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.

My Big Fat Yard Sale

Well it was a fine weekend for my largest in the universe yard sale. I’m really trying to simplify my life, and that was the first step. See my post dated Friday May 2nd 2008 for details on how I decided what to part with.

Now some people think a yard sale is a way to make easy money, but I have to say it was a lot of work.

First I had the weeks of looking at every one of the 18,000 items that I own, and trying to decipher what was what, where it came from and pondering what the heck I was doing with it. Honestly, I think some alien force was making items manifest out of dust bunnies and planting them in my home.

Then there were the days of categorizing items and placing them in boxes- the vintage clothes I no longer wear box, the long ignored Christmas decorations box, the odd remnants of some long forgotten lifestyle box, the overdue to be retired books box, the interesting but never used kitchen gadget box, the forgotten media box, and on and on.

Then I went through the whole -how do you price these things?- dilemma, with great advice from my sister, whose mother-in-law is a yard sale professional – mark everything with a price that is more than you want- then make a deal with shoppers. If you have something you want a good price for, mark the tag with the name Betty, and when people ask to pay less for the item, just tell them “ Oh, I can’t change the price, that belongs to Betty, she’s not here right now”.

The night before the big event, signs were made complete with big smiley faces and slogans such as- “find what you want! Right here, right now!” And “No Junk! Just great Stuff!” And “Slow down you maniac! The speed limit is 35mph and you are about to whiz past the world’s greatest yard sale with out taking the time to rubber neck!”

The most agonizing work was preformed the morning of the event- that would be the work it takes to get butt out of bed at the crack of dawn. Yes, there is no such thing as sleeping in when you are having a yard sale. Urban myths have long flourished which lead people to believe the early bird gets the worm. Early bird yard sale shoppers are legendary in themselves. Who among us has not heard the story about early bird shoppers showing up at 5 am and expecting to look through your yard sale items while they are still sitting in your living room?

I set the alarm for 6 am, and was enveloped in setting up shelves and carrying things out by 6:30. By the way, the shelves and tables needed for a large yard sale are a bit of work in themselves. If I had enough shelf space to put everything in its place, I might not be having a yard sale to begin with! I had to improvise with milk crates and lumber and what not.

Now I was getting down with the really heavy work, lugging boxes from the attic upstairs, to the yard down stairs. I had packed light, but honestly, how light can a 36 volume set of books be? How light can a box of LP’s be? (If you don’t know what I’m referring to, better find out, my inside sources tell me they are on the way back in. Imagine a hard, thin, black, burnt pancake emitting squealing sounds as it goes round and round on a carousel). How light can a built-to-last dresser be? And hey, even if the boxes are light, 3476 trips up and down the stairs is a lot of work!

I was exhausted before the sale even began!

By 7:30 the signs were up, the yard was full of artfully displayed intriguing items, I had a cup of coffee in my hand and was sitting in a lawn chair just waiting for the action to begin. Now, I have to tell you, I live on a very busy street. Night, day, summer, winter, mid-week, weekend, doesn’t matter, it’s almost always busy. It had been busy since 6 AM, and I was pleasantly surprised that no early birds had stopped and tried to run off with the proverbial worm before I was set up. Now I was willing the masses to come.

It didn’t take long for the crowds to arrive. I think some of them, being polite and not wanting to disturb, had parked up the street and been watching with binoculars. As soon as they saw my ass hit the chair, they descended like a cloud of locusts. There was pushing and shoving and elbows flying. Offers were shouted and the bargaining began.

Customer-“What will you take for this pristine art deco wine cooler?”
Me-“Does it have a tag on it?”
Customer-“Yes”
Me smirking -“ I will take thirty dollars over the marked price.”
Confused customer- “What? I will pay the marked price, not a penny more!”
Me smirking more- “All righty then.”

Customer- “Nice purse.”
Me- “Thank you, it’s a 1940’s wool covered box purse with lapis inlay on the clasp.”
Customer- “and this one?”
Me- “ Mid 1950’s alligator skin Kelly purse made in Florida and complete with complementary rain bonnet in original gift packaging.”
Customer- “ I will give you a dollar for both of them”.
Me grabbing said purses from said customers hands- “ Honey, the dollar store is across town. Just take a left out of my driveway and cross the bridge, you can’t miss it.”

Now don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a yard sale elitist. There were shelves full of 50 cent items. I had a slew of 1 dollar items. I had hundreds of items in the 3 to 5 dollar range. I know people stop at yard sales to find a deal, and by golly, I want them to find a deal and go home happy! I did have a few choice vintage items nestled among the junk-em, I mean- less costly items, and I was not going to take a dollar for two vintage purses! Folks, offer me a dollar for a 3 dollar item, I might say yes. Offer me a dollar for two 20 dollar items and I'm definitely saying no.

That’s pretty much how it went for the first 4 hours. About the time I needed a potty break so bad I was contemplating the lilac bushes along the side of the house, where I figured I could pee and watch the hordes at the same time, a friend of mine showed up and offered to set her butt in a lawn chair and give me a break.

Thank Heavens! I’m telling you folks, this yard sale stuff is serious business. You can not just up and walk away from your goods, any more than a major player in the arms race can walk away from a United Nations Inquiry. There is no time for breaks. You have to be on your game the whole time or some nice little granny is libel to take off with your antique candle sticks and leave a one dollar bill in their place.

Now I have to tell you the other urban legend about yard sales. “All the good stuff is gone early”. Hogwash! Misinformation if I ever heard it! It’s just not so! I had so much stuff out in my yard that if a constant procession of lose-fisted obsessive shoppers came by for three days in a row, I would still have plenty of good stuff for them to choose from!

Alas, as we all know, urban legends are bigger than life, and harder to kill than a cockroach. Just ask anyone in New York City about "the alligator in the sewer that comes up through your toilet and drags you into the plumbing" story, they will swear it is so, they know someone, who knows someone , who knew someone, who is now missing.

By one o'clock in the afternoon the flood had dried up and the yard sale became a dry cracked lake bed. I sat for another hour, reading a book and watching the traffic go by. I tried re-arranging items to make the display look bigger. I tried moving choice items closer to the road. I tried projecting an urgent need to stop into the minds of each driver coming along. I tried disguising my self as a yard sale shopper and pantomimed my joy at an amazing find, thinking this might overcome the urban myth.

But alas, it was not to be. They yard sale had come to a screeching halt. It was time for the next phase of real work to begin- the pack up. I had already scripted my early withdrawal contingency plan. If I had anything left over that was not vintage, it was going into the trunk of the car and straight to the local thrift store. I stuck to my plan like a duck on a June bug. I didn’t even look as I boxed everything up and set it in the car. By this time it was about 110 out and I was sweating a river. I decided it was a good thing the sale had ended, I was beat.

Like I said, this easy money is a lot of work, and I was not the only one working that day. I pulled up to the thrift store drop off door and there was a line of post-lawn-sale people de-cluttering their lives. The chatter among them was something about how many people stopped, what part of town the sale was in, and the odd balls who were looking for specific items like an easy bake oven light bulb, size 23 purple crushed velvet dress pants, a turquoise toaster oven and old fishing hooks.

While I waited in line I managed to sell a few items to people who, unlike myself, were not able to un-clutter with out instantly cluttering right back up. I then dumped the goods and made my way home. I counted the money, smiled and thought of all the open space in my house. I swear, it felt expansive and I felt lighter. I was on my way to a clutter free life.

PS Today I found this interesting related article in Time magazine. Some guy named Dave is challenging people to de-clutter until they have just 100 personal items. Seems this movement is catching on, I’m not the only one looking to simplify my life and become a more conscious consumer. You can check out his website at www.guynameddave.com

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 admit it- I got Carried away over the weekend.

Yes, I made my small contribution to the 55.6 million opening weekend of Sex And The City. Sorry Indy, but you had a good week or two as top dog, now move it on over for the girls in Jimmy Choos.

Honestly, I couldn’t help myself any more than the salmons of Capistrano can help flocking together and heading south. (While we are talking movies, tell me which one I just referenced and I will put your name up in lights!) Now maybe I should explain, because if you happen to be a regular reader, by now you know that I don’t watch TV. Movies, yes. TV, no. Except when someone recommends a good series and I can find it on DVD’s. Which is exactly how I got the SATC fever.

A trusted friend told me I would find it funny, so I sought it out at the library. I didn’t start with season one, I couldn’t find it. I started, I think with season two. It was colorful, somewhat entertaining, and then I saw the scene where Miranda takes a seat at a bar next to a nice looking guy and they strike up a conversation. They have mutual interests, he has manners, he is single, they have a few laughs.

Miranda is just thinking that this guy is pretty nice and maybe there is a chance they could get to know each other better, maybe all the good guys are not gay or married, and he excuses himself to go to the loo. He stands up and he is the height of the bar stool. No I kid you not, the guy was about 4 foot 6. I laughed so hard I thought my brains were going to fall out. I was hooked. Obviously this was a show that any girl could relate to, and have a good time doing it. I watched every episode of every season.

Now, if you have plans to go see this little gem, and I hope you do, don’t read any farther! I’m not kidding. Just stop right now and get your butt back to work. Don’t continue! I’m about to spill the beans about Big, the girls, the guys, the shoes, the purses and the whole rest of this fashion laced fairy tale.

I don’t go to the movies much, so maybe my impression of it is a little askew, but I don’t remember the last time the theatre was so full. Just about every seat was taken. That makes the movie more fun in my opinion. With a full theatre you can feel the movie in magnified terms.

For example, when Steve admitted his infidelity to Miranda, there was a collective gasp the size of a mushroom cloud. You could feel it! I didn’t have to see everyone else to know that their mouths were hanging open too. This, to me, was the biggest shocker of the movie. I mean, my God, everybody likes Steve, we all trusted him, he had wormed his way into our hearts with his patience, understanding and stupid jokes. He was the least likely to break his vows! How could he!

I was not at all surprised when Big left Carrie standing at the alter with just her bridesmaids and designer gown, It did not surprise me to learn Charlotte was “preggies” even though we all knew a long time ago she couldn’t conceive and she and that cue ball headed Jewish hot house she’s married to already had adopted. I was not surprised when Sam called it quits with her arm candy- although I was a bit shocked that she would end up a dog owner. But my God, Steve’s confession came out of left field and the whole audience was shocked.

(by the way, what is with these tiny dogs? Is everyone in NYC enthralled with dogs the size of armadillos? Couldn’t Charlotte trade those three tiny fur balls in for one long legged champion and have a better daily run and less combing to boot? I mean, now that they have two kids, won’t she be to busy to groom three dust mops?)

Carries little Eiffel tower purse was the best supporting fashion and probably should have been the star. The wedding gown was given the spotlight but I really was not that impressed with it. Sam’s “going to Mexico with the girls” outfit was more noteworthy. As for the purse Carrie gave her assistant? I loved it. I usually prefer more geometric and simplistic purse designs, but hey, it was beautiful, wasn’t it?

And the blue shoes, who were cast as Cinderella’s slippers? Yes, I loved them, just my color, however I don’t think I would ever cram my big feet into something like that. Did you see the heals on those babies? Yikes!

Speaking of Cinderella, yes, we all know Sex and The City is a fairy tale, with a little day time soap thrown in. The glamour, the guys, the money, the fashion, the happy endings. Fairy tales are supposed to help us figure ourselves out. They teach us something about our psyche. They bring the big issues into focus.

Yes, we know it’s a fairy tale, a wonderful one. And, just like a fairy tale should, watching the movie caused a big truth lurking under my unconscious mind to surface. Something I would not have accessed with out help from this fairly tale movie. I finally realized the truth. Sometimes it’s hard to face the truth, and even harder to admit it to someone else. Right now I’m going to reveal the truth to you, and in doing so, I hope to unleash the healing.

The truth is: I don’t care what they say about Carrie’s fashion sense, to me, it’s immature. Yes, I said it. Carrie’s outfits are not good fashion, they are an attempt to look fashionable and they fall short. The one with the real fashion sense is Miranda.

OK, it’s out in the open now. I feel better. Now, maybe you could use a dose of unconscious stirring and revealing yourself, if so, hop on down to the matinee and see the movie. Even if you were not a regular fan, you are going to enjoy the images. I guarantee you will see something revealing.

Tickle Tickle

I lay my head back against the lava rock and stared up at the sky. The humidity in the air dulled the blue a bit, but it still was the color you would expect from a tropical sky, blue enough to swim in. A few small clouds floated by and I followed their movement as they brushed up against the tops of rugged mountains flanked by a heavy cloak of their own clouds, much denser and almost a silver gray. The Mountains bore the dense tropical foliage you would expect in a remote corner of paradise.

Between myself and the mountains lay acres of uninhabited rough land covered with lava slides. One would think nothing grew on this lunar inspired landscape, but upon closer examination it is revealed that something is growing. Apparently the lava is fertile soil for a plant with roots like talons that can dig into the hard lava ground and become footing for a single stalk which proudly carries one perfect orchid bloom. The entire landscape is dotted with these tough little orchids, like a bag of cotton balls spilled out over a black counter top.

Closer to my resting place, palm trees grew in profusion. The soil here was not the solid lava rock, but, because the location was just a coconuts throw from the magnificently powerful waves of hundreds of miles of open ocean, the ground was covered with a fine black sand, pulverized lava rock, which apparently is the perfect growing medium for coconut palms. The trees were grouped along the coast in twos and threes, like sentries on watch for invaders off the water. As I lay there I tried to imagine how long it took for the waves to turn orchard supporting lava rocks into palm growing sand.

As I contemplated the immeasurable time it would take to turn rocks to sand I became aware of a tickle at my toes. It came and went like the rhythm of the waves I could hear behind me, crashing against the shelf of lava between my resting spot and the ocean. It was a small tickle, first around big toe, then at my ankle. Like a tiny feather brushing by me on the wind.

I lifted my hand from the cool water of my resting place and wiped the sweat from my face. I was up to my neck in a tidal pool, full of the ocean left by the last high tide. My spot was the size of a large claw footed bathtub and sand lined the bottom to create a comfortable cushion between my behind and the lava rocks. The water was warmer than that which pounded against the rock ledge, warmed by the morning sun to the temperature of the air around me. Warm as it was, it still cooled me, washing away the sweat from my hike to the remote beach.

The tickle came again, around my small toe now and along the outer edge of my foot. I opened one eye and cast about in the water, wondering where the feather had come from. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of movement. Darting around my foot, a little yellow streak in the shadows. A wiggle of my toes and the yellow streak darted back and forth. Toes still, like a lily pad on a pond brought the yellow streak back to my foot, tickle tickle.

I looked closer, this time both eyes searching and I found the yellow streak surrounded by black, a tiny arrow streaking around in my tropical tub. I was not the only traveler seeking respite from the high sun in the cool of this tidal pool. A tiny fish, no more than two inches long shared my bath. My movement had brought the tiny fish to a standstill, fins in slow rippling motion, holding my little companion in the shadow of a tiny overhang on the edge of our lava rock tub.

I said a little prayer for the tiny fish, that it be lifted from this tide pool with the first high tide of the night. That it sail on the waves back to the ocean, into the cool deep of its home. I lay my head back on the lava rock and closed my eyes relaxing back into the waves, the salt water, the humid air, the lava. I could hear the palm fronds in the breeze. Stillness came. Tickle tickle.

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.