Jun 21

If It Wasn’t for Bad Luck

When it comes to electronics, I often think of that old saying, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

For some time I’ve been thinking about buying a new printer. My old HP Photosmart worked fine until I bought a new laptop. Actually, it worked great. Whenever I wanted to print something, I’d go to the File Menu, click on Print, decide if I wanted black or color, how many copies, and click Print again. That was it. The printer would start right up and in less than a minute I’d have my copies.

Last fall I bought a new MacBook Air and that’s when my troubles began. I’d click on Print, choose black or color, the number of copies, click Print again and nothing would happen. I mean NOTHING. The printer was as silent as a tomb.

I’d start over again. First I’d click on my wireless connection to be sure I had a strong signal. Then I’d click on the Print box. It would say things like, “Printing page 1.” or “Not connected to printer.” It didn’t really matter what it said because nothing would happen.

I would restart my computer. Then I would restart the printer. After that I would start over with the Print menu. I would try clicking Pause and then Resume. Nothing helped.

But sometimes, when I was having a lucky day, after 5 or 25 minutes, the printer would start to make noises like it was waking up from a deep sleep. Then it would grunt. Finally, and I could never figure out what I had done to make this happen, the printer would print.

I phoned Apple. They told me the printer was several years old. My laptop was too advanced for it. But, not to worry, HP would soon come out with a patch that I could download and my printer would go back to printing like it had before.

That was last fall. This is now June. HP has yet to come up with this patch, and frankly, I don’t think HP’s going to. So, much as I hated to get rid of a perfectly good printer, I decided to bite the bullet and buy a new, state-of-the-art one. After all, the man at Apple said that would solve my problem.

Come back next month to find out what happened when I bought my brand new, state-of-the-art HP printer and you’ll understand why, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all!”

Jun 18

Books and Death

Reaper ManI recently read a blogpost reflecting on the death of author Terry Pratchett.  Terry Pratchett…why did that name sound familiar to me?

The reflective blogger lived in the UK and noted that Pratchett was a best-selling English author of fantasy novels.  I guess that’s why I hadn’t heard the news.  He must be a bigger deal there than here across the pond.  But that name still tugged at me. Did I ever read his books?

Of course I did.  I’m embarrassed to admit that.  I didn’t make the connection until I did an Internet search.  He wrote the Discworld series, a satirical set of stories that ties together dragons, witches, politicians, gods, cats and centaurs that live in a flat world.  During high school, I dove into book series like this as well as the Myth series by Robert Aspirin and the Xanth series by Piers Anthony.

The Color of Magic was Discworld Book 1, a tale about our hero wizard, Rincewind, who travels from his home city of Ankh-Morpork to the edge of the Disc, a journey that is actually a chess game played by gods.  Suddenly nostalgic, wanting to feel a part of it all and properly mourn the death of a fine writer, I searched my stash for his book.

My bookshelf boasts blank journals and an eclectic combination of my read-or-to-be-read-again books.  Many of my sentimental favorites are in boxes in the basement, callously but deliberately misplaced from my reach, so I wasn’t sure I’d find anything upstairs, but that was the easiest place to start.  I was surprised when I saw right there on the second shelf, third book down on the overflow sideways stack, was the book Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett.

This wasn’t the first book in the series, yet I know I bought this one for a reason.  Why?

Two things caught my attention.  One, the front cover blurb reads, “It’s no vacation when Death takes a holiday.”  That’s what must have caught my eye because cover art does nothing for me.  This version showed the Grim Reaper with scythe inside a snow globe.  Charming, I suppose, but titles and taglines grab my valuable reading attention.

Reaper Man BordersThe second thing was the back cover.  The price tag was from Borders, a bookstore chain that died almost exactly 4 years ago.  Based on the book’s placement on my bookshelf, I must have bought it from the custom-built-from-scratch store that opened 8 months after I moved to Michigan.  This new store was less than 3 miles from my house, freshly built for me I liked to think, but that store became the default hangout spot for my husband and me.  I wandered the aisles and often took a magazine or my journal to the upstairs café before he joined me.

The store chain closed in July 2011, displacing us shortly after I became Foursquare Mayor of that location, and an appliance store snuck into those walls.

This one book brought back so many memories.  It was Death in so many forms.

In December 2014, I committed one New Year’s non-Resolution to revisit an old favorite book.  At the time, I had one particular book in mind, using this as an excuse to read that book for the third or fourth time.  But now I think this is the one to revive and explore.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll write a review about it to remember reading it this time.

Jun 16

The Rich and (In)famous

Being able to travel is one privilege I never take for granted. As a writer, everywhere I go, I try to keep my eyes open for something unique. What better place to find material than a crowded airport? You never know who you’ll bump into.

The day after we attended the 141st Kentucky Derby, my husband, Greg, and I were shuttled from our downtown Louisville hotel back to the city’s international airport. We arrived at our terminal to check our bags curb-side and saw a lone skycap finishing with a young lady.

While waiting for him to assist us, I noticed a small group of people gathered outside of an SUV just beyond the skycap station. They caught my attention because they didn’t look like family sending one of their beloved off on a trip. There weren’t hugs or tears as they said goodbye to one another. The interaction was professional as each of the individuals shook hands and smiled pleasantly. Most curiously, the collective was made of four armed and uniformed police officers, a plainclothesman sporting a weapon and a badge, a man dressed in business-casual attire, and another gentleman wearing a very expensive looking suit. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

I first speculated that the plainclothesman was a highly ranked police official, had come in for Derby, and was on his way home. Then, I thought that maybe someone famous was still in the SUV, but I couldn’t see anyone else. My husband offered an equally likely scenario: “Maybe they’re transporting a criminal.”

Hoping to uncover the real story, I whispered to the skycap, “Who are those people?”

The skycap, who looked to be middle-aged like me, replied quietly, “They’re with Neno, the Rapper.”

As if I now perfectly understood the magnitude of this musician’s reputation, I nodded my head in agreement but replied, “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I, dear,” he admitted as he shook his head side to side. “Neither have I.”

Greg generally has no interest in hobnobbing with the rich and famous, so we didn’t spend our time lingering and hoping to catch a glimpse of Neno. We kept to our normal airport routine—cleared security, browsed through a few stores, and eventually got in line at Starbucks. To our surprise, we ended up right behind the crowd of officers we had seen earlier.

The entourage now surrounded and closely guarded an attractive man I did not recognize but assumed was Neno. He was dressed casually in dark clothes and a jacket, wore a baseball cap, and was quiet when he spoke. He didn’t seem preoccupied with drawing attention to himself. I got the impression that if women would leave him alone, he’d likely get through the airport without being bothered by more than speculative whispers and stares.

A barista was smitten. She stepped from behind the counter and asked Neno if he would pose for a picture with her.

A moment later, a woman older than me took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the rapper as he smiled for her. I’m guessing that she couldn’t have known, anymore than I did, exactly who he was.

The excited reactions of the other women made me question whether or not I was missing out on a brush with greatness. I conceded that a photo with the celebrity could be something to literally write home about. “Okay then,” I muttered out loud and thought, “Why not?”

Ne-Yo and Kelly

What’s not to love about Non-Fiction?

I approached Neno and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a selfie with me. He was gracious and cool as he leaned in close to me and flashed a peace sign towards the camera. I couldn’t pretend to be a big fan, shower him with accolades, or carry on much of a conversation, so I simply thanked him and wished him a safe flight.

A moment later, Neno and his protective huddle walked away and business at Starbucks tried to return to normal. I placed my order and received it—incorrectly filled.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to calm down,” said Starbucks Girl.

“It’s OK,” I replied. “You’ve got googly eyes. I understand.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the starstruck young lady work to regain focus on her job. She successfully processed a correct order for me, and I strolled off to Google who this Neno could be.

I searched online sites through the convenient but tiny view afforded by my iPhone 5s. What I found was deplorable. Matthew Best, aka Neno the Rapper, had been arrested in 2013 in New York City’s biggest gun bust. His activities and his music lyrics reflected a parent’s nightmare—full of foul language, drug references, and disrespect.

Maybe I had misinterpreted Neno’s hand gesture in the selfie. What I thought was a peace sign could have been a defiant and crude way of flipping me off. His smooth smile masking truer intentions?

It seemed that my husband may have been right after all: the officers were transporting a criminal.

I was embarrassed that there were witnesses who had seen three generations of women make this guy out to be someone special. I couldn’t understand why Starbucks Girl was so enamoured with Neno that, after our paparazzi moments, she was still frazzled and had gotten my order wrong. At the time, her behavior was endearing. But now, knowing Neno’s background, I couldn’t accept that the girl was blushing over this gangster-type. What did she admire about him? Had he been falsely accused? Acquitted and on his way to testify against others? In my own brief encounter with him, Neno was polite and charismatic, not at all characteristic of the man splattered on nymag.com and other websites. He must have reformed from his sinister ways. I had to go back to Starbucks Girl for answers.

The line was now longer, and it appeared that the girl had regained her composure. She was too busy to confront, so I talked with one of her co-workers.

Going with a direct approach (who was I kidding, anyway?), I asked the young man: “Can you tell me what you know about the celebrity who came through here a little while ago?”

I learned that I had made a big, big mistake. The man that we ladies had posed with wasn’t the notorious thug, Neno the Rapper. He was Ne-Yo, the award-winning Rhythm and Blues singer.

Ne-Yo is associated with other huge personalities: Rihanna, Cèline Dion, Kanye West, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson and more, lots more. He starred in Red Tails with Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding Jr. and appeared on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” He sang on “Good Morning America” and “Live with Kelly and Michael.” He’s a popular artist who shares stories through his music lyrics.

I had come face to face with Who’s Who in Hollywood but had no idea who he was.

I looked up Ne-Yo’s latest album, Non-Fiction, on iTunes, and didn’t listen for long. Frankly, his sexually explicit subject matter and lyrics are far too liberal for my conservative nature. This celebrity sighting, however, reminded me of the critical need to verify facts when telling a true story.  I decided to leave the heartthrob to the younger or more impressionable ladies and nearly admitted to my husband that he was right—some things are better left at the curb.

Jun 15

Snow Bunny

Learning to downhill ski all began with a $15 high school birthday present. A friend and I had seen a skiing movie and it seemed so easy, gliding down snowy slopes and carving turns. We needed to get our hands on the equipment and teach ourselves how to slide down hills. What could be simpler? We were soon wandering the floors of a downtown sporting goods store.  

New ski equipment was appallingly expensive, but we found used wooden rental skis for sale at $15 a pair. The ski bindings were called Ski-free, with metal cables and springs to hold ski boots in place against a swiveling toe-plate. We would have to guess how to adjust them. In theory, when a ski twisted, sliding downhill, a spring-loaded part rotated to one side and released the ski boot instead of breaking an ankle. We were now snow-bunnies, but needed poles. I found a pair so short the grips only came to my waist, not knowing they were sized for six-year-olds. I couldn’t afford real ski boots, but World War II movies showed soldiers skiing down mountains with heavy packs and weapons. Since they wore combat boots, why not install toe clips on old ill-fitting combat boots I already had? Today, a single ski ticket and lesson cost more than my total outlay. 

Determined to learn to ski as soon as the snow flew, I enrolled in the first Detroit Free Press Beginners Ski School. It was free to anyone who found their way to a now-defunct ski area called Mount Dryden. In the parking lot, just before the 7:00 p.m. lesson was to start, I discovered a binding so loose a critical ball-bearing had fallen out and was lost. I was about to miss my first lesson unless I fixed it. Rummaging in the gravel, I found a tiny round stone and inserted it in place of the ball-bearing. Reassembling the binding, I didn’t realize I had effectively locked it in position. Instead of releasing normally, I would snap an ankle as easily as a Sunday dinner chicken leg if I fell. Carrying my now-almost-lethal skis to the top of the beginner’s slope, I fastened the combat boots on and joined eight other participants.  

The crisp evening was enchanting, snowy slopes sparkling in Mount Dryden’s arc lights. So this was what downhill skiing was like. How wonderful watching real skiers swoop and swoosh past, and we all hoped to be doing the same in an hour. Our official ski instructor glided over and did a double-take inspecting my strange equipment. Since everyone had signed a waiver absolving the Free Press if anything went wrong, he shrugged and slid a short distance below before showing us how to align our skis in a basic ‘snow-plow’ position. We all leaned forward, putting our weight through our boots into our ski edges, but mine didn’t seem to work very well. A snow-plow maneuver is the first and simplest method of controlling speed and direction we were supposed to learn.   

Each of us slid gently forward a few yards before stopping, again forming a line. Everyone with the right equipment had no problem and turned expectant gazes on the last one in line, me, having arrived a few minutes after my parking lot repair. They didn’t have much time to watch because without any structure in my combat boots, I couldn’t transfer any weight into the ski edges. Once I began sliding toward the group, I had no control. Even with the skis in proper position, I couldn’t turn, slow down, or even stop. This may explain why ski schools are no longer conducted at seemingly the top of the tallest hill in a ski complex. I flew past both instructor and open-mouthed group with a yell, accelerating over the edge and down Mount Dryden’s steepest slope.  

It was a hell of a ride and why I never fell half-way down and broke something, I have no idea but I must have been traveling 50 mph at the bottom when I ran out of Mount Dryden’s well-groomed artificial snow. In fact, I ran out of Mount Dryden. Understanding I had probably finished my first and last ski lesson, still traveling at a terrific pace, I flew between the last hay bales and arc lights before exploring Lapeer County’s interesting countryside in total darkness.  

With no way to stop, other than falling and breaking something, I hoped I wouldn’t run into a fence or a tree large enough to break me in two. I sincerely doubt management thought any skiers would find themselves out beyond their property line. Unfortunately, that left a frozen swamp facing me, mostly underbrush, cattails, saplings, and rough-plowed field, to stop an out-of-control snow-bunny. I was far beyond a lot of it when I finally somersaulted in a tumbling heap of skis and poles.   

I lay there, head spinning, ears buzzing. Miraculously, nothing was broken or sprained, just a few bits of torn clothing to show for my adventure. Still wondering what happened, I lay there deciding I must now be a downhill skier since I was now downhill and had begun by wearing skis. So it had been a successful evening after all. I retrieved everything in total darkness and began the climb back to civilization, managing to skirt both ski-instructor and group on the way back.  

When I got to the car, I discovered the locked-together Ski-free binding was, sure enough, still locked together. Perhaps, I decided, I should break down and get some real ski boots and bindings before trying again.

Jun 10

Idea Spring

shower

I had a thought about a story I’m working on, it just happened to be while I was in the shower. Of course, it was gone before I could write it down, which is as frustrating as an itch I just can’t quite reach. It’s the one place not conducive to paper, pencil, a computer, or recording device.

What’s funny is most authors have these moments. Kimberly Kincaid, author of the upcoming book Reckless, A Rescue Squad Novel, which you can pre-order at Amazon.com, recently shared one of her own on Facebook. She was in line at a big-box convenience store and saw they had double sided bra tape by the register and a great way to deal with a sex scene popped into her head and she had to record her musings. Messaging back and forth with her this morning, she clarified, “…it made me think how funny it would be if a heroine was taped into a dress when she really wanted it off…” In the checkout line, she started furiously whispering the scene into her phone. If you want to read how the scene turned out you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for the second book in A Rescue Squad Novel series, her current W.I.P.

Other places I’ve had ideas spark are in my car. I can use my phone to record the idea but only while at a red light, and I pray the idea doesn’t flit out of my head before that happens. The doctor’s office is another, which can be embarrassing, since it is usually pretty quiet and my ideas can be pretty steamy in the romance department. Most of my ideas spring open while I’m at the bookstore when I’m actually getting some quality ideas down.

Because I’ve been concentrating on my next W.I.P. I’ve not had time for anything else. Unfortunately, that means the piece, be it fiction or non-fiction, I would have written for this post is still up in my head. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a question instead:

What are the top five places, not including in front of your computer, where your writing ideas spring?