tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41259567133944588252024-03-06T19:33:47.182-08:00Casey's Just Sayin'Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-48519509312566799642019-01-28T10:33:00.000-08:002019-01-28T10:33:41.979-08:00Her Cottage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 23px;">She lives in a one room, cozy cottage she built in the middle of a lush green forest. Her home sits in a grassy clearing, backed up to the base of a fern-covered cliff where in the Spring, sweet clean water trickles down to her waiting barrels. Tiny, baby blue flowers grow amongst the ferns on tender, too-thin stems of pale green. She is young, and happy, and full of hope.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One day a pebble dislodges from the very top of the cliff. It’s not much larger than her smallest finger. It tumbles as it falls, briefly touching its brothers along the way. Seeing the pebble’s joy, the brothers break free and join his race down the steep slope. Others join, larger friends, who bring larger friends. And soon they are singing a thunderous roar of glee as they race each other ever faster down.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She hears the song and runs out of her cabin, looking up to see them ripping through the ferns, plucking the flowers and consuming all in their bliss. She backs away, then trips. As she hits the ground, the avalanche hits her cabin, breaking it, burying it until all traces of her peaceful home are gone, the cliff itself wiped clean, all life scrubbed away.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The shock of the event washes over her, soaks through her, at first paralyzing her. She cannot move, she cannot speak out, she cannot event cry at what the rocks have done to her life.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But she knows she is strong and has the fortitude to rebuild what she has lost. With the determination of a champion, she begins to move the rocks. The smaller rocks she carries away easily enough. The larger stones are more challenging. She can only move them with tremendous effort, sometimes taking days to push a single stone from the clearing. She feels her strength ebbing, but keeps in motion, keeps visualizing the cabin as it once stood.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then, when most of the rocks are gone, she finally comes to a boulder she cannot move. There are a handful remaining in the clearing of this size. And she knows all at once that she will never be able to move them. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anguish overcomes her. She wants to walk away from her life. She is so tired, so filthy from her work. And as the sun rises and the sun sets, she slowly forgets what her cottage looked like. All she sees are the boulders, all she remembers is their crushing weight.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But one morning, standing in the clearing, she sees something new. She sees a pattern to the boulders she hadn’t noticed before. She sees that she might use that boulder as part of a wall. Another boulder resembles a table. A third boulder could be used as well, as a place to sit in the sun. She begins to create a new cottage in her mind, incorporating those massive, destructive monsters into the design. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She sets to work anew, her epiphany fueling her tired body. After many seasons and many mistakes, after nearly giving in to her exhaustion over and over, one morning she looks up and sees her cottage once again.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is forever changed as is she. In some ways her home is strange, foreign, the oddly shaped boulders raising from the cottage walls like scars on the skin. In some ways it is stronger, more beautiful. But in all ways it is hers. She notices for the first time that morning that the ferns have returned and that, since it is Spring, the tiny blue flowers are in bloom and a clear stream is trickling down the cliff face. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She sees the beauty in her life once again. She feels love and peace and hope. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And she is whole.</span></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-18181601887879610162018-10-03T07:47:00.000-07:002018-10-03T07:47:25.526-07:00My Brother is a Spectacular Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I drove to Idaho to hang with my brother this weekend. He and I don’t get a whole lot of time together and I haven’t been up there in five years or more, so the trip was overdue.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">This weekend it struck me once again that my brother is a spectacular man. Being over four years my junior, I always thought of him as my little brother. But he’s not really, and hasn’t been for a long time. In fact, often I feel it’s the other way around.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">He was 14 when dad died and he was an infant when mom died. Think about that for a second. Not that our family has the market on tragedy or anything. But that one fact seems sharper when I think of my brother, the youngest.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">If he turned out to be a career bank robber you might say, “Well, he did lose his mom so young and his dad when he was a teen. Such formative years.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">But somehow, in the way the universe delivers somehows, the opposite happened.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">My baby brother is generous, absolutely overflowing with love and so friendly it still surprises me when I witness it. He works and plays harder than anyone I know. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">He told me a little story this weekend about a foreign couple who approached him outside a store. They were new in town. English was not their first or second language. And they were hungry.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">He took them into a grocery store, and spent the next several minutes going up and down the aisles, letting them fill the cart with whatever they needed.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">That story isn’t even about charity. It’s more than that. It’s about seeing an individual for who they are and doing whatever you can to leave that individual’s life better than you found it.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">My brother mirrors the best of me, and let’s me ignore the worst of me for a minute. He is so much that I wish I was. But since we’re brothers, I’m vicariously in there as well. It’s a comfort.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We have the same laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We both respect other people until they give us a reason not to.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We both adore our lady and would do anything for our children.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">But he has a F350, the biggest truck I’ve ever seen with more features than iOS12. And I have a five on the floor Nissan Frontier, all standard.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We both push ourselves physically, but he does it with a snowmobile going god-knows-how-fast and I do it on a bicycle with finger thin tires.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">He lives in the biggest house I think I’ve ever seen. I raised four kids in 1400 square feet.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I’m drawn to social media and he’s just social.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We’re both competitive. And we do fight like only brothers can. But we’re honest and in the end we want the same thing: to be around each other and share our lives with each other.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes when I look at him, I see that 5 year old toe-headed little shit who won’t leave me and my friends alone. In the same thought, almost in the same sentence in my mind, I just want another hour with him, right there, just us. I want to debate things that don’t matter. And I want to nod, smile and laugh about the things that do.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We don’t have a perfect relationship, but it’s pretty fucking good.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I love my brother. He’s a spectacular man.</span></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-59995679911284685072018-09-22T13:06:00.001-07:002018-09-22T13:06:53.394-07:00Summer Thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmC3dSFQZrqteBcwFEdhBP81SUH06DHX7AewXnoRgM5H1H0txolEvmA2okI0eJ9BAv2IeqgvrRyuI4J_40SAB6WDf17E_2C9O1mIa9cLgU381NJR_SJ0P839P3jRljHHtquHAtEFZqW_pu/s1600/IMG_4784.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmC3dSFQZrqteBcwFEdhBP81SUH06DHX7AewXnoRgM5H1H0txolEvmA2okI0eJ9BAv2IeqgvrRyuI4J_40SAB6WDf17E_2C9O1mIa9cLgU381NJR_SJ0P839P3jRljHHtquHAtEFZqW_pu/s320/IMG_4784.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">So I stayed off social media for the summer, which is my SOP. It was not a good summer. The fires were unprecedented and before that the heat was significant. A bit glad it’s over. Throughout the summer, I’d periodically write down one thought or another. For what it’s worth... here they are.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Life is not a football game, it’s a garden. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes I smell on Sunday. Also I alliterate inadvertently. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">A mystery coworker leaves puddles of water on the sink in the bathroom every day.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Our failing patience may be the downfall of all civilization. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">My body is less of a temple and more of an amusement park: one that is fifty years old and in need of repairs.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Big trucks make me smile. Really big trucks make me laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">If you don’t allow a man his deficiencies, you’ll never recognize his excellence. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">People who scream “Get in the hole!” at golf tournaments suck.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I cherish the simple joy of watching my son catch a fish.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Tent camping is dirty goodness.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Forgiveness is a selective skill we should all exercise more often.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Crowdfunding is not for me. Neither are colonoscopies.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Constant tinnitus was not something I was looking forward to.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Someday soon I will be one of those old man drivers.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 11pt;">My evening optimism often doesn’t coincide with my morning motivation.</span></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-13365536681076112892018-09-05T08:35:00.001-07:002018-09-05T08:35:25.139-07:00How Many More Times?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">We are tent campers. If you camp, you already understand that there are different types of campers. There are cabin campers, a’la KOA. There are RV campers, a’la they can afford it. There are even yurt campers a’la “Duuuuude”. But we do the tent thing. It’s how we started when we were as poor as dirt, and...</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I’m sitting here at Patrick’s Point this Labor Day Weekend in the Abalone loop space #35. Nice little fire going. Kettle on the cook stove for coffee. Tent to my left. Tent to my right. Love all around.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">So I’m old now. Fifty. And this is and has always been difficult: get all the stuff, prepare and load everything up, drive three hours, set up the tents and the campground, get the fire going, sleep on something that is not my bed, break down, drive three hours, clean and put everything way, etc.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">But behind all of that activity, all the prep and clean up, all the monkey business, there is now a certain panicky mourning happening. I’m starting to wonder how many more times we get to do this. How many more times I get to do this. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Math happens. I’m fifty. Did I mention I was fifty? If I live to be seventy-five, and we go camping once a year, that’s only 25 more times. That’s not that much. At an average of two days a pop that’s only 50 more days in this coastal paradise. Less than two months. Seven weeks!</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">Mortality sucks. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">So the challenge is to get out of my head and get into Billy Ocean’s car... I mean get into the moment. How do I do that? How to I quell the panic and fear of death sneaking up on me, moving in like the early morning coastal fog to obscure the beauty that surrounds?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">No idea.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">But the work to get here seems pretty small all of a sudden. Pretty easy. A breeze actually. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-size: 11pt;">I’m going to go look at the beach. </span></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-59468407002877018232018-08-29T08:55:00.003-07:002018-08-29T08:55:43.389-07:00And just what do you think you're going to do with that?I stumbled upon my blog this morning while waiting to go get my first ever colonoscopy.<br />
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There's an interesting sentence.<br />
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I'm not sure if I want to blog anymore. But the idea of just letting the 148 previous posts stay out there in the internet, waiting forever, made me kind of sad.<br />
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I should note that part of this sadness is due in the fact that I haven't eaten in nearly 40 hours and last night I shit out the contents of my entire digestive system. Meaning I'm not thinking clearly. I'm emotional. I'm hoarding my blog, which hasn't been touched in 3 years.<br />
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So what do we do about that?<br />
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My blog friends aren't blogging anymore. Why should I? Nobody reads these things.<br />
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But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it'll free me up to type what I wouldn't normally type. Share what I wouldn't normally share. Expose what I wouldn't normally expose. Yeah, that's always been a good idea in the history of everything. Not.<br />
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But here it is. And here I am in my empty stomach, slightly delirious, really hearing my tinnitus state of mind, about to be violated by a fire hose with a camera on the end, and I just want my own god damned pizza.<br />
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Oh god. Don't start thinking about food.<br />
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Pull up! Pull up! Danger Will Robinson!<br />
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To late.<br />
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Ah well... 3 1/2 short hours from now I'll be groggy and able to eat.<br />
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So there.Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-23943570415447930492015-10-30T10:32:00.002-07:002018-08-29T08:19:26.643-07:00The Truth and why NaNoWriMo is a great idea!Hugh Howey wrote this article on the NaNoWriMo site last year. The bottom line truth of what he is saying here is gold. If you want to be a novelist or screenwriter or any other kind of writer, heed these words.<br />
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October 3, 2014 8:58 am<br />
NaNo Prep: The Truth of What It Takes to Be a Writer<br />
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NaNo Prep season is here, and we’re asking friends of NaNo HQ to help you get ready to tell your story this November. Today, author and NaNo Writers Board member Hugh Howey reveals the truth behind the lie of what it takes to be a novelist:<br />
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To paraphrase John Grisham: “Writing a novel is not as easy as some readers think. Nor is it as difficult as many writers make it out to be.” Mr. Grisham proceeded to describe his daily writing routine: He spends two to three hours every morning writing, and most of the rest of his time is spent fishing. This is enough to produce one riveting and bestselling novel in just a few months.<br />
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His admission came as a revelation to those in the audience who had never written a novel but dearly wanted to. Here was one of the greats demystifying the process. It was as simple as a few hours every day, and the result was a completed novel in less than a year. How was this possible? I had spent the last twenty years of my life dreaming of writing a novel, with dozens of fits and starts, and all I had were scattered chapters to show for it…<br />
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The interview with Mr. Grisham took place at the 2009 Virginia Festival of the Book. I was in attendance, covering and critiquing that which I could not do. In another panel, an aspiring writer asked four bestselling authors for advice on completing her first novel. Caroline Todd’s answer hit me as hard as Mr. Grisham’s admission had. “You stop thinking about writing,” Mrs. Todd said. “You stop dreaming about writing. You stop talking about being a writer, and you sit down and write.”<br />
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Returning home from this book festival, I sat in front of my computer and knocked out a rough draft for my first novel. It took me two weeks to write a 100,000 word manuscript. And it wasn’t bad. I sent it around to friends and family first, and then I queried agents and publishers. Two small presses made offers within weeks of submitting it. I was now a published author. Twenty years of procrastinating and two weeks of writing. But here’s the thing: It’s the two weeks that I’m ashamed of.<br />
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The twenty years of futility are worn like a badge of honor. The two weeks of writing for ten to twelve hours a day are a dirty secret to keep hidden. Because art takes suffering. Nothing of value can be accomplished in so short a time. Dues are paid in decades. And this is the lie that Mr. Grisham and Mrs. Todd so eloquently destroyed. The truth is this: Writing a novel is about daily sustained effort. Two hours a day isn’t so bad. It’s the not missing a day that gets you.<br />
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The real value of this lesson was learned later that same year, as I participated in my first National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. Every year, hundreds of thousands of writers challenge themselves to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Doing so requires 1,667 words per day. That’s not a difficult target to hit. The trick is hitting it every single day.<br />
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If writers are great at one thing, it’s not writing. This is the only class of professionals who have a sympathy-inducing excuse for doing nothing, which we call Writer’s Block. It means we can take guilt-free naps. It also means we can put off writing until what should take five months takes five years. And nobody—not the least of which is ourselves—can hold us responsible.<br />
<br />
The genius of NaNoWriMo is that it holds us responsible. It does this with daily writing targets and progress graphs, but more importantly by providing the one thing many writers suffer without, and that’s community. On our NaNoWriMo homepage, we see our writing buddies’ progress meters, which reminds us to get cracking. We cheer one another on in the forums. We receive emails from accomplished writers with encouragement and advice. And we meet with other participants in our physical community to write in coffee shops and libraries.<br />
<br />
Writing is neither as hard as we make it out to be nor as simple as we’d like it to be. It takes sustained daily effort, and the sustained bit is tricky. This past year was to be my fifth NaNoWriMo. I wrote a novel in each of my previous four Novembers. All of those books have been published and have sold over two million copies between them. But this time it wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t happen. I was going to be out of the country the entire month of November on book tour. Maybe next year.<br />
<br />
“Maybe next year” is how I compiled twenty years of futility. “Maybe I can find the time to write today” is how I made a career as an author. So rather than take an easy excuse, I found two or three hours every single day, and across eight countries and during a brutal schedule, I wrote another novel that I’m proud of.<br />
<br />
This pride is the greatest lesson I’ve learned from NaNoWriMo. It’s more important than even the lessons of good daily writing habits and the willpower to overcome procrastination. For the longest time, I thought there was honor in all the years I spent dreaming of writing while doing very little of it. And for years I wouldn’t admit to anyone that I wrote my debut novel in two weeks. Pride in doing nothing. Shame in accomplishment. It should be the other way around.<br />
<br />
To participate in NaNoWriMo is to learn firsthand the truth of Mr. Grisham’s and Mrs. Todd’s advice: Writing isn’t as hard as we make it out to be. You simply have to commit to doing it. And any month—maybe even this November—is a good time to start.<br />
<br />
Hugh Howey is the New York Times bestselling author of Wool and the Molly Fyde series. He’s participated in NaNoWriMo several times and wrote 80,000 of Wool‘s 160,000 words during NaNoWriMo. He spent eight years working as a yacht captain before settling down and chasing his dream of becoming a writer. He now lives in Jupiter, Florida with his wife Amber and their dog Bella.Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-87324911334612700592015-10-15T06:48:00.002-07:002015-10-15T06:48:59.542-07:00RememberAs I slow down, remember me healthy and hale<br />
<br />
Remember when I carried you, after I grow frail<br />
<br />
As I get cold, remember my warm embrace<br />
<br />
Remember my lighted eyes, as pain shades my face<br />
<br />
As I grow dumb, remember how I used to smile<br />
<br />
Remember me now, not as I'll be in a little whileCasey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-45072334401817912382015-10-10T19:55:00.002-07:002015-10-10T19:55:49.927-07:00Might as well face it, you're addicted to the other four letter word. I really like salt. No, that's not strong enough. I love salt. Um, almost. I am IN LOVE with salt. That's it. Madly, deeply, completely in love with salt.<br />
<br />
I like regular salt. I also like iodized salt, although I can't tell you which tastes better or is better for me. I think iodized salt is supposed to help protect me from some disease. Sea salt is nice. Kinda chunky. Rock salt is something I used to steal from big bags in the carport. Seasoned salt. Garlic salt. Kosher salt. Black salt. Pickling salt (oh dear yes).<br />
<br />
I found this:<br />
<br />
Salt tastes good for a few reasons.<br />
<br />
1: It's necessary for your survival. Salt is sodium and chloride, both of which are crucial for the functioning of a lot of your body's systems.<br />
<br />
2: It's rare in nature, so we have evolved to crave it. It's the same reason why fat (butter, oil) and sugar taste good.<br />
<br />
3: It's been part of the first world's food culture for a while now, and something we come to expect from some foods. We're more or less "used" to having tons of salt on our food, and some of us are, to an extent, addicted to it.<br />
<br />
Source: https://www.reddit.com/r/explainlikeimfive/comments/1fbvqo/eli5_why_does_salt_taste_so_good/<br />
<br />
Catch that last part? Those last three words. "addicted to it." I can relate.Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-63619804078066741052015-10-07T15:02:00.002-07:002015-10-07T15:02:43.108-07:00How misinformation gets spread, socially and social network-ly...Socially -<br />
George hears that Suzy has hooked up with Greg. George tells this to Marty, who tells Andrea and Bill. Of course they've all been sworn to secrecy.<br />
<br />
The next day George finds out that Suzy has not hooked up with Greg. George doesn't want to seem stupid to Marty, or more likely he has forgotten who he told, including Marty and maybe ten other people, so he doesn't say anything. In the mean time, Andrea and Bill have told everyone.<br />
<br />
Poor Suzy. Greg's not very cute and she like's Bill.<br />
<br />
<br />
Social Network-ly -<br />
George sees a meme. It supports his viewpoint and snopes.com would take more keystrokes than share... so share.<br />
<br />
Suzy, Greg, Marty, Andrea, Bill and 327 other friends see it and many share as well. Because, you know, keystrokes.<br />
<br />
Fast forward five years and George's meme is still going strong and the 14 year old kid who created it just started his first semester at community college. He's majoring in IT chicanery.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-69025249634462056332015-10-05T22:21:00.000-07:002015-10-06T05:57:56.085-07:00All the tools to make Facebook exactly what you want it to be... are right there.For the ultra-passive, simply scroll past unwanted posts.<br />
<br />
For the semi-passive, press the little caret and select "Hide Post". By itself this action is completely worthless of course, because the chances of coming across that post in your feed again are nearly zero anyway. It's the online equivalent of saying "I don't like this and here's what I'm doing about it."... to an empty room. (Seinfeld reference.)<br />
<br />
For the not quite aggressive, after you "Hide Post" you can often (but not always) select "See Less from -----." In this case the ----- is the source of the meme that is causing all this selecting in the first place. This is useful, eventually. The meme factories are so vast in number, however, you have to really work to reduce the noise.<br />
<br />
You can also get a tiny bit more aggressive and select "See Less from *****." In this case the ***** is the friend who is posting the meme. This works a little faster than the previous option, although you risk missing out on that person's life in general, which is kind of the point of Facebook.<br />
<br />
For the fairly aggressive there is the "Unfollow" option. It's a little like saying, "I want you to listen to me, but I no longer want to listen to you."... to an empty room. But you are guaranteed to no longer see that person's point of view, so it certainly has its place. And you can always un-unfollow them later.<br />
<br />
For the solidly aggressive one can choose to unfriend someone. This is a little like saying, "We should not interact on any level on Facebook."... to an empty room. Yes, still an empty room. Unless it's Grandma Betty who has exactly fifteen friends, that unfriended will probably never know.<br />
<br />
The very aggressive way about it is to unfriend with a post on your page, not mentioning names or getting too far into detail, but making it clear that you unfriended someone for behavior you did not appreciate. This allows some vague commensuration from your better friends.<br />
<br />
And then there's the ultra aggressive. This is the unfriend option preceded by a message, either posted on Facebook or sent directly to the individual, or both. It's a little like screaming in somebody's face and attacking who they are as a person. I don't recommend this last option. It's can only lead to bad things. But it works for some people.<br />
<br />
I bring this up because after being gone for three months and returning for a bit, I have found Facebook has become almost unbearable. The constant stream of political and belief-system mindless attacks and defenses overwhelm nearly everything else. And I do mean mindless.<br />
<br />
So I'm trying to decide what to do. Do I unfollow, unfriend or just get over it and shut the hell up. I mean these people, you people, are for the most part... my friends and family. I want to know what's going on in your lives. I want to know that your dog is OK after his encounter with a skunk or a porcupine. I want to follow your fitness progress and get your likes when I brag about mine. I want to see your new garden or your new car or your new offspring. I want to see birthday pictures, pictures of your Maui vacation and pictures of your attempt at your grandma's chicken pot pie.<br />
<br />
But the weight of the ultra negative, over-shared, and often completely fictional memes is tipping the scale. I'm just not sure it's worth it anymore. I'm not alive, not on this planet, to be bombarded by hate and intolerance... at least not voluntarily. None of us are.<br />
<br />
I can't change the tide of Facebook, so I may need to just go unfollow crazy. The hide post, see less from ---- doesn't seem to be making a dent.<br />
<br />
Well I feel better. How about you?Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-15800387109699726382014-11-27T11:50:00.000-08:002014-11-27T11:50:03.800-08:00Resolutions? Now? On Thanksgiving?I came across this list today:<br />
<br />
Improvement for 12/31/13<br />
<br />
1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lose 20 Pounds, or hit 215, whichever is less<br />
2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Drink less (less than once a week)<br />
3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ride more (at least once a week, with 2 centuries)<br />
4.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Golf more (twice a month)<br />
5.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Write more (finish novel, write a short story each month to submit)<br />
6.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Read more (at least a book a month)<br />
7.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Improve Home (one project each weekend)<br />
8.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Budget Spending<br />
<br />
Coincidentally this was the writing prompt for today:<br />
<br />
“To boldly go... An impending new year gives rise to reflection and goal set- ting. What will your goals for 2015 be? It’s never to early to start thinking about self improvement!”<br />
<br />
Universe kicking me in the hindquarters perhaps?<br />
<br />
Well, let’s look at the list first… grade my progress on the items I forgot about by January 31st.<br />
<br />
1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t lose 20 pounds or reach 215. In fact, since my last century I’ve gained about 10 after losing about that much. So, yeah. Gotta work on that. C<br />
2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Depending on the week, I think I pretty much nailed this one. B+<br />
3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Had a good thing going on the cycling until 9/20 when I decided my hernia needed tending to. Before that, I’d say I hit this one. I did ride two centuries. Wild Flower and Ride the Rogue. Three in 2015. B+<br />
4.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I have not golfed any more than in 2013. Going to reapply myself to that goal next year. C-<br />
5.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I have definitely not written more, finished a novel or submitted any short stories. Sigh… D+<br />
6.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I have definitely not read a book a month. Maybe four this year. Sigh… D+<br />
7.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Improve Home… now I know what I was telling myself there and I have definitely not hit that mark. But I’ve done some improvements. Maybe a C+ on that one.<br />
8.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I tried to budget through mint.com, but hated it. Still think it’s important. Just haven’t gone there yet. C<br />
<br />
So what is that? Maybe C or C+? The writing prompt urges us to make a new list now, not wait for January 1st.<br />
<br />
I think with the possible exception of increasing my century count to three, I’m just going to stick with 2014’s and go for a better grade.<br />
<br />
Any earth-shattering resolutions looming for you in 2015?<br />
<br />
<br />
Writing prompt from from the digital book, “365 Days of Writing Prompts” found free at dailypost.wordpress.com:<br />
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<br /></div>
Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-26509580408071590332014-11-25T20:05:00.000-08:002014-11-25T20:05:19.106-08:00Bullet DodgedWhen I was leaving my previous life in radio and looking for something new to do in late 2001 and early 2002, a job came up that I really wanted. On a qualification scale of 1 to 10, I probably ranked a 4. In fact the only listing I was less qualified for at the time was business services officer at a bank, a title I didn’t even understand.<br />
<br />
But this other job, the manager of the Redding Convention Center, that was a real job. It would be a big job in town, one I could throw about at dinner parties and get immediate admiration and recognition. I never went to dinner parties, but I could imagine being at one and really hitting it out of the park with that job title.<br />
<br />
I wanted it.<br />
<br />
So I got a suit.<br />
<br />
The interview had three parts. The first leg was a one-on-one with Vicki Wilkinson, the events coordinator for the city in an office next door to the convention center itself. Then there was a panel interview (to be my first and only) at the new city hall, followed by a written exam at the same location.<br />
<br />
I arrived early for my interview with Vicki. She was friendly and I think we hit it off right away. I actually started to believe I might be in the running for this gig. In fact, it went so well we both lost track of time. At some point I realized I was ten minutes late for my panel interview… to take place in another building… five miles away.<br />
<br />
By the time I arrived at city hall and sprinted up to the second floor, I was out of breath, sweaty in my new suit, panicked beyond anything I’d known before and probably reeking of and wild-eyed with defeat.<br />
<br />
The panel had been waiting for twenty minutes. It was nice of them to go through the motions for a guy who obviously lacked the basic ability to look at his watch and now seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. They even let me take the written exam. I think there was an essay involved. I probably wrote something like, “I don’t think a football is a very good Christmas present.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t get the job.<br />
<br />
The guy who got it lasted, I think, a year. And the one after him about the same length of time. After that, I lost track. That job I wanted so much, turned out, was not the paradise I had imagined. And as I look back now, thirteen years into a truly serendipitous career in banking, I realize how different my life might have been if either Vicki or I had paid closer attention to the time.<br />
<br />
Bullet dodged.<br />
<br />
What bullets have you dodged? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Note: These ideas come from the digital book, “365 Days of Writing Prompts” found free at dailypost.wordpress.com.<br />
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Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-92062191428897590722014-02-03T20:52:00.001-08:002014-02-03T20:52:12.102-08:00Philip Seymour Hoffman Pendulum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvah-47Ydqmgo41klOhT80-68YbWwAYzUPjKpPmkOImHPXxZHn-0CnhzoYUSQyyDxYyZb9lOkqaF3C3PegS8kTYXSqd3QxH1thqhAOLoZd4wJCE5pm8xMO7z1qbLYyxv7sMYQSgzR38vr/s400/Photo%252520Feb%2525203%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525204%25253A27%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvah-47Ydqmgo41klOhT80-68YbWwAYzUPjKpPmkOImHPXxZHn-0CnhzoYUSQyyDxYyZb9lOkqaF3C3PegS8kTYXSqd3QxH1thqhAOLoZd4wJCE5pm8xMO7z1qbLYyxv7sMYQSgzR38vr/s400/Photo%252520Feb%2525203%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525204%25253A27%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1391489531325.4187" class="alignnone" width="400" height="400" alt=""></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Why are you taking the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman so personally?</span><br>
</div>
<p>The answer is I'm not really certain. Over the years, there have been many tragic deaths of public figures around my age (Philip was just under 8 months my senior) and I don't do heroin.</p>
<p>And to be fair, the idea of me taking the death of a total stranger personally, of absorbing his passing into my own little narrative is both disrespectful to him and his son and two daughters, and Mimi for that matter, and frankly a little rude.</p>
<p>But here I am doing it any way. </p>
<p>I keep swinging back and forth, back and forth. On the one end I am profoundly sad at the loss of such a wonderful talent and a loss (almost a hole in reality) of the future performances he would have most certainly given the world. When the pendulum reaches the other side I feel this deep panic for my own life and a deep need I can't quite identify.</p>
<p>A need to appreciate?</p>
<p>A need to be more diligent?</p>
<p>A need to work harder?</p>
<p>A need to be a better person?</p>
<p>A need to reset my priorities?</p>
<p>A need to do more for others?</p>
<p>A need to... what? What is it?</p>
<p>The answer seems absurdly simple. But it keeps showing up in this obsessive thought circle. </p>
<p>I need to avoid wasting the time I've been given. Time is more precious than any physical wealth in this world. What's the Hobbit riddle?</p>
<p>This thing all things devours:</p>
<p>Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;</p>
<p>Gnaws iron, bites steel;</p>
<p>Grinds hard stones to meal;</p>
<p>Slays king, ruins towns,</p>
<p>And beats high mountain down. </p>
<p>It's time. Or Time. Or TIME! (booming drums)</p>
<p>If we're lucky we have about 30,000 days. I've burned up about 16,746. I haven't wasted all of those days. I've had some pretty spectacular days in there. Lots. But I've wasted some... maybe many.</p>
<p>Maybe today I start working on minimizing those wastes. The more I think about it, the more I begin to realize, to spot the waste, both mental and physical. Mental even more than physical.</p>
<p>For example, this weekend I had an ongoing negative conversation with a person from work. This person made a comment late last week and that comment stuck with me and I felt I had to state my case on the subject, to convince that person to my way of thinking. I don't know how long this conversation went on, but I'd say it ate up several hours of my weekend.</p>
<p>And it was all in my head.</p>
<p>What a horrible waste of time.</p>
<p>I don't know how Mimi and Philip's children are going to get through this. I have no capacity to comfort someone suffering that much pain.</p>
<p>But I can hope for them. That at least. At the very least.</p>
<p>And I can work harder at recognizing and removing the waste in my life.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading... of to... not sure what honestly.</p>
<p>Casey</p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-27614907620198160942014-01-15T05:58:00.001-08:002018-08-29T08:09:37.248-07:00 Chapter One is Done<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTp5lQONm7_4kSeiIivAP-McoIbioEYeEoWYpiQsMMAT79WxL5JSgJuQ-B5CwoCej6UxUWGdL1evBxGoSQDtcncxhccJ0FFlUX34_K_aiOiYm9a635aBVEl0MfhNEXFi_UvCfvNHIAH8Or/s433/Photo%252520Jan%25252015%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525205%25253A56%252520AM.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="" class="alignnone" height="433" id="blogsy-1389794325089.3738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTp5lQONm7_4kSeiIivAP-McoIbioEYeEoWYpiQsMMAT79WxL5JSgJuQ-B5CwoCej6UxUWGdL1evBxGoSQDtcncxhccJ0FFlUX34_K_aiOiYm9a635aBVEl0MfhNEXFi_UvCfvNHIAH8Or/s433/Photo%252520Jan%25252015%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525205%25253A56%252520AM.jpg" width="408" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Just over 2600 words, completed this morning. It's a good start and I liked where it ended. I personally prefer to hit the chapters at around 2500 words or less, but this is close enough. After rewrites it'll either be three chapters or it won't appear in the novel at all. So I've got that going for me.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
But Talise's life has definitely taken a turn, a heavy, terrifying turn. Although at this point neither she nor the reader - nor the author for that matter - know exactly how sharp that turn is going to be.<br />
<br />
It's kind of exciting.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading.<br />
<br />
Off to do other stuff... then write.<br />
<br />
Casey<br />
<br />
<div id="blogsy_footer" style="clear: both; font-size: small; text-align: right;">
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Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-85530272731201647482014-01-08T08:19:00.001-08:002014-01-08T08:19:27.895-08:00Just for Me<p> This post is just for me, to keep me accountable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Managed to hit 300 words... barely. That amount seems to be trending towards my minimum. Of course if I do that every day, I'll have a completed novel in 10 months. I'll take that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I got caught in what I not-so-affectionately call a decription vortex this time, started waxing poetic about Talise's scene. This is OK in a sense because it's part of my style and I feel I'm pretty good at it. But 300 words of it without a break for action and I start to get nervous that the reader will begin to fade.</p>
<p>In a first draft it's OK. If nothing else it puts me in the proper mood to move forward. And I will certainly fall in love with a couple of nuggets within, that will make it to the final draft.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading. Off to wax poetic... and then write.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Casey</p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-5391393417963782392014-01-07T06:45:00.001-08:002014-01-07T06:45:47.307-08:00Tools<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31UayGw04l1zb5pvI3JuOq08v7-IFhnKyQzKJnGTKPB7ZZUZkvuFNOSU45iiWX07F2w0c-XjGy81jGflUivRzJOW5hWXbEmnEidaY_cC4LsogdHPJcy4qDaXineJv4VsMB0f5oa4WJ-og/s1024/Photo%252520Jan%2525207%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A42%252520AM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31UayGw04l1zb5pvI3JuOq08v7-IFhnKyQzKJnGTKPB7ZZUZkvuFNOSU45iiWX07F2w0c-XjGy81jGflUivRzJOW5hWXbEmnEidaY_cC4LsogdHPJcy4qDaXineJv4VsMB0f5oa4WJ-og/s500/Photo%252520Jan%2525207%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A42%252520AM.jpg" id="blogsy-1389105946919.3645" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="500"></a></div>
<p>I'm quite certain I've gone on and on about Scrivener, the queen mother of all writing programs. It's the only way to write a novel as far as I'm concerned. I've used it for years and would recommend it to anyone without hesitation. </p>
<p>But... no app to go along with it. And I do a lot of writing on Padrick. They keep threatening to release one, but it always seems to be months away.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCFROyesIvhQlb16qOojCc8diy9GV8y8e5E1ZYKEzTDS4ZMvpL6r8wYFzTHfq5vSIyXxgIGaLjVq_YvwFf3xd-jDjMedf6-E0wXUpSI9xgffgyYatcFDoB5wKWdbAekD_K44Es0ov1hDt/s512/Photo%252520Jul%25252027%25252C%2525202012%25252C%2525208%25253A01%252520AM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCFROyesIvhQlb16qOojCc8diy9GV8y8e5E1ZYKEzTDS4ZMvpL6r8wYFzTHfq5vSIyXxgIGaLjVq_YvwFf3xd-jDjMedf6-E0wXUpSI9xgffgyYatcFDoB5wKWdbAekD_K44Es0ov1hDt/s500/Photo%252520Jul%25252027%25252C%2525202012%25252C%2525208%25253A01%252520AM.jpg" id="blogsy-1389105946969.4968" class="alignnone" width="500" height="500" alt=""></a></div>
<p>So I use iA Writer to work on Twin Waters when I'm not at the Mac. It's a good app. Simple, but in the best way. Wrote 300+ words on it last night.</p>
<p>Someday Scrivener will have an app for me and I'll be first in line.</p>
<p>One has to dream.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading, off to check for updates on the new Scrivener App... and then write.</p>
<p>Casey</p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-52042650639751366702014-01-06T06:33:00.001-08:002014-01-06T06:33:48.443-08:00 Everybody's Wri-ting' for the Wee-kend'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPppiLvHZ2O6S483LlKHnRtzo6-RLX-t5cFlQYbmj78hDHe5KtDH93RakzCGn2GMdBt4CCbbjo59V-J9TPvm_ReEQnIZZFdu3PhApt3ZI9aYox2SjKg-06wS2S65i68vpriHSOpKKRg1Z5/s400/Photo%252520Jan%2525206%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A32%252520AM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPppiLvHZ2O6S483LlKHnRtzo6-RLX-t5cFlQYbmj78hDHe5KtDH93RakzCGn2GMdBt4CCbbjo59V-J9TPvm_ReEQnIZZFdu3PhApt3ZI9aYox2SjKg-06wS2S65i68vpriHSOpKKRg1Z5/s400/Photo%252520Jan%2525206%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A32%252520AM.jpg" id="blogsy-1389018829360.5657" class="alignnone" width="400" height="397" alt=""></a></div>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Does that punctuation make it read like a Loverboy song? </span><br>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Anyway, apparently I was writing for the weekend, because on the weekend, I did not write. Uh, oh. Yeah, two wasted days.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But that's in the past and regret will not write a book, so let's deal with what we can control... or mostly control.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Happy Monday!!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thanks for reading. Off to do a bunch of other stuff so I can write tonight!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Casey</p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-61932325367180864542014-01-04T12:08:00.001-08:002014-01-04T12:08:02.554-08:00"Fifty Yaaaards." - Movie?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4Z5sNOXKgiGjQxsHDkohdHRxgX-mLaOERhM66c0QXWolQHkT3ozoIS-PAE3b-pvJ_UbMVKxjM3mPaG4hY4OnJFBaR0qz8SpH-i3um6Mo-41TOM4D5f7Bd0GP_czkxxeWa1IuLyzze6sB/s1936/Photo%252520Jan%2525204%25252C%2525202014%25252C%25252012%25253A00%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4Z5sNOXKgiGjQxsHDkohdHRxgX-mLaOERhM66c0QXWolQHkT3ozoIS-PAE3b-pvJ_UbMVKxjM3mPaG4hY4OnJFBaR0qz8SpH-i3um6Mo-41TOM4D5f7Bd0GP_czkxxeWa1IuLyzze6sB/s500/Photo%252520Jan%2525204%25252C%2525202014%25252C%25252012%25253A00%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1388866083423.2195" class="alignnone" width="500" height="574" alt=""></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"> </div>
<p> Cracked That 1,000 Word Ceiling</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn't seem like much in the grand scheme. But I did manage to cross the 1,000 word threshold on the third day. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Talise is already in trouble, although she has no idea how much at this point in the story. Poor girl. She has such a long road ahead, both literally and figuratively.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So do I.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thanks for reading. Off to install a new dishwasher and then write.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Casey</p>
<p> </p>
<p>P.S. - "Fifty Yaaaards." - Clark Griswold - N.L.'s Vacation </p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-8854902496902349922014-01-03T06:24:00.001-08:002014-01-03T08:42:50.403-08:00Dog Named Boo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQGeo-9JWQUNoC6lWLnqxnqUhtBtceyUNlWNRJsdxwwy_MNqDJd21EGFShdNMau8XF5xIjODAP9rK6j7Y82RXNoHwcb0MwpJd-XAVufDR0QFfKzBgEbyE0se3NM93I7jy7rmlvQuR2EzX/s2048/Photo%252520Jan%2525203%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A16%252520AM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" class="aligncenter" height="375" id="blogsy-1388759078630.489" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQGeo-9JWQUNoC6lWLnqxnqUhtBtceyUNlWNRJsdxwwy_MNqDJd21EGFShdNMau8XF5xIjODAP9rK6j7Y82RXNoHwcb0MwpJd-XAVufDR0QFfKzBgEbyE0se3NM93I7jy7rmlvQuR2EzX/s500/Photo%252520Jan%2525203%25252C%2525202014%25252C%2525206%25253A16%252520AM.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
Me and You and a Dog Named Boo<br />
<br />
While writing last night I decided to play random music on my iPad and that's what I got.<br />
<br />
This is exceptional because I didn't know, or remember that I had that song, or even when I might have purchased, burned or lifted it... or why.<br />
<br />
It's not that I don't like the song. It's just that I can't imagine going out of my way to add it to my library.<br />
<br />
Then I remembered, which means I searched for the song in my library. About a year ago we received a CD in the mail as some sort of promotional prize or something from an insurance company or HVAC company or somebody else who wanted my money. Turned out to be titled 70's Pop Hits (Vol 2 [Disc 1]). I know what you're thinking... "Where's volume 1? Is there any way we can get our hands on disc 2?"<br />
<br />
I threw it on my iPad, as I tend to do, and immediately forgot about it.<br />
<br />
What does this have to do with writing? Easy. I decided Talise needs a dog. She spends a good deal of time playing the role of stranger in a strange land in this story and she needs a companion. And I might even call him Boo.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I wrote more last night than the night before, so that's something.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading. Off to (look at dog names) write.<br />
<br />
Casey<br />
<br />
<div id="blogsy_footer" style="clear: both; font-size: small; text-align: right;">
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Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-24103752196081541982014-01-02T06:24:00.001-08:002014-01-02T06:24:31.059-08:00Day Two<p> <span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Day Two (with ominous music playing... like Bram Stoker's Dracula)</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">First impression was frankly this: Holy cow! I can't believe how much work I've already done. That was nice.</span><br>
</p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Second: I've got a Facebook notification.</span><br>
</p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Third: I need my glasses.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Fourth: I need a little music to drown out Bridget Jones in the next room.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">See where I'm going here?</span><br>
</p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">I was listening to Writing Excuses (great Podcast) yesterday and they were talking about a ritual at the outset of writing. I think I need a ritual... a pre-shot routine as it were... to move me into the writing mode.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">All that said, I did open Scrivener, read through my notes, write about a page (very slowly), and set up the Dropbox so if something hits me during the day I can throw it in there.</span></p>
<p>So I can safely say day one was a success. Tonight I try to write at least another page and decide what I should include in my pre shot routine.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading. Off to (eventually) write.</p>
<p>Casey</p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-67820303196102215482014-01-01T11:52:00.001-08:002014-01-01T11:52:49.374-08:0031,536,000 Moments<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">So I'm sitting here, January 1, 11:10 in the AM, kids mulling about (we have three extra this morning), drinking a Pepsi One (of course) and eating a salami, swiss and sliced green olive (yep) on sour dough, which is all left over from last night's Roman feast. My mind is foggy and angsty and very typical after an evening of self-abuse.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">And I'm thinking about writing.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">And I'm thinking about this blog.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">And I'm thinking about optimism and commitment and making the most of the 31,536,000 moments available to me this year.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">See, I posted this list on Facebook where I mentioned my top 10 best moments in 2013. The responses were so wonderful and so supportive. And focusing on those 10 events with that kind of reinforcement made them seem bigger somehow. </span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">But more importantly that focus also made all the difficult parts of the year smaller. There were so many. But I feel like I conquered them all. My family and I conquered them all. Those negative moments and awful events are now frozen corpses on the tundra, and I have returned to my home, torn but whole. And stronger.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">And even though I did manage to put down several thousand words in 2013, those words didn't make the list because I didn't finish anything. Writing is great, and as writers we like to say that the most important thing is to just get words down. But that's not really true. It's a classic support group copout. Writing is important to be sure. It's tied for first place. But also in there is to finish, to see the project to the end and make it great. And in that I failed. I have excuses why. But they are only excuses.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">So here I am, back on my blog with a new year and a new commitment.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Write something here about my project, about my work, every day of 2014. Make this spot my writer's conscience, where I must report daily about my progress, or lack thereof. Even if the post is only one sentence.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Like this: Today, my dear patient blog that I have ignored since early last year, I will open Scrivener on the "big computer" and read through all of my notes, outline and rough writes on Twin Waters and put myself back into the story...</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">right after I take down this damn tree.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;"><br>
</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Thanks for reading. Off to... take down this damn tree... write.</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;"><br>
</span></p>
<p><span style="line-height: 1.3em;">Casey</span></p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-79446847103115253762013-04-24T06:14:00.000-07:002013-04-24T06:15:15.099-07:00Password, Password, Who's Got the Password?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh, here's a story. You know we all have a bunch of passwords, right? Well, every few months I change mine, especially since getting a rather threatening message from a would-be criminal who basically told me he had so many millions of passwords, chances were he had one of mine or my family's. Very unsettling.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lMYRkTWcLso/UXfZ2yHRaeI/AAAAAAAAAlU/KcYQBtkCsuA/s1600/password.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lMYRkTWcLso/UXfZ2yHRaeI/AAAAAAAAAlU/KcYQBtkCsuA/s320/password.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So I change my passwords a lot. And I have about 30 of them. And since I know that one of a crook's methods of getting into my stuff is to find my password on a less secure site (say a forum board) and try that password on a more secure site (say a bank), I use different passwords.<br />
<br />
Last night I got the idea that I would write them all down and put them some place safe. The thought was that if something happened to me, My Love would be able to get into all my junk and retrieve stuff, shut things down, etc., etc. A little morbid, maybe, but it seemed brilliant at the time.<br />
<br />
If you know me, you may guess what's coming next.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yep. I promptly lost the page. Not only that, but I thought I had lost it some place public, not just somewhere in my home. A list of all my accounts with the passwords and sign on names was now floating around in the world somewhere for anybody to find and hack into my whole life.<br />
<br />
Paaaaanic.....<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9gGFKRnUg7w/UXfY5oZrO0I/AAAAAAAAAlI/YVIb_KsRq-A/s1600/IMG_0330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9gGFKRnUg7w/UXfY5oZrO0I/AAAAAAAAAlI/YVIb_KsRq-A/s320/IMG_0330.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I found the list after about twenty minutes of very quiet, very tense searching and two trips out to my truck, and my heart rate dropped back down to a reasonable level. Maybe it's time to get one of those password encryption apps/programs? Time to join the 21st Century?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8mPSGnC68jo/UXfYxWZe2hI/AAAAAAAAAlA/_mTEYbF9C6w/s1600/IMG_0259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8mPSGnC68jo/UXfYxWZe2hI/AAAAAAAAAlA/_mTEYbF9C6w/s320/IMG_0259.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Probably not...</div>
<br />Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-42178863842209374272013-02-26T19:52:00.001-08:002013-02-26T19:52:59.747-08:00Confounding Coincidence<p>I have a hard time knowing where to start this story.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0arPlXEUiE0/US2C8X4IJ1I/AAAAAAAAAhc/d5gVtBw8Aqg/s270/Photo%252520Feb%25252026%25252C%2525202013%2525207%25253A48%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0arPlXEUiE0/US2C8X4IJ1I/AAAAAAAAAhc/d5gVtBw8Aqg/s270/Photo%252520Feb%25252026%25252C%2525202013%2525207%25253A48%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1361937182303.955" class="alignnone" alt="" width="270" height="186"></a></div>
<p> </p>
<p>My daughter's mom, my ex-wife, passed away three years ago this March. My daughter, who is now twenty-four, has been hit heartbreakingly hard by this loss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When she died, we put all of her worldly possessions in a storage unit temporarily. As these things often do, temporarily turned in to just under three years and only now is the storage unit nearly empty of what was a household and lifetime of the profoundly sentimental and the utterly mundane.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Last Friday, my daughter was going through one of her mom's many boxes and found a letter she had written. It was addressed to my daughter and was written just shy of five months before her mom passed. The powerful words answered some of my daughter's questions about her mom's passing, affirmed the love they shared and supported the decisions my daughter has made since she lost her mom. It was devastating and cathartic at the same time.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ZsYWMQ90rYI/US2C-dIqDlI/AAAAAAAAAhk/hki1HPs7z1A/s600/Photo%252520Feb%25252021%25252C%2525202013%25252012%25253A28%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ZsYWMQ90rYI/US2C-dIqDlI/AAAAAAAAAhk/hki1HPs7z1A/s500/Photo%252520Feb%25252021%25252C%2525202013%25252012%25253A28%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1361937182340.7722" class="alignnone" alt="" width="388" height="291"></a></div>
<p>That Sunday was Oscar night. While watching the show I received a text at about 8 o'clock from my sister who lives in Arizona. She was also watching and said that the Oscars always reminded her of my mom, who would sit with her writing tablet and make note of the winners as the show progressed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mom passed when I was five years old and I don't remember her at all, so this kind of recollection is always welcome.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>An hour later I received a text from my daughter. It was a picture of a letter she had found among her mom's effects. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxY8YmBzYle3bG71iwCuk5rCoNJzP9iGyCVYAPOBP4dA73TR0n_SziV6JiXKjYWNePthI7xgS-Mo5IcZNuQtk7eGXYjILcP3BOGz3vtfvWIUmXMestUIwoDzbzp0DX_nNqXb8VmBbmXbr/s1024/Photo%252520Feb%25252024%25252C%2525202013%2525208%25253A58%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxY8YmBzYle3bG71iwCuk5rCoNJzP9iGyCVYAPOBP4dA73TR0n_SziV6JiXKjYWNePthI7xgS-Mo5IcZNuQtk7eGXYjILcP3BOGz3vtfvWIUmXMestUIwoDzbzp0DX_nNqXb8VmBbmXbr/s500/Photo%252520Feb%25252024%25252C%2525202013%2525208%25253A58%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1361937182340.1924" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="667"></a></div>
<p>The letter was addressed to me. The letter was written by my Arizona sister.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxw15URKbcMLVIxDI2lOdk6SzoKrhCYqtq6soTk7cEFL0ifatR3vZGmtrn5uWrQ6bMA4bOxusUYehHpzVzpRJ8PSOCGZlvqP1eghO5mfEVlVU6TomQjqRxdPx6kjB-45_ZHLFBI7694uY8/s1024/Photo%252520Feb%25252024%25252C%2525202013%2525209%25253A04%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxw15URKbcMLVIxDI2lOdk6SzoKrhCYqtq6soTk7cEFL0ifatR3vZGmtrn5uWrQ6bMA4bOxusUYehHpzVzpRJ8PSOCGZlvqP1eghO5mfEVlVU6TomQjqRxdPx6kjB-45_ZHLFBI7694uY8/s500/Photo%252520Feb%25252024%25252C%2525202013%2525209%25253A04%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1361937182327.8914" class="alignnone" width="500" height="667" alt=""></a></div>
<p>The letter was written on the same type of tablet my Arizona sister had been picturing an hour earlier. By same type, I mean it could have even been the same tablet used for the 1971 award notations.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The date on the letter, December 7, 1972, was five months, to the day, before my mom would die in a car accident. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two letters, involving two moms, both written five months before they would pass much, much too young.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A memory from my sister is all but physically manifested an hour after she texts me about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes the content and timing of coincidences is so powerful that the word coincidence no longer fits the situation. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I can't help but picture those two moms having a little palaver somewhere and deciding to pull a fast one on us lowly mortals.</p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-25214898575984334892013-01-08T20:16:00.001-08:002013-01-08T20:16:13.289-08:00Brief Review of Wool Omnibus by Hugh Howey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6u5rynnlf1rre815o1_400.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6u5rynnlf1rre815o1_400.jpg" id="blogsy-1357704921362.8572" class="alignnone" alt="" width="300" height="452"></a></div>
<p>This is my first experience with Mr. Howey's work read via recommendation from a trusted friend. </p>
<p>I'm not, per se, a great fan of post-apocalyptic fiction, although Wind-Up Girl was fantastic. So I approached this story with a hint of trepidation. </p>
<p>In short, it was excellent. </p>
<p>The setting is extremely well-drawn, details fed to the reader carefully and meaningfully over time.</p>
<p>The story is complex and involves different points of view, micro and macro influences, short and long-term histories.</p>
<p>The cast is vast, varied, deep and fully-developed.</p>
<p>And I guarantee you don't know what's going to happen next.</p>
<p>I will say that reading this as five separate stories would be deeply frustrating, as the so-called endings of each section are not so much cliff-hanger as cliff, not to mention they are way too short individually to be satisfying. The way this needs to be read is right here, as one great novel.</p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125956713394458825.post-14242310740792488092013-01-07T17:30:00.001-08:002013-01-07T17:30:14.900-08:00 Back to It!<p>Resolutions aside, here's a brief summary of what went down in December and where I'm at now in writing and, well, everything.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I want to start by saying that this year, especially, we all have a very strong common reason to appreciate every glimmer of good in our lives. This post is not about that tragedy. But before I talk about my little tiny life, I want to say for the record I sincerely believe we all owe it to humanness itself to remember and appreciate. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Negatives: </p>
<p> </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-20P1iUUdoQY/UOt2b-pw_oI/AAAAAAAAAgk/bMAcajXrnlQ/s1024/Photo%252520Dec%2525208%25252C%2525202012%2525204%25253A14%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-20P1iUUdoQY/UOt2b-pw_oI/AAAAAAAAAgk/bMAcajXrnlQ/s500/Photo%252520Dec%2525208%25252C%2525202012%2525204%25253A14%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615191.284" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="375"></a></div>
<p>1) We almost ran out of gas getting the Christmas Tree at George's in Paynes Creek. But we didn't.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-XRaTbScq25Y/UOt2eupHF5I/AAAAAAAAAgs/OGeLmpcHwao/s1024/Photo%252520Jul%25252028%25252C%2525202009%2525205%25253A22%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-XRaTbScq25Y/UOt2eupHF5I/AAAAAAAAAgs/OGeLmpcHwao/s500/Photo%252520Jul%25252028%25252C%2525202009%2525205%25253A22%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615214.4585" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="375"></a></div>
<p>2) My sister's home in the country is our traditional Christmas Eve location and this year she decided to drive her family to Idaho to spend it with my brother and his family. So we tried to bring that Christmas Eve magic to our house, but it didn't turn out. The picture above is my brother's house. Can you really blame her?</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="http://media.redding.com/media/img/photos/2010/01/07/PHOTOS-100107afCrab3_w_t607.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="http://media.redding.com/media/img/photos/2010/01/07/PHOTOS-100107afCrab3_w_t607.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615296.6606" class="alignnone" alt="" width="426" height="265"></a></div>
<p>3) The place where we've purchased our Christmas Eve dungeness crab for the last, oh, 100 years, closed down. Someone took it over. The someone who took it over ran out of crab. So I was forced to purchase frozen snow crab as a replacement. No one ate it.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-aWTNKmo8UVg/UOt2j41vAyI/AAAAAAAAAg0/Ase02YHY2ts/s1024/Photo%252520Dec%2525209%25252C%2525202012%2525208%25253A49%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-aWTNKmo8UVg/UOt2j41vAyI/AAAAAAAAAg0/Ase02YHY2ts/s500/Photo%252520Dec%2525209%25252C%2525202012%2525208%25253A49%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615284.1182" class="alignnone" alt="" width="398" height="531"></a></div>
<p>4) Our tree fell down a few days before Christmas, very nearly beaning my daughter, who was sleeping under it. We had to rewrap some well-watered gifts and redecorate the tree.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>5) My son (11) broke some rules and found himself grounded for the first time in his life, and for the entirety of winter break.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="http://drliesa.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/flu.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="http://drliesa.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/flu.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615298.8557" class="alignnone" alt="" width="250" height="253"></a></div>
<p>6) He also got a terrible, 102 degree temperature flu around the 21st or 22nd. I decided it looked like a lot of fun, so I got said flu on Christmas Eve. My oldest daughter took it back to Sacramento with her. It was one of those week-long endeavors for which I am eternally grateful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>7) Since there was so much sick going on, Christmas Day was spent at home, just seven of us, instead of at my love's family dinner. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>8) I got up Christmas morning, went back to bed, got up for a couple of hours in the evening and then didn't leave the bedroom until some time on the 27th. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Positives:</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-l09M2-dKIGM/UOt2lfG6FxI/AAAAAAAAAg8/8rglruEHIgQ/s1024/Photo%252520Jan%2525201%25252C%2525202013%2525208%25253A44%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-l09M2-dKIGM/UOt2lfG6FxI/AAAAAAAAAg8/8rglruEHIgQ/s500/Photo%252520Jan%2525201%25252C%2525202013%2525208%25253A44%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615269.2056" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="375"></a></div>
<p>1) It's also the Christmas we got Marcy. Marcy is my son's cat. Above all the gadgets and toys he wanted, this kitten was the real thing, the one real thing he wanted. And we had decided against it until a few days prior. The way we did it was we shopped for all the care items one would need to have a cat and wrapped that for Christmas morning. This way he could pick his kitten. He sobbed. And he's not a sobbing kind of kid. Like the Red Ryder BB gun, it may be the best present he has ever gotten or will ever get.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVQzvIfPWrNy2aIKAjkY9VuQH4pH_NnxzC19d9Joae3R3jmh1vquYbnud75r8fKVYAKXwipaJHI3TOtEc6LLnO_RKggYFj3Bq1Psw8NGSAvC9fqrPKDAeuxVWbZZ0kkRgzJ7RdJ-TpmiE/s1024/Photo%252520Dec%25252030%25252C%2525202012%2525206%25253A10%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVQzvIfPWrNy2aIKAjkY9VuQH4pH_NnxzC19d9Joae3R3jmh1vquYbnud75r8fKVYAKXwipaJHI3TOtEc6LLnO_RKggYFj3Bq1Psw8NGSAvC9fqrPKDAeuxVWbZZ0kkRgzJ7RdJ-TpmiE/s500/Photo%252520Dec%25252030%25252C%2525202012%2525206%25253A10%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615207.6797" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="500"></a></div>
<p>2) A few days later we took my daughter (13) and picked a dog out at the rescue. Why we did it this way is she had asked for a Chinchilla for Christmas and we decided not to go there. But when my boy got his cat, her need for a pet of her own became first and foremost in her mind. Her name (the dog) is Haley and she's wonderful. The two new animals in our home have brought in new life and new personality and our two younger kids will now have that experience. (I should note that we had three animals, two dogs and a cat, that were older and all passed within the last two years. So we've been without pet for several months.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>3) This was the year, the first in a while, when both our older kids 23 and 24 made it back for Christmas Eve AND Christmas Day. And because of sicknesses, it was just us. We lazed around and watched movies, ate goodies, generally trashed the house and just loved on each other. This made these days special in a way I haven't felt in a long time. My older daughter said it best, "I couldn't have had a better Christmas."</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-066uXP_w-VI/UOt2oq8QSVI/AAAAAAAAAhM/9LLoepjBzL4/s1024/Photo%252520Jan%2525205%25252C%2525202013%2525204%25253A19%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-066uXP_w-VI/UOt2oq8QSVI/AAAAAAAAAhM/9LLoepjBzL4/s500/Photo%252520Jan%2525205%25252C%2525202013%2525204%25253A19%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1357608615216.5088" class="alignnone" width="500" height="667" alt=""></a></div>
<p>4) This past Saturday, I got my bike out of layaway. It's a 2012 Jamis Ventura Sport. It's beautiful and I took it for its maiden voyage yesterday, 25 miles around town and around the Sacramento River Trail. What an amazing difference from my old Schwinn mountain bike. Since I'd been sick and since I hadn't ridden anything indoors or outdoors for two weeks, it just about did me in, but it didn't matter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So now the tree is gone, the decorations have all been put away, the house is clean and the older kids have returned to their homes. The strongest memories I have this year are of the best moments.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So it's a new year. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm ready to ride my bike as much as weather will allow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm ready to write my story as much as my creative juices will allow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm ready to live my life as much as life will allow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm ready to love my family as much as my heart will allow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's a good place to be.</p>
<p> </p><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Casey Freelandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01258967374124497696noreply@blogger.com5