It’s Me Again—Finally

I am writing, but I’m not posting much of anything these days.

I'm busy planning and preparing for National Novel Writing Month. I'm planning my entry and preparing an outline. I hope I can write 50,000 words again this year. And I hope my computer doesn’t try to electrocute me this time.

As you might guess, I will not be around much, if at all, during November.

Happy Halloween, Election Day, Veterans Day, and Thanksgiving. See you in December.

Maybe.

My Computer Is at It Again, but I’m Not

My computer is being a pest again. I’m getting pop-up messages about the proximity of wireless networks and the updates available for my computer, along with more warnings about those nasty unused icons that are littering my desktop.

Several weeks ago, a pop-up message informed me that electrical storms had been detected in the area. The computer suggested that I shut down the system. Having been zapped by my last computer, I took its advice. We are in the middle of the monsoon season here. I have detected dozens of electrical storms in the area since then, but I haven’t had that message pop up again.

(Oops, I missed posting something semi-interesting for July. I confess that I’ve neglected my blog, but I’ve been very busy for the past six weeks. Now that I’m not going to be so busy for a while, maybe I’ll do better next month. Then again....)

Yes, I'm Still Here

Busy at work and busy at home. Took a day off and toured a cat house last Friday. Will write more later.

Blog Blahs and the Bizarre

I’ve decided to launch an advertising campaign to promote my blog. After all, what good is a blog if no one ever visits it?

As a first step in this project, I analyzed my posts. After critiquing them, I’ve concluded that WestWord Arizona has a chronic case of the blahs. This blog needs more relevant and more interesting stuff…er, content. It needs content with universal appeal.

I’m fairly certain that no one out there in cyberspace cares about the score I received on an exam in PowerPoint, Excel, or any other subject. A relative thought that the entry recollecting my dream about doing taxes for a serial killer was a little wild. And how many non-writers understand what a storyboard is?

An acquaintance remarked that the post about my purple finger was a bit bizarre. I agree—now. But, hey, the darn thing hurt like heck at the time. For those of you who haven’t read the entry, that disaster happened one morning on the way to work. I was paying too much attention to what was happening at a house across the street and not enough attention to where I was walking. I tripped over an uneven spot on the sidewalk and ended up on the ground.

I considered deleting the “purple” post, but I decided not to. Every time I read it, it will remind me to mind my own business (at least on the way to work).

My Icons are None of Your Business!

That’s what I felt like screaming at my computer last week.

When I turned on the darn thing one morning, a message popped up informing me that I had unused icons on my desktop. Hey, what am I supposed to do about it? It’s 5:30 a.m. I can barely deal with making coffee this early, let alone deal with unused whatsits.

Compared to the desktops of some people I know (and you know who you are), my desktop décor is a bit on the sparse side.

Anyway, I’m not responsible for the icons on my desktop. Dell is. The icons came with the computer. Among others, I have icons urging me to take advantage of a free six- month subscription to AOL, a trial version of QuickBooks Simple Edition, and a trial version of Word Perfect. I have no intention of using these trial versions because I know that I will not be buying the Internet service or the software at the end of the trial runs. Thank you, but I’m happy with NetZero and Word. As for a fancy accounting program, I don’t need one—yet.

Maybe I should delete the unused icons. Then the computer wouldn’t have to nag me about them. And maybe, while I’m at it, I should also uninstall the actual trial versions of this stuff.

On Hiatus This Weekend

I’m really trying my best to post something semi-interesting every other weekend. However, as April 15—make that April 17 this year—will soon be here, I’m doing the annual tax return thing this weekend. I don’t outsource them because, a couple of years ago, I paid H&R Block good money to teach me how to do them.

Unfortunately, I’m still doing them the old-fashioned way and mailing them. Maybe I’ll e-file next year.

Where Did All the Proofreaders Go?

As an editor, I correct errors and typos in business documents that have been created by other people, so I think my own work should be perfect. I confess that sometimes it isn’t.

But I’m not alone.

Typos and errors in grammer, punctuation, and syntax are common in almost everything in print today. Don’t publishing houses and newspapers hire proofreaders or copy editors anymore?

I guess not.

Several years ago, I bought the first book published by an author who is currently writing two mystery series. In the first half of the book, the name of one of the main characters was Harvey. Then, in the middle of the book, he was referred to as Harry. A few pages later, he was Harvey again for the rest of the novel.

Jeremy

Every year around St. Patrick’s Day, I think about a fellow I knew when I was a junior in high school. He had an Irish last name, a modified Elvis haircut, and a whole lot of freckles. We dated for about four months one summer when he was on the outs with the girl he had gone steady with since he was about thirteen.

“Jeremy” liked cars. He mostly liked to see how fast they could go. He also liked to see how fast he they could stop. (Hey, former neighbors, now you know how all those tire marks got on the road in front of your houses.)

During one of the several times that he was stopped for speeding, he told the policeman that he was “just burning out the carbon.” That excuse failed to impress the policeman, and Jeremy ended up in court the next day.

The judge he appeared before had a reputation for being unsympathetic to teenage boys with a hot foot on the gas pedal. When Jeremy’s case was called, the judge told him: “Son, there are three rates of speed in this town: slow, medium, and ‘Good morning, Judge.’”

Yes, I'm Still Here

Honestly, I really did want to post something more inspiring than this short paragraph. Alas, I am suffering from the usual spring allergies and also from writer's blog....er, block. I hope both go away soon.

Sorry About That

Shame on me. I haven’t kept my blog up to date; I’ve been too busy.

In November, I took part in the National Novel Writing Month challenge known as NaNoWriMo. I wrote 50,000 words of a novel in approximately 27 days. I’ve also been very busy at my day job.

My goal, when I created this blog, was to post on either Sunday or Wednesday at least twice a month. My new goal is to post whenever I get a chance.

Will return soon. Maybe.

Which Way to the Yellow Brick Road?

Recently, I checked out a display in the window of a shoe store. Among the sandals, slides, and stiletto heels, I saw a pair of shoes that I think I might buy. The shoes didn't have pointed toes. That's good because I don't have pointed toes. The toes on the shoes were, well, sort of square. They reminded me of the toes on a pair of shoes that I bought when I was a college freshman.

In those days, I wasn’t very practical when it came to choosing my wardrobe. I wanted to wear whatever styles the fashion magazines dictated were “in.” Despite my advanced age of 18, I was still a regular reader of Seventeen magazine. Thanks to one of its ads and a display in an upscale store that I visited regularly, I coveted a pair of Capezio slippers—no, not ballet shoes, street shoes. They were fire-engine-red patent leather, and they had square toes.

Although my parents thought they were too trendy and too expensive, I managed to save enough out of my allowance to be able to buy the shoes before they went out of style. I thought wearing them would make me feel like a Seventeen model. Instead, I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

Job Interviews—Part I

I’ve been through many job interviews. Sometimes they go well; sometimes they don’t. Several times, I've been hired on the spot. There were also times when I thought an interview went very well, but I never heard from the company again.

Some interviews were just plain strange. One company I applied at seemed to have a rather foul-mouthed parrot employed as its relief receptionist (long story, but interesting—some other time though).

Several years ago, during an interview for an accounting clerk position, the interviewer asked, “If we hire you, will you go to the Christmas Party?”

I glared at him and asked, “What the heck kind of a question is that?”

He blushed and muttered, “Just forget it.”

I didn’t think I’d get the job, but the company hired me anyway. And, yes, I did go to the Christmas party.

Still Here but Still Busy

I’ve just completed an online class in PowerPoint. The material got rather technical after the first few lessons. All I wanted to do was to learn the basics, which I think I have.

I’ve decided to take a hiatus from online learning for at least a month. Next time, I think I’ll take an online class in writing —résumé writing, that is. I’m not looking for another job, but I think I can help people who are looking for a job. Taking the class will be a first step in that direction.

Not that I don’t already know a few things about writing résumés. Years ago, some friends and I sponsored a résumé writing workshop after many people were laid off from their jobs at our former place of employment. Unfortunately, we held the workshop on the Saturday before Memorial Day. Only six people showed up. Three were from the same household.

Checking in - July

I've been busy during the last few weeks. In addition to going to work every day, I've been participating in three overlapping noncredit online classes and a writing workshop.

I've just completed my online Grammar Refresher class. I scored 100 percent on the final exam. I would have felt like a failure with anything less than that. I guess I'm just a perfectionist. I'm also a former English major and a writer (with a day job as an editor).

I wasn't so happy about my final grade in the Excel class, which was 93 percent, mainly because I didn't do much reviewing before completing the final exam.

The short story workshop I participated in ended last week. I finally read my story, well at least part of it. Why did I read only part of it? That's another story that I'm sure will appear in this space sometime in the future.

PowerPoint and Story Boards

I recently began an online class in PowerPoint, and I think I’ve found a new use for the software application. Then again, maybe someone has been doing this for years.

When writing short fiction (which is the only type of fiction I’ve attempted so far), I always have a hard time blocking out the story. I figured I might be able to use PowerPoint as a story board, outlining a scene on each slide. I wondered how many slides I could include on one page and still be able to read the text. I printed out six slides (of a presentation that I had created for my online class) on one page and decided that my idea was doable (ooh, is that a real word?). I think I’ll give it a try the next time I write a short story.

My Purple Finger Hurts

I've learned to make good use of my word processor's spell check feature because I've been making a lot of typos during the past several days. I usually don't do this, but at the moment, I have a purple finger and it hurts.

So how did I get a purple finger?

I fell one moring on my way to work. I was distracted by something and wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I tripped on an uneven section of the sidewalk, rocketed across a strip of gravel on my stomach, and smashed the middle finger of my left hand against the curb. Ouch!

As soon as I determined that I had no broken bones, I left the scene in a hurry before some good samaritan decided to come to my rescue--or worse, call 911 on a cell phone.

What was I distracted by?

The house across the street.

I was looking at what is rumoured to be a very expensive house in a neighborhood where the asking price of most of the houses would probably be about $200,000. A couple of years ago, I watched this house being built. When it was completed, it was a nice, rather plain three bedroom house with a two car garage. And then someone, presumably the owner, got other ideas. He or she added another room, a patio, and an RV garage. Later on, I saw a work crew building a portico onto the front entrance. Shortly after that, a wall with two custom-made metal gates surrounded the property. One morning I noticed professional landscapers working at the house, and the next day the front yard was dotted with juvenile palm trees, assorted cacti, and other desert plants.

A few days later someone mentioned that the house was listed on the market for $600,000.

For almost two years the house had a For Sale sign stuck in front of it. Although the sign disappeared several months ago, I have seen no indication that anyone lives there. In fact, the house is still under construction. The two car garage and the RV garage are being converted into rooms.

Last Tuesday, as I strolled along, I looked at the house and wondered where the people who will eventually live there will park their cars. If you sign a mortgage agreement on a $600,000 house, you probably don't take the bus very often.

That's when I tripped.

By the end of the work day my finger was dark purple and throbbed like crazy. When I was getting ready to leave, I looked for my hat, a necessity in this part of the country. That's when I realized it had fallen off when I tripped. I went back to look for it, but it was gone.

I still have a purple finger, but it's a lighter shade of purple, and it doesn't hurt so much. And I have a new hat.

Just Checking In

Just dropping by to say, "Hello, I'm still around."

I’ve just been too busy to blog lately. I’ve been working, partying, and trying to keep up with my two online classes. And I’m starting a short story writing workshop tomorrow evening, so I will be busy on Monday evening for the next six weeks.

However, I have a four day weekend coming up, so I just might be able to post something that consists of more than a few sentences. But I’m not promising anything.

I Was a Housekeeping Failure

Doing housework has never been one of my favorite activities. As a toddler, I was terrified of the vacuum cleaner. If Mom wanted to vacuum the living room rug in peace, she had to draft someone to take me for a walk.

By the time I was eight, my parents were fairly certain that I had gotten over that nonsense. So, early one Saturday morning, Mom flipped the switch on the vacuum cleaner, turned it over to me, and pointed me in the direction of the living room. Within minutes, I had toppled a couple of lamps, knocked my little brother into the magazine rack, and scared the cat out of three or four of her nine lives.

“Do it yourself before she kills us all,” Dad hollered, extracting Mopsy from his shredded trouser leg.

Unfortunately, my father’s instinct for self-preservation condemned my mother to doing most of the housework forever.

When I was thirteen, my parents decided that I was old enough to start helping out around the house on a regular basis. But, by that time, I was beyond rehabilitation. I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of housework. Mom complained that I dusted around knickknacks and doilies and failed to vacuum the corners of the living room—or any room.

My incompetence annoyed Mom even more when it came to keeping my bedroom picked up. She claimed the place looked like an explosion at a rummage sale. “How can you tell the clean clothes from the dirty ones?” she frequently asked. Sometimes I couldn’t. I also suspected that I held the town record for having the most overdue library books. They were usually shoved under my bed, where they stayed until the librarian reminded me that they should have been returned weeks ago.

When Mom couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore, she cleaned my bedroom. Coincidentally, she usually did this right before we were expecting guests. Throughout my adolescence, Mom had a recurring nightmare in which an overnight guest took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom, stumbled into my bedroom, and disappeared forever.

Of Taxes and Serial Killers

Tax time has come and gone for another year.

I was thinking about taxes just before I drifted off to sleep last Wednesday night. Earlier, I had been reading a book about a serial killer who prowled I-5 between Washington State and northern California, killing prostitutes along the way.

I dreamed that I was doing his taxes, and he insisted on claiming mileage. I wouldn’t let him do it because he wasn’t engaged in a legitimate business. We started arguing. That’s when I woke up.

Whew, maybe I should give up reading those kinds of stories just before bedtime.

Just a Few Words

We went out for dinner last night, and I ended up with food poisoning. Bummer!

I've decided to register for a noncredit class in short story writing. The class meets for six weeks on Monday evening, which I’m not too crazy about. However, I've been working sporadically on a short story that I (eventually) intend to submit to a major women’s magazine, and this class just might give me the incentive to finish the project.