. Nothing to make him nervous, just a few people waking in the early morning light of the diner. He eyes each one as if to find the meaning of their lives hidden in the wrinkles of their faces. He sees no malice, no suspicion, no flickering glances that might reflect someone looking for him. The waitress returns with his cup o’ joe and he settles his mind into contemplating the events of the last few nights and his expectations for the day. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would find the key to unlocking this puzzle, somewhere in his mind he had yet to access. Now, at this moment, the puzzle pieces still lay jumbled. Mismatched notches, colors colliding, outside edges missing. It didn’t make sense, and that he finds disturbing.

His long arms reach with strangely graceful hands for the creamer in a little pot on a bed of ice in a bowl not two feet away. He pours a small trickle of white, it disappears into the night black of his cup o’ joe, turning it into the dark brown color of sand on some exotic beach half a world away. With a glance around the room again he lifts his spoon and, feeling comfortable with his surroundings, he puts his full attention on the stirring of the coffee, mixing the cream in slowly, contemplatively, round and round. As he does, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces of the puzzle move round and round in his mind.

I found this interesting: The average Arabica plant is a large bush with dark-green oval leaves. It is genetically different from other coffee species, having four sets of chromosomes rather than two. C. arabica is a tetraploid (44 chromosomes) and is self-pollinating.C. canephora ( robusta) is diploid and self-sterile, producing many different forms and varieties in the wild.

It takes seven to nine pounds of cherry to make one pound of roasted coffee. Thus 100 pounds of cherry will yield about 12 pounds of roasted coffee.

The first sip from the heavy white mug warms his body as if a campfire had been lit on the counter in front of him. He savors the warmth, his mind starts to defrost as he awakens the lingering memory of his night spent crouching in the bushes outside the bleak apartment building. The next sip follows, gliding smoothly into his body as his mind recalls every shadow, every sound. The palm fronds crossing the walk, shadows in the moonlight, the hushed roar of the nearby beach, the scent of gardenias and salt. The sound of footsteps echoing to his hiding place, his brief sight of shoes, first the red patent leather high heels of the dame and later, much later the well heeled boots of a heavy man transversing the same route.

He sips again and recalls the urgent knocking on the door of the second floor apartment. His line of sight was obscured, but the timing was right and no other steps had fallen on his ears in the meantime. The boots must have stood for a while, searching? Remembering? His mind replays the muffled thump, the strangled gasp, recalls the sight of the blood.

Many social aspects of coffee can be seen in the modern-day lifestyle. The United States is the largest market for coffee, followed by Germany and Japan. The Nordic countries consume the most coffee per capita, with Finland typically occupying the top spot with a per-capita consumption in excess of 10 kg per year, closely followed by Norway, Sweden and Denmark.

A woman's late-night invitation to a man for a cup of coffee (typically after a date) has become code for an invitation to sex. This convention has become the subject of a great deal of comedy, and the treatments given to it in Seinfeld (in the words of George Costanza: "'Coffee' doesn't mean coffee! 'Coffee' means sex!")

The light in the diner changes as the sun begins to rise. The gumshoe continues to contemplate the meaning of the recalled clues as he savors the warm cup o’ Joe. The taste of the brew seems to strengthen his resolve. The kaleidoscope of fragmented puzzle pieces swirls around and the disjointed parts begin to fall into place. He feels himself snap to attention, like a bird dog pointing, as the final clue fits and the picture is visible. He picks up the cup and swallows the last drops of warm, bitter nectar as his mind swallows the truth.

He reaches with long fingers into his pants pocket and extracts a dollar. Laying it on the counter he picks up his hat and swings himself off the stool. As he turns he again takes in every face around him, still searching for a glint of recognition. None comes. He knows where the trail points; he knows where he has to go. He walks across the diner as if led by an invisible thread, out the heavy door, bells jangling, out to the sidewalk already warm from the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day, sweat breaking under his collar as he turns east with confident steps, heading toward the answer.

It's grown into a Octopus!

I'm working on the next post, which I thought would be a simple article, relatively easy to spit out. However, it's grown into a octopus, tentacles wrapped around me. I'm splashing and flaying around, trying to calm the beast and slip out of it's suction cup arms, but I just have not yet found firm ground for my feet or the proper leverage to wiggle free of the beast.

It started with a simple idea, then grew into pages of meanderings, researched facts and dubious legends. Like any noteworthy monster, it's bigger than life. I'm struggling to keep my head above water as I whack the beast down to a reasonable article size.

Check back in a few days and ( I hope) you will find me triumphantly standing with the beasts head on a platter.

I Don't Have The Answer.

Did you ever feel like you were having trouble staying focused? I mean on life?

Being the highly educated type person that I am, I remember being at say, year six, of my continuing education process and walking into class asking where am I? What quarter is this and which class am I in now? What book am I supposed to be reading and when the heck is that lab midterm test?

What? It was yesterday morning? Yesterday? The day I skipped class to have breakfast with my friend Laura because it was her birthday and she had no one to go with because everyone else was in the lab class? Oh God! And I never did get along with the lab instructor, do you think if I cry and make up a story about "female problems" he will fall for it? (he did).

Did you ever feel that way about life? Sometimes I find myself just tooling along doing a comfortable cruising speed, thinking I'm seeing all the signs, following the mapped out route, taking the planned turns, not missing my exits and everything is kosher and wham! Out of no where a cruiser is on my tail with lights flashing. Maybe I wasn't focused enough.

How the heck are we supposed to navigate this life with so much going on? You almost have to ignore a large part of it just to tend to the basics - work, pay the bills, do laundry often enough to have a good supply of clean underwear and all that. Add a few moments of personal time here and there and you are about maxed out. How can we stay focused on the necessities and still have the attention to notice the flowers blooming, the beautiful sunset, the bird nesting in the tree right above our head?

I don't have the answer, it's just a question.

As a writer sometimes I must focus on the tools of my craft, get serious and edit. It's so much easier to let the words spill out than it is to clean up the overflow. Yesterday morning, however, I did just that. I got focused and looked at my last article with an editor's eye. I knew it could be better, flow smoother and sound more balanced. I chipped away a little here, added a little there. I tweaked a bit, exchanging one word for another. It's hardly noticeable when you re-read the finished product, but it does make a big difference.

Now if I could just edit my life, chip away a little of the "not so important" stuff to make room for a little of the "more important" stuff. If I could tweak it a bit, keeping the main structure and meaning, but leave it more balanced and flowing smoother. If I could just focus a little more on the underlying story, the main point, and shed some of the trappings that come from living in a world where we are so influenced by society that is constantly moving faster and wanting more, would I find a richer story of my life?

I don't have the answer, it's just a question.

Stars Dancing on Water

Today I spent some time cleaning out a closet. I am planning the biggest yard sale in the universe and I figured that closet held about a gazillion things that would make some yard shopper really happy and make me a bunch of loot to boot!

While I was rummaging around in that closet looking for discardable treasure I happened upon a box of papers. There were newspaper clippings of interest-
Berlin Wall Falls! (now that is exciting!)
White Buffalo Born! (Praise the Great Spirit)
Visit The Real Hotel California! (It’s in Todos Santos and Don Henley was part owner).
Retired Nomads Parked in Paradise! (Bisbee Arizona’s own time warp- a campground where you can stay in the retro luxury of a 1950’s travel trailer decorated in vintage fabulous style! How Cute is that?!).

I also found all kinds of cards sent to me from a whole bunch of you, from as far back as 1979, I found photos also, but don’t worry, I won’t post them.

When I dug a little farther I came up with some writing I did many years ago. I found this one piece that I think is rather nice, so I’m going to share it with you. I remember the day well, I took a break from Atlanta,the big city I was going to school in, and drove a few hours north to the mountains to sit by a lake. Being the serious, dedicated student that I was, I also took my books. I sat by the lake, books cracked, sun warm, sky blue above and pine trees on the breeze. I watched the sunshine reflecting off the ripples created by the breeze across the lake. Then I got all creative and wrote this:

The stars fell right out of the sky, and landed in the lake. They are hiding from the sun, but I can see them, like a huge swarm of fire flies dancing. They gather around my toes on the wake of the water. They fall from my fingertips, white light dropping back into the lake. They stick to my hair until I shake my head and they are flung away, now shooting stars. Stars riding, like tiny bright surfers, disappearing into the crest of the wave as it meets shore. They are dancing now, dancing just for me and I watch, mesmerized by their beauty, their light, their easy motion on the water.

My brain starts to melt into deep relaxation and my eye lids become heavy. My body becomes light, and the wind blows through me. I float like a feather on the wind. I float up, into a cloudless sky to a place where everything I dream is real, where my thoughts are heard and my feelings known. My hand touches my heart and it touches me back. The trees sing to me and I know where I come from, where I am and where I belong.

As the day lengthens, the sunlight softens and the stars in the lake flash with a different rhythm. I am awakened from my aware slumber, changed forever.

What's in a Profile? #2

I finally did it folks, I wrote my brief but revealing profile.

I figured if people are reading my posts, they already know quite a bit about me, so I didn't want to go overboard. I still think it's not about me, it's about the stories. I do understand though, I mean, I always read the author profiles on the back flap of the dustcover of every book I read. I never know what interesting fact I may find or what I may have in common with the author. Sometimes there is a clue as to where the story comes from. Sometimes there is a little known very personal fact, like a nickname.

Ghost Readers

Hello all you wild eyed adoring fans.
Every one of you. Literally.
Really, I'm beginning to think nobody is reading my blog. Or maybe no one has any idea where and what that photo is. Maybe no one has the time for such nonsense in a world that moves at the speed of cell phone and internet transactions.

Maybe I did not offer enough incentive to entice you to guess the location of the object in that photo. I'm gonna leave it for a few more days before I tell you the truth about that photo, which, hint hint, was taken somewhere that everyone in the USofA should have gone at one time or another. So far I have received nada in the way of speculation from my adoring fans. Maybe you will be the first?

Eat Pray Love

One of my friends gave me a book to read this week. This is the same friend that sometimes brings me margarita glasses or bottles of wine or yoga DVD's. She's also been known to motivate me into exercising, and she's the only other person on the planet who can get anywhere near my one-woman cat, so she's his sitter. As you can see, she's a valuable friend. She's a gem, and she brought me a gem of a book. It was so good I just have to tell you all to go get it and read it. I loved every bit of it. From the cover art to the last goodbye, this book is fantastic.

The book entitled Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert is a series of articles about a year in her life when she stepped back and said “who am I”, and the path she took to discover the answer. Ms. Gilbert, as it turns out, was already a professional writer, and that may explain why the book was so well written. Her style of writing has depth and humor rolled into one. When I grow up, I want to write like she does. In fact, I wish I had written this book.

During her year of living discoverously, she traveled to three areas of the globe that held some sort of fascination for her and along the way she met many a strange and wise character. She learned to listen with her heart as well as her ears, and write from her being as well as her mind.

I can’t tell you too much, or it would ruin your read, but I will tell you that she threw herself whole heartedly into three very foreign landscapes and came out looking like a local. She did, in fact, learn who she really was at the time and developed a path to continue to lead her to who she was going to be in the future. She became, I think, very flexible.

There were many times during my read that I would say to myself, that was fantastic, I should put that in my blog, there were just so many really cool concepts to ponder. I guess my favorite, and the one I will share with you is this:

On page 95 she says “The Bhagavad Gita – the ancient Indian Yogic text- says that it is better to live your own destiny imperfectly then to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection”.

I definitely have that living imperfectly concept down. Living imperfectly is a constant companion on my path. We hold hands while we walk. We are great friends. You could say we are peas in a pod. Add to that the fact that I have never been attracted to imitation anything, except of course when it comes to acrylic nails, and although I often find bits and pieces of others that I admire and wish to emulate, like for instance Tony Robbins in his live with passion frenzy or this writer, Elizabeth Gilbert with her humorous insightful style of writing, I think I’m safe in saying my life’s goal has never been to imitate anyone.

I’m an imperfect original and apparently I’m walking an imperfectly authentic path. According to the Bhagavad Gita, I’m doing great!

Nom de Plume

I was thinking maybe I should have a Nom de plume. Nom de plume has nothing at all to do with bird feathers although that is what it brings to mind when I hear the phrase. Nom is the word for “name”, de translates as “of”, and plum is literally “pen”. Name of Pen. Nom de plume is the fancy French pen name for a pen name. Many writers have used Nom de plumes over the years, and maybe it’s one of those things ya just gotta have to be a writer.

Nome de plumes have been used for protecting a writers’ identity when they wanted to say something but were embarrassed to have it credited to them. So far I haven’t posted anything I might be embarrassed by, but who knows, at some point I might want to blather on about my years as an Osmond Brothers fan and maybe associating that with my given name, Meandering, would have long lasting repercussions.

Writers in Victorian times used Nome de plumes to fool the public into reading things written by – GASP!- females! Case in point: Emily Bronte writing as Ellis Bell and Karen Blixen publishing “Out of Africa” under the name Isak Dinesen.

Funny isn’t it? I mean, in those days you were not considered a well rounded female unless you had self published, to the delight of your proud father and joyous family members, at least a small volume of prose or a skillfully executed short novel just for fun (as in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, oh, and by the way, her name was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin), however public publishing was for men only.

In this day and age I don’t think I have to masquerade as a man, but at times I am amazed by the archaic attitudes still entrenched in some peoples tiny brains.

Some writers use nom de plumes because their names were too strange for public consumption, like Theodore Geisel, who wrote as Dr. Seuss,( oh yes doc, that's better, more normal sounding) Charles Lutwidge Dodgson better known as Lewis Caroll , Chloe Anthony Wofford, writer Toni Morrison, and my personal favorite - Mark Twain who was actually Samuel Langhome Clemens, and used Sieur Louis de Conte as his nom de plume for his nom de plume.

Another good example of this use of nom de plumes is Western novelist Pearl Gray who dropped his first name and changed the spelling of his last name to become Zane Grey, because he believed that his real name did not suit the Western genre. Smart move Pearl. And what the heck were Pearl’s parents thinking anyway, when they named him Pearl? It’s not like they were contemporaries of Frank Zappa!

Some writers used nom de plumes to make them sound more educated, like they might actually know what they were writing about, or possibly to entice the upper class into reading a contemporaries works. Maybe this is why Mary Westmacott became Dame Agatha Clarissa Mary Christie.

So, how could I come by a really fine nom de plume?

I went looking for ideas and found this: Japanese poets who write haiku often use a haiga or penname. The famous haiku poet Matsuo Bashō had used fifteen different haiga before he became fond of a banana plant (bashō) that had been given to him by a disciple and started using it as his penname at the age of 38.

WHAT? I swear, that is so Zen!

Well, OK, I have a nice philodendron bipinnatifidum I’m fond of, maybe I could use that for my nom de plume. I could change it a tad to be Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum. How’s that sound?

OH MY! Maybe I’ve just stumbled onto the secret of getting published! Maybe I would not have received those three rejection letters this week if, when I submitted my stories to magazines, I had used the appropriate nom de plume! I should resubmit my article to “Better Homes and Gardens” with my new nom de plume – Phillis Dendron Bipinnatifi’dum! It So Fits!

I could write for Cigar Aficionado as Charles Hector Anthony Hubert Esq.! I could publish snooty travel memoirs as Royal Dame Mary Martha Prudence Windsor!

I could keep my real name, Meandering, just for use in my blog, among friends, so to speak. After all, if I do blather on about some really embarrassing incident in the novel of my life, there is a good chance some of you would turn up as the other main characters, right? And ya’ll wouldn’t be laughing me out of blogdom, because you were involved too! So for now I’ll just sign off- Meandering

PS My research for this article turned up this little nugget- Anne Rice was born Howard Allen O'Brien- I’m just not going for it though, I met Anne Rice once and I’m pretty sure her parents did not name her Howard.

Cyberspace Is So Flexible

I do love this internet, and I will tell you why- it's so flexible, so expansive and so convenient. I can do research for my articles with a click, and I can go shopping with a click as well. It's so easy!

It opens up so many possibilities for people it's really amazing. I mean you can plan your dream vacation and buy tickets, make reservations and do research on your destination. Want to find some all natural remedy to improve your health? Want to learn what essential oils can do for you? Just look it up! You will find pages and pages of information.

Looking for something special to purchase? Like maybe a book that would be really enlightening but you have checked with the library and they don't have it? Remember when you had to go to the bookstore, put in a special order and sometimes wait months to get the book? Well, no more! Now just log on and click away.

Looking for someone special? I do know people who have met and married (happily) people they found on line.

It's just amazing how handy cyberspace and this whole internet thingie can be. Especially if you live in a rural area, it allows you to become more integrated into the larger world, and gives you more options. For instance, if you live in an area with no health food stores, you can get many of the products you are looking for on line.

The fact that it is easily accessible and interactive makes it a really valuable tool for artists and writers, like myself.

You know, years ago the art of publishing was something that the average (average but probably somewhat financially well off)person had available to them. Many young men and women published volumes of poetry, verse or short stories printed by what we would call vanity publishers.

In a society (Victorian) where swooning was cherished and emotional sentiment a sign of intelligence, it was considered part of reaching maturity to enlighten your family and friends with your most intimate laments on the affairs of your heart and inner mind.

When that sensitive time had passed, vanity publishing became blasé, and writers had to struggle to get someone to look at their work. They couldn't get published unless they knew someone. It's still like that today, many of the publishers will not even look at your work unless you have been published before. It's what you call a "catch 22". How do you get published the first time if they won't look at your work unless you have already been published? How the heck do they ever find new talent? Is the literary world stagnant?

Not on line it isn't, anyone can be published. Anyone can post artwork. Any one can find a forum to express their creativity.

Now, you may not have tried this yet, but here is your chance. If you have always wanted to publish something, like a poem or a short story, send it to me. I will publish it for you. If you really enjoy seeing your name in print, you may want to consider blogging, but, just to get you started, send me your work. I don't care if you have never been published. I don't care if you don't have an agent. I don't care if your mom wears army boots. I will publish your work, right here!

My Plot For a Horror Story

I drifted into the movie rental store yesterday. This is not something I do very often, as my local library carries a wide selection of slightly outdated but still excellent films. I ended up being a bit disappointed in the amount of horror and violence apparent in the selections available on the perimeter of the movie rental store. It has been a while since I rented and something seems to have changed. What happened to romantic comedy, family films, heroic adventure and film noir intrigue? Now we have guts, violence, guts, sex, and more guts.

There were way to many people on DVD covers screaming in anguish, cowering in fear and running for their lives. There were hideous monsters, horrible machines of torture and unidentified slimy things. There was way to much blood and random body parts being served up for our entertainment. I felt like I had to cross myself and next time I go in that store I’m wearing a garlic necklace. Who the heck is renting all this stuff and where are their parents while they are watching it? Who the heck is making all this stuff and how could they make a living like this and frankly, why would they want to? Haven’t they heard about that quantum theory that goes like this: You are what you eat- oh, wait , wrong one- this is it- Your life becomes like that which you focus your attention on.

After a close to complete circuit around the store I had zeroed in on two possible films for my evenings entertainment. There were a few others I thought might be good, and I made a mental note to check the library for them. Then I got to the A’s (I started with the Z’s) and my choice was clear. I ditched the romantic comedy starring nobody we know and the adventure starring nobody we know either.

I rented American Gangster, purely for aesthetic reasons, I mean Russell Crowe of course. Not that Denzel Washington is anyone to sneeze at, he was looking very fine too.

The story is a true one, about the corruption that comes with drugs and big money. The US military was flying heroin in from Asia during the Vietnam War. Yes, the US military! They stashed it in coffins along with our fallen soldiers, and you can’t tell me the brass didn’t know. The cops were protecting the drug kings, and in doing so earning their big money payola. People were dying right and left from these drugs but that didn’t seem to matter. Oh, except of course to the one good cop and his newly formed DEA buddies.

It just illustrates how large organizations can become involved in corruption, how the people who are suppose to be protecting you are not always doing that, what some people will do to protect their ass- ets, and how expendable people can be when there is a product like drugs that can make big money for some unsavory types.

I recommend the film, a little violent but very well done and full of aesthetic value.

Meanwhile, I’ve been working on my own plot for a horror story. A what if, if you will. It’s been rolling around in my meandering mind for a few weeks now, growing and changing. Now, anyone who knows Stephen King is welcome to pass this on to him, I don’t care if he steals my idea and makes it a best seller because it sure would be nice to see the story in print.

The story goes like this:
What if there was, say, a country full of abundance, a population full of bliss who could afford many luxuries? What if they all seemed happily occupied by their jobs, homes, electronic gadgets. What if all looked normal on the surface but something was terribly wrong? Part of the horror is in the realization that what looks normal may not be. Like Invasion of The Body Snatchers- nobody was really sure who was real and who was a monster! The setting for the story is rather normal feeling. Just homes in a town in a state in a country where the “everyday normal” stuff is happening. It all looks so serene.

What if at a very young age, all the people were injected with something that they were told would keep them healthy, but in reality, made them start to get sick? What if their bodies were having bad reactions to the injections, but the reactions didn’t show up right away in most people, so there was no way to know? What if parents were told this was the way to protect their kids, and the “Evil Empire” made the stuff by the bazillions of doses so there was plenty to go around and people had money so they didn’t mind paying to protect their kids, in fact, they were happy to do it. The parents had no idea what was in the injections.

What if when the people got sick, they were convinced that another injection or pill or potion would make them well, so that’s what they did. There were all kinds of drugs available, always a new remedy to give the ever increasing sick population. People were eating multiple pills, multiple times a day, and were all happy because they thought it would keep them young, alive, well. Meanwhile the “Evil Empire” was making huge fortunes off the drugs sold to the happy population.

What if the people were being exploited and didn’t even know it? What if they were fooled into thinking everything was normal? Like in Soylent Green! Remember that movie? Soylent Green, which was set in 1999 by the way, depicted a society where nothing was as it seemed and people were a commodity. What they were eating was in fact, each other – Oh the horror!

What if, in my horror story, the whole happy-go-lucky population was being farmed? The Evil Empire has turned the whole society into a farm full of people they could make sick. The people who were being farmed and made ill, would pay to get something that was supposed to make them well. The people spent their whole lives toiling away in their abundant society just so they could pay to be well. They spent alarming amounts of time in the horror of illness, disease and symptoms created in their bodies intentionally by the “Evil Empire”- Oh the horror!

What if the body farm includes a prison with out a cell? A prison of trip after trip to small cubicle offices where “smart guys” poke and prod with instruments and then give the people pills to take, pills that get rid of one symptom but cause another, which necessitates another trip to the cubicle?


What if some other unsavory types, like food producers, wanted a piece of the action, and teamed up with the “Evil Empire”? What if they introduced the prosperous population to all kind of designer foods that were really sweet, bright colored, full of chemicals, foods that looked and tasted good? BUT- what if all that food did was increase the chance that the population was going to get sick and need more drugs from the big drug kingpin- I mean- “Evil Empire”?

What if the population became suspicious and insisted on someone to oversee the safety of the drugs and food? They design a regulatory body to ease their minds and protect them from harm. What if the population doesn’t know that the regulatory body is on the take! Gasp – oh the horror! The regulatory body is protecting the Evil Empire and in doing so, they get their payola! They make huge amounts of money! They become rich and powerful!

I know, it all sounds far fetched, but doesn’t it make a good horror story?

Think of the horror as parents watch their children become introverted and silent after an injection, the horror of having a child born with no arms-just hands stuck to shoulders, waving in the breeze like five fingered wings, after the parent took a drug to stop the nausea of pregnancy. Think of the children being drugged as young as a few years old, and the horror of the parents when they find the number one side effect of this drug they have given their child is, in fact, suicide. Think of the horror of the parents when they find that a drug they gave their child so he could breathe better had turned his bones into spongy soft sticks that break all the time.

Think of the horror of masses of people with hearts that don’t work right, extreme body fat, blood sugar problems, breathing problems, sleep problems, attention problems, arthritis, pain, pain and more pain! They are trapped into being dependent on the “Evil Empire” and they don’t even know it! Think of the horror of a population of people getting old, but they can not die because the “Evil Empire” keeps feeding them stuff to keep them alive- but not well. As long as they are alive and sick, they are cash cows for the “Evil Empire”.

Most horror stories have an underdog- so in my story that would be the few people who figured the whole scheme out and refused to take part. They didn’t get the injections, they didn’t go to the cubicles, they didn’t take the pills, and they didn’t eat the foods that were enhanced. They, of course, were shunned and lived as outcasts on the edge of society. The “Evil Empire” said they were crazy, and most of the population believed it. They would pass their truth on to those who might listen, but few listened. They had to be careful what they did and said so the regulatory body would not hunt them down and stone them to death or shoot them in the head, which is what happened to the people in that other movie based on a true story, “The Constant Gardener”.

My God! I have an imagination don’t I? Scary isn’t it?

My Own Good Advice for Writers- Part 4

I woke in the middle of the night, just drifted out of sleep really. There was no mysterious noise or startling dream to awaken, I just surfaced from the very top point of the sleep cycle. Yes, every hour you submerge and descend to a depth of really sleeping sound and ascend to the shimmering light of just barely asleep in a circle, over and over as you flop around under your bedsheets, (on the average,40 times) through out the night.

When you hit that ice burg tip of floating in the nightness, you often just wake slightly, for a moment. You may or may not remember it the next day. Even if you don't wake totally as you ascend toward wakefulness and the reality of your bedroom, (or someone else's bedroom, the living room, dorm room, hotel room, back seat of your car or the cardboard shack in rail town or the park bench you are sleeping on - really folks, we are all the same, all one-) your unconscious mind takes a minute to survey your surroundings.

Like the proverbial Loch Ness monster, your unconsciousness lifts its head from the water of sleep, stretches it's long neck upward and sniffs the breeze with nostrils the size of oranges. The mist filled night of your dreams shakes loose for long enough that you are able to discern if there is a threat in your immediate area.

Searching right and left, sniffing, listening, your unconscious mind classifies all the scents and all the noises and every little thread of the fabric of reality that surrounds you.

Click Click Click, all of it snaps into place and into categories like car passing, light from street, cats thundering up and down the stairs playing. All is well in your space, no intruders, no threats and no smoke. Your unconscious mind swings to and fro as it does one last check with quivering nostrils. It sniffs the air around you one last time then it slowly starts to submerge, long neck and shimmering skin and eyes that glitter with the light of your soul, it disappears under the surface of your descent to deeper sleep and the start of another cycle/circle.

As I was saying, I woke and as often happens in the clarity of just awakening, I had the best idea for an article pop right in my head. Three main concepts followed by a few gags that needed polishing and a final thought to tie it all together just flitted ( yes it's a word, meaning to fly or move lightly and quickly) right into my mind. I had an ah-ha moment, and thought of the accolades and awards an article of such brilliance and insight would bring me. I reached for a pen on my bedside table and found none. I declined to jump out of my cozy cave under covers to go in search of a pen. I burrowed deep and told myself there was no way I could forget such an incredibly outstanding idea. I joined my Loch Ness monster in the deep shimmering depth of my own sleep.

I can't for the life of me remember what my brilliant article was about. So, my own good advice for writers is to have a pen and paper near the bed. If you don't, make yourself go get one because you may not remember your award winning idea in the morning.

Something to Think On

I’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut’s first novel, Player Piano. It’s beautifully written. It was published in 1952 and is Kurt’s farsighted portrait of a society where machines have taken over the jobs of humans, leaving most of the population with nothing to do.

However, in the story, you can’t do “nothing”, so if your intelligence tests don’t define you as one who would be good at managing the machines, you are sentenced to life as a member of the lower caste. The lower caste is given most everything they need, including a TV in every room of their home and all the latest electronic gadgets, and kept busy doing grunt work. The challenge for them is to invent something meaningful to do in their lives. They reminisce about “when work was meaningful”.

Meanwhile the main character, who is among the ruling class, becomes painfully aware of the illusion of his existence and decides he’s not really living at all, just managing ( and not very well) to put up with his artificial existence.

It’s interesting that Kurt could see so far into the future and predict the real internal issues of our time. The book is 341 pages and what really struck me was this tiny part:

The main character is being questioned (with the help of a lie detector) as to his real opinions and motives, there is some question among the judges as to whether the lie detector is working. They ask him to state something false. He does and the detector goes to false. Then they ask him to say something true and he says “The main business of humanity is to do a good job of being human beings, not to serve as appendages to machines, institutions, and systems.” The lie detector agrees he is telling the truth.

I thought wow! A rare gem of truth set in a circle of high quality story telling, and really, something to think on.

Howdy Crazy Aunt Purl

My favorite blog that I follow on a regular basis is Crazy Aunt Purl.

http://www.crazyauntpurl.com/

(I added a link, look in the "meander over here a while" section)

Crazy Aunt Purl has really been an inspiration to Weird Old Aunt Meandering, especially when Crazy Aunt Purl was answering questions about how she got her book Divorced, Drunk and Covered With Cat Hair published. It turns out she was writing and writing and writing her blog and the publisher came to her. I was stunned and elated to hear this, I didn’t know publishers came to anyone and I figured if she could do it, I could too and I ran right to the computer and started a blog.

I enjoy Crazy Aunt Purl’s cat photos, and TV personality photos and her stories that often start crazy and end sane. I also enjoy her weather reports. Crazy Aunt Purl lives in LA or there abouts and sometimes she posts photos of the horrible weather they have, like when the sky spits and they actually have a drop or two of rain, ( yes, she’s posted photos of a drop or two of rain on the windshield or sidewalk), or when - heaven forbid- they have a cloudy day.

So I was thinking about Laurie ( aka Crazy Aunt Purl) this morning, wondering what she would say if her weather report for the start of the second week of March looked like mine:

Snow squalls, mainly before 6pm. Cloudy, with a high near 23. West wind between 18 and 25 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. Total daytime snow accumulation of 5 to 7 inches possible.

No, I’m not gonna post a photo, believe me folks, ya don’t want to see it!
Now people here don't rush around yelling "the sky is falling" when weather like this occurs, they just put on another sweater, fire up the pellet stove and talk about the winter of '93 which was really bad.

Personally, I'm a transplant and I say enough all ready! It's March, let it go and let's get on with spring. I’m tired of the boots and hats and mittens. I've had enough of the snow shovels, rock salt and windshield scrapers. I want to open the windows and breathe fresh air again. I want the sun to come back. Good thing I'm not a Mayan, or I would be sacrificing people left and right looking to appease the sun god and get it to return.

I think it's interesting to note that the worst weather of this northern winter comes when the light is returning. Not in the darkest dark of the shortest days of the year, but when the days are getting longer and the sun is on its way back. If I was Joseph Campbell I would say something about the myths of a struggle between dark and light, good and evil.

I would meander on about the bad weather being some kinda metaphor, how as we reach to become more enlightened beings our darkest coldest side often appears just as we think we are making the transition to enlightenment. Our dark side tries to draw us back into the winter of our soul. But, as any myth reader knows, with perseverance and patience and planning the "light" prevails and leads us from the dark to something warmer in ourselves. Spring comes.

My Own Good Advice for Writers- Part 3

Turn off the TV and the DVD player.
Disconnect from the internet.
Silence the radio, the stereo, and the MP3.
Put down the book.
Avoid the magazine, ignore the mail.
Don’t answer the phone. Don’t dial the phone.
No IMing either.

Now, just sit a while, in the quiet. Don’t try to still the mind. This isn’t meditation. Encourage the mind to meander, floating like a patch of seaweed, torn free and traveling the oceans tides. Watch it and listen. Listen for the next thing that you are going to write about.

Your story may be something shifting slightly at the periphery of your mind, just waiting for stillness to accentuate its movement so it can be noticed. It’s that connection that you did not make at the time, when you were sensory drunk on the information smorgasbord we all indulge in every day. Now it comes to you, meandering, an idea with arms outstretched. An idea looking right at you, waiting for acknowledgement.

It might be something you saw on TV, or realized as you watched a DVD. Maybe it was in the lead characters journey or in the scenic background of the adventure, maybe it was the heart beat of the movie that sparked your story.

Possibly it was something you saw on the internet, or in an e-mail from a friend. Now it pushes through your mind and reaches up, growing a tall reedy stem and a couple of leaves, now forming a bud about to open.

Maybe you heard it on the wings of a song, a song that floats in your mind like a gull on an ocean side air current. High into blue sky, then dropping to touch the water and catch a memory worth recalling and sharing.

Could it be that it was hidden in your favorite author’s style, the rise and fall of literature in general, or between the pages of the novel you just finished?

Possibly your launch pad was a look at the current news or entertainment magazines full of flashy political photo op’s, lots of smiling celeb’s and plenty of spin. Maybe a semblance of truth is picking at the back of your mind waiting for expression.

There is always the possibility that your notion of a story came in the form of a letter from a friend, or a bit of junk mail asking for a donation. Yes, maybe in giving you do receive, maybe your donation and you expanding understanding and compassion are the story.

It could be your story was born in the last conversation you had with a good friend.

The ocean of information that we swim in every day threatens to drown us as it presents numerous opportunities in the same towering wave. Sit on the beach of disconnected silence. Watch your story float on the waves. When it gets so close you can see the whites of its eyes, throw it a life preserver, and pull it to shore.

Say Hello to Monday

I woke to a noise, not a clang or a gong,
It sounded more like small voices in song-
It's morning I’m sure, there is sun through the curtain
That noise I’m hearing –it’s a song I’m quite certain
But why am I awakened by this wee little song-
I’m alone in this bedroom, no, wait am I wrong?

And that is when I saw them.

It was Monday morning, a week ago that I encountered the vision. It’s taken me a whole week to process this terrifying event and encase it in cryptic verse. I was minding my own business, getting a few extra Z’s before the week started.

I usually start Monday morning by giving thanks. Thanks for the warm bed I slept in, thanks for the roof over my head, thanks for the wonderful people in my life, you know, just to start the week in a positive frame of mind.

Well, this particular Monday I woke to a wee song, it started out low, and then it started to grow, and the room was filled with the sound of a vision, and there they were.

Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome Monday, bring your light
Da hoo dor-a, dah hoo dor-a
Welcome in the cold dark night
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday, ba hoo ram as
Welcome Monday while we stand
Heart to heart and hand to hand
Welcome, welcome, da hoo dar-a
Welcome, welcome da hoo dor-a
Monday morning’s in our grasp
Long as we have hands to clasp

Every Who down in Whoville, the big and the small
Every Who down in Whoville, the short and the tall
Hands clasped in a circle, the notes just a ringing
Swaying to and fro, all those Who voices signing!

They were clear as day with their holly wreaths, big furry feet, and round little faces and big buggy eyes. I could see their furry butts, long feathery fingers and goofy bow ties. They were all there, everyone prismatic- the colors so bright - striped bellies, two toned tummies and spiky hair in a rainbow of colors. (Except of course, Cindy Lou Who-who was no more than two- she was almost human looking so I have to assume she was adopted- and what’s up with her feet? Does she have any or was she put up for adoption by mutant mermaids?).

Now, I’m not one of those people who loathes Mondays. In fact, I like Mondays. I actually take a few minutes out of my Sunday to make a list of things I want to accomplish in the next week. I like to hit the ground running on Monday, because I know that the more I get done on Monday, the more wiggle room I have at the end of the week, so mid-week, when the you- know- what starts hitting the fan, I’ve got it covered. I like to start the week off in a happy fashion.

But this, this was just too much. I was frozen with fear. Terrified by the implications.

How the hell did those Whos get in my house? Was I having a nightmare or did I eat a three decker toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce from which I was suffering hallucinations? What would Freud say?

I hid under the covers and started my thanks, thank you for not making me a schizophrenic- You didn’t, did you? Thank you for my feet planted firmly on the ground, thank you for my sanity, thank you for the results of that recent brain scan that said I was perfectly normal.

I loosened the grip my lids had on my eyeballs and peeked out from under the covers. Nothing. It was quiet, they were gone, not a bistel bingler, or pan cuckler in sight to prove they had been here.

Now another Monday’s dawning, for me and for you
I hope on this Monday, you take a clue from a Who
If you’re one of those people, and get in that state
The start of the week, yes, Mondays you just seem to hate,
Take a moment to say thanks as the week ushers in
Let your heart grow three sizes and say "welcome" with a grin.