tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72876737534897441352024-03-05T11:34:41.999-06:00Rebecca's BlogConfessions and concerns of a thoughtful dyke.Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-1470755546971483472016-08-15T15:17:00.000-05:002016-08-15T15:21:27.096-05:00Letting them go<span style="font-size: large;">This morning my sweetie and I had to euthanize her elderly cat, LC (Little Cat). She was as close to 20 yrs old as you can get, without paperwork. She wasn't doing very well at the end, but even so, it was the first time she had refused her breakfast, and barely drank her water, she could barely walk, and the litter box, when she could get to it, was more miss than hit, so I think it was okay.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Euthanasia is not an easy decision to make. I've done it a few times, and it has never been easy. It's heart-wrenching. I've never slept well the night before, or even a few days before coming to the realization that it is, perhaps, time. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">LC was not the most lovable cat. I came into her life late, just over five years ago. I was warned she had bitten and scratched, that there was a red flag on her vet file, and not to handle her too much. She was beautiful, a Smoke Tabby, dark and striped on top, lighter beneath, with huge, luminous eyes. Small, but feisty, or maybe fierce is a better word. But she had her moments of need, when she would come to you for attention (affection?) and even then, you wanted to be careful, she could change her mind. And the dogs were wary around her, if only due to our cautioning...Except Samantha, as a wee puppy, had ventured too close and when we discovered her eye full of blood, realized LC had sliced neatly through her third eyelid with a claw. The eyelid had to be surgically snipped. Hank never liked LC, but never suffered any injuries. Lucas has only ever wanted (desperately) to herd her. Duncan, (the best dog ever), suffered a smart smack on the nose as a puppy that drew blood. LC pretty much ruled the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Still, I cared for her during my few years with her, fed her, picked her up once in awhile for cuddles and pets, took her to her vet appointments. I like cats. Even ornery cats. But I was very wary, right to the end. And when it came her time, she was not going to go without a final snarl and flexing of her claws. But as she was going, I kissed her head and said, Good girl, LC. Good girl. And my sweetie and I both cried, and said Good-bye.</span><br />
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(I have reprinted the below even though it is about dogs...it resonates.)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Passports<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">(Donald
McCaig ~ A Useful Dog)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;">It is
hard to kill a dog. We put it off and we delay and when we finally do it we ask
ourselves afterwards if there wasn’t something more we might have done. And of
course there was. Whenever you have to kill an animal, there is always
something more you might have done to keep him alive. But after years with
livestock and dogs, there comes a signal, faint but unmistakable that says: it
is time. Ignoring that signal is cowardly: you are less willing to face your
loss than the dog is to face his death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moose and I never quite got together. He was
a nervous sheepdog and I wasn’t a good enough trainer to soothe him. Oh, he
could do routine chores alright and had a good life here on the farm. In the
hot summer months he spent hours swimming in the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last fall Moose started limping and the vet
found a lump under his front leg and maybe we could catch the cancer if we
amputated. Three days after his amputation he hopped out to the corral to help
with chores. Moose got around pretty good & even learned to lift his leg
again but no, we hadn’t got it all, and a couple months later his right eye
went blind and he started to smell bad. So now he’s in a place where the sheep
don’t spook him; he’s much calmer and his new trainer knows better than I did
how to handle a dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The evening before I killed him, the
three-legged, one-eyed sheepdog went out to help me feed. He kept the ewes off
the feeders. All through the night he vomited and in the morning vomited his butter-enclosed
aspirin tab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moose
died here, where twelve years ago he was born and he’s buried in the graveyard
on the hill where I hope to be buried someday. Moose’s mother and father were
already on the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We carried him to his grave on his sheepskin
bed and set his letter underneath. My wife, Anne, writes a letter for every one
of our dogs and I have never asked her what she writes. She says it’s a
passport and I like to think of Moose coming to the last river he will ever
cross and offering the boatman his letter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh,
yes, I was a very good dog</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it may be, it just may be—all our dogs
waiting on the far side of the river that Anne and I must one day cross—those letters
may not be dogs’ passports. They may be ours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-45045273694075967872016-07-28T13:20:00.002-05:002016-08-01T15:36:32.449-05:00Judging a book by its cover<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Let's talk cover art. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I'm speaking of book cover art, obviously. Many readers take it for granted that authors have a huge say in the cover art of their novels. Surprise, surprise, this is not true, and is, in fact, not the norm at all. Most authors have no say at all. Even John Scalzi has admitted he has little to no say in the cover art of his books, but he always has kick-ass cover art anyway, so that's a moot point, really. And even I, as a reader, had often thought that the cover art of many of the books I had read did not reflect the story or characters very well at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A reviewer once commented on the cover art of my second novel, Falling (2015), stating: <i>"</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "open sans" , serif; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The cover is fine. But this book deserves a brilliant cover, not one that is just fine."</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I cannot even begin to tell you how much I agree with this statement. And the cover of Falling was a point of contention for a few weeks, while we went back and forth and back and forth. I am grateful I was allowed input at all, trust me...because this is what was first put forth:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPldWCPTN4TWUKZbPB6Bzs2iaUsgmVwSLX2uomrmVyoX9JgBWAQl7j4h_hb6HDBmYB946Hu52TkOzGtK6bqRaoZy8rfHT6MWPH-H454WOnCDs6gygs_vY_g-kUCgdeiUmb_RlHmWkMiQg/s1600/Falling-template.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPldWCPTN4TWUKZbPB6Bzs2iaUsgmVwSLX2uomrmVyoX9JgBWAQl7j4h_hb6HDBmYB946Hu52TkOzGtK6bqRaoZy8rfHT6MWPH-H454WOnCDs6gygs_vY_g-kUCgdeiUmb_RlHmWkMiQg/s320/Falling-template.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It's not terrible, though a bit ambiguous...but it didn't have anything to do with the story. So I said, Um, nope...can we try again?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This was the next offering:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3P4wSx0CXqGolSwUI2vyymDEhIi3W-3L1o6LAvRX23_twwEnsbw6II9oooOo_ayp3pakBRJfvd04Is1Xong_HDKGrpjnZghDzhiSpo6wUyAisr2u3u7y_p5D02Rzi-HJVr5x3x2hMoY/s1600/FallingCoverjaf+new+draft.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3P4wSx0CXqGolSwUI2vyymDEhIi3W-3L1o6LAvRX23_twwEnsbw6II9oooOo_ayp3pakBRJfvd04Is1Xong_HDKGrpjnZghDzhiSpo6wUyAisr2u3u7y_p5D02Rzi-HJVr5x3x2hMoY/s320/FallingCoverjaf+new+draft.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I nixed that one immediately. The title font, the butt shot (I am completely against butt shots, yet, ironically enough, many lesbian novels fall victim to them, sadly), even the <i>colour</i> of the font, was all wrong. I liked the headlights in the distance, the concept art of the female hitchhiker...so I asked my sweetie, who is a graphic artist, and a very successful business owner, to see what she could come up with. She tried a couple of things, and I sent them in, and again asked, "Can we try again, please?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This is what I was offered, a combination of something my sweetie found, and something already in play, which is the cover we finally decided on:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5orwb3lzoSE3DsEKttdjGHYWClN4B6UXqCCRSalM4LlU-VGwQH1qJuq1pvScgB6GF5Mxy6NrkRD0IjSwBj74T8UoEznZxJJIxoMevE6cn0aSi3dZ6dLj57HDsCw5te-eQb9v8K_Kcxzc/s1600/FallingCoverjaf0813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5orwb3lzoSE3DsEKttdjGHYWClN4B6UXqCCRSalM4LlU-VGwQH1qJuq1pvScgB6GF5Mxy6NrkRD0IjSwBj74T8UoEznZxJJIxoMevE6cn0aSi3dZ6dLj57HDsCw5te-eQb9v8K_Kcxzc/s320/FallingCoverjaf0813.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">However, my sweetie went one step further, and also constructed this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DwFyUrwubCxZDerbbkaDxdU4p6kY7b25b_22B2fA-z_QoEEJVwtnmNgglCNN0IsgCSd7tbLtqieaUgVLwJV89Gf5j1sjm91hyphenhyphenY_CeUL_d1alMzMtJmLDZWodHZ2uQSwuqbV710Yyzsk/s1600/falling+alternate+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DwFyUrwubCxZDerbbkaDxdU4p6kY7b25b_22B2fA-z_QoEEJVwtnmNgglCNN0IsgCSd7tbLtqieaUgVLwJV89Gf5j1sjm91hyphenhyphenY_CeUL_d1alMzMtJmLDZWodHZ2uQSwuqbV710Yyzsk/s320/falling+alternate+cover.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This is my favourite. I like the clear, no-nonsense attitude of the young woman, I like the foreboding, storm-approaching sky, the highway stretching out before her (it's only missing the headlights)...THIS is the cover the aforementioned reviewer was thinking of. This cover IS brilliant. Unfortunately, when I sent this in, it was nixed immediately, precisely due to those things we liked about it...it was too dark, it wasn't inviting enough, there was no "romance" to it--but if you've read the book, you know it IS dark, it's NOT very inviting (though it is captivating), and while there is some romance, it's NOT a romance novel. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am still incredibly grateful to have been allowed a say at all, don't get me wrong. And the cover art of both of my novels is fine, let me be clear on that. But when readers think that authors have any control over the cover art of their books, they must be made aware that this is rarely the case...and sometimes, when it <i>is</i> the case, the author may be an even worse judge than the artists themselves, who likely have only read the blurb, and have no clue what the book is actually about, and so are completely objective. Objectivity is not a bad thing, in such cases. It is, in fact, essential. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-4323193169675064142015-01-18T16:34:00.002-06:002015-01-19T13:15:18.084-06:00Birds I've come to know and love.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I haven't posted a blog in almost a year. January 30th of last year was the last one. I've been writing them, I just haven't been posting them. My blog is sometimes just a vehicle to vent, things I need to get out, that perhaps I don't wish to burden my sweetie with (I don't have (m)any friends that I can chat with much anymore, vent to, discuss ideas with -- for some reason or another many have failed me. It's very sad). So I use my blog for that. Even though I don't get any feedback, it still serves its purpose, and I need that.</span><br />
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For my first blog of 2015 (hopefully there will be more, hahaha!), I'm posting about a topic that I've had in mind for some time, and that I care a lot about: Birds. That sounds like a pretty broad topic, but I'm going to limit it to birds I've come to know since moving to North Carolina, specifically the ones which visit our feeding stations, and even that is a fairly extensive list. And THERE WILL BE PICTURES! (I have taken some photos, but for this purpose I am going to use images scavenged from Google.)</span><br />
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The bird I want to start off with is the bird that instantly caught my eye during my first visit to Hillsborough, North Carolina. The Northern Cardinal:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0z6npxf6QrjYMuuDwfzUuP5hAYE_QThbhphXKQzKMrgDf0Ob7k6_jZDcV_zlofVVLQ4WJiWJZnzFiC5q-ikhw2m7JFgD1RaBM4ro9bdPTMGs61PGp5ZA10LNGg_JEclA3c7kccCrzNs/s1600/cardinal.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0z6npxf6QrjYMuuDwfzUuP5hAYE_QThbhphXKQzKMrgDf0Ob7k6_jZDcV_zlofVVLQ4WJiWJZnzFiC5q-ikhw2m7JFgD1RaBM4ro9bdPTMGs61PGp5ZA10LNGg_JEclA3c7kccCrzNs/s1600/cardinal.jpeg" height="283" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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I had never seen one in my life, though they are present in parts of Canada, just not the part I come from. Males and females are very striking. They have gorgeous, liquid songs.They are very prolific at the feeders, cracking open sunflower seeds with their beaks. Their very <i>strong</i> beaks: a much younger Lucas managed to get hold of a male once, and I heard a huge amount of squawking, went outside to see what was up, and had to rescue the bird. For my efforts, that bird bit me HARD, amazingly hard, three times. It was incredibly painful and completely unexpected. My sweetie had to shout at me to let it go, and I tried, but it was hanging on! Finally, I managed to toss it out of our yard, and my sweetie laughed and laughed at me, and said if a bird doesn't need to be saved, it's going to let you know. </span><br />
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Then there is the Tufted Titmouse:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyNfBaBwBCaWJTN8fFSK60zzLzYg_6C0DXfZIBwLS6GnMkEmWMbpTZe1I3HbcSDxD3eWpUlLfavS2HCbWnKIpiCB9ZHm_NWBnbWHrZ04UvRwktZONypyEYNRYSz8CCXslb8jvcaAXGhE/s1600/titmouse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyNfBaBwBCaWJTN8fFSK60zzLzYg_6C0DXfZIBwLS6GnMkEmWMbpTZe1I3HbcSDxD3eWpUlLfavS2HCbWnKIpiCB9ZHm_NWBnbWHrZ04UvRwktZONypyEYNRYSz8CCXslb8jvcaAXGhE/s1600/titmouse2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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They are much smaller than a Cardinal, and more skittish. They swoop in to the feeder, grab a seed or peanut, and then scram to the nearest branch to crack the seed open. </span><br />
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The Carolina Wren is one of my favourites:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNy5sqW_nSvBHFKmDb2v1kLwAfYGrmxyFEZEC48xL6rfpYwcsQ2UAE6ds8Q2yNb_UaiGTw5Vm5-N1rCzvsObIxXkzu18JNT6rv9b3iWHXwa2KqMcs6cG2SFeoHofy1Eey6V8nBDh6OsA/s1600/carolina+wren.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWNy5sqW_nSvBHFKmDb2v1kLwAfYGrmxyFEZEC48xL6rfpYwcsQ2UAE6ds8Q2yNb_UaiGTw5Vm5-N1rCzvsObIxXkzu18JNT6rv9b3iWHXwa2KqMcs6cG2SFeoHofy1Eey6V8nBDh6OsA/s1600/carolina+wren.jpeg" height="265" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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A feisty little bird with a HUGE voice. The first time I heard one of these, I had no idea what was making that sound. When I saw it was this tiny little feather puff, I was astonished. They hop and flit about, and go absolutely everywhere in search of food, seeming curious and courageous at the same time.</span><br />
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Then there's the Carolina Chickadee:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUdgA52vmFU0IjOJHbnd1Z8OOl9DXYJFMqBqwSSJnv8jUYiM5Bm7cS6qNY-Qz8_Xg8F2PAdWpr058Gh3M3lUIFtO0Fvgx6Vr8tNODhMWLLtzPexft2miltBLSNsxj2NjOA3voCFOGsHw/s1600/carolina+chickadee.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUdgA52vmFU0IjOJHbnd1Z8OOl9DXYJFMqBqwSSJnv8jUYiM5Bm7cS6qNY-Qz8_Xg8F2PAdWpr058Gh3M3lUIFtO0Fvgx6Vr8tNODhMWLLtzPexft2miltBLSNsxj2NjOA3voCFOGsHw/s1600/carolina+chickadee.jpeg" height="280" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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Similar to the Black-capped Chickadee, but with a slight variation in colouring, difficult to distinguish without looking close. Many people are not even aware of Carolina Chickadees, even here in North Carolina, calling all Chickadees, Black-capped. Here you can see the differences, Black-capped on the left, Carolina on the right:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjN0Wvjm6V2_W3c0e_5nRFQUCoPIVIt29mNXpDKxZjkg0mpqwIFF9xh7fDC0gjCk3VzGqpHdhfn-_cCXb3SB5k6wIJw-qdFQz_0gUWN8zjOifSSwZRzEYGaGd4SH2D54yCKW1GD0tncB8/s1600/chickadees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjN0Wvjm6V2_W3c0e_5nRFQUCoPIVIt29mNXpDKxZjkg0mpqwIFF9xh7fDC0gjCk3VzGqpHdhfn-_cCXb3SB5k6wIJw-qdFQz_0gUWN8zjOifSSwZRzEYGaGd4SH2D54yCKW1GD0tncB8/s1600/chickadees.jpg" height="200" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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Another of my favourites, again one I'd never seen until coming here, is the Eastern Bluebird (female top, male bottom):</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOCfGtjLdcFvFSVhQs4wBDIAYwDZ_qU1gXINSmaeKtSl6C1yS2yl2wUNiGnOBgE0pPl_iNznNmwYRfO0gcuqK-2-oiEQHfCSz7yO4yvbzhBk8GVR10jGpzcyw4EH3Gmgs0hxYXOOQ-jg/s1600/bluebirds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOCfGtjLdcFvFSVhQs4wBDIAYwDZ_qU1gXINSmaeKtSl6C1yS2yl2wUNiGnOBgE0pPl_iNznNmwYRfO0gcuqK-2-oiEQHfCSz7yO4yvbzhBk8GVR10jGpzcyw4EH3Gmgs0hxYXOOQ-jg/s1600/bluebirds.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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It's been very startling at times to see such vibrantly coloured birds, even now, when I've been here for three years. I constantly marvel at them, and these birds are very common here, they are everywhere. They only visit the feeders for suet, since they are insect eaters. In the spring they show up more often, since they have young to feed, and will bring them by once they have fledged.</span><br />
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I've also seen a Mountain Bluebird once:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5MLefc3FDv9xaLconba5Ci-gqt0LxaHmlul59HMsc9UkHNurhdtk-a5ZGV4CW_1DbxZ7GQDv1WQbB1Ahit2Ui0SIFJmKbcRaGuKCpxckaETzo2w3ek7mF5qkhvEzx1pIq9gdeoNLQS8/s1600/mountain+bluebird.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5MLefc3FDv9xaLconba5Ci-gqt0LxaHmlul59HMsc9UkHNurhdtk-a5ZGV4CW_1DbxZ7GQDv1WQbB1Ahit2Ui0SIFJmKbcRaGuKCpxckaETzo2w3ek7mF5qkhvEzx1pIq9gdeoNLQS8/s1600/mountain+bluebird.jpeg" height="271" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He hung around the feeders one spring for a couple of days early each morning. Then he was gone. I've never forgotten how shockingly blue he was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Other birds, which come and go throughout the seasons:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Pine Siskin:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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White-headed Sparrow:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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Purple Finch:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PJa6WPEK2nnIYEApSmco3wS61exSLoCLOX5-RSjZT9n83-9G-V9lfyfppTvFry17ElU4y4s34fAD-FLdIwDOiFav3Xp78fgEWxRMMfSe7NTRsI-bLNokG5ANSRchM8DE1gPMtFqu6Gc/s1600/purple+finch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PJa6WPEK2nnIYEApSmco3wS61exSLoCLOX5-RSjZT9n83-9G-V9lfyfppTvFry17ElU4y4s34fAD-FLdIwDOiFav3Xp78fgEWxRMMfSe7NTRsI-bLNokG5ANSRchM8DE1gPMtFqu6Gc/s1600/purple+finch.jpeg" height="239" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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House Finch:</span><br />
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People sometimes get those last two confused, but the Purple Finch is often described as "a sparrow dipped in raspberry juice." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
There is also the Goldfinch, another of my favourites:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
They are very common in the spring and summer, not so often in the fall and winter. They have the prettiest little song, and they will congregate in groups at feeders. It is quite the sight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What else? Oh, these guys, White-breasted Nuthatches:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qLY1ET2CvM1odqUHpTSdxSn8s7SkByvB693Hg9M_L2fuaAeFy_tQTa3IEciQ0mIf3CRD-f_GJnBSAWF1YbIfz4_ZW8AIRwalb5KkGQlB4gWvQoHvYnlJVCEsH8HWGqCvichrjgPkYLA/s1600/white+breasted+nuthatch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qLY1ET2CvM1odqUHpTSdxSn8s7SkByvB693Hg9M_L2fuaAeFy_tQTa3IEciQ0mIf3CRD-f_GJnBSAWF1YbIfz4_ZW8AIRwalb5KkGQlB4gWvQoHvYnlJVCEsH8HWGqCvichrjgPkYLA/s1600/white+breasted+nuthatch.jpeg" height="256" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Very conspicuous little birds, who usually scoot down a tree trunk, as opposed to up. They also often feed upside down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
There are Dark-eyed Juncos, more common in the winter:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Eastern Towhee. When I first saw one of these, I actually said out loud, though no one was around, "Whoa! What the hell is that?": </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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Blue Jays, Crows, and Mourning Doves come to the feeders:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
Also, Downy Woodpeckers and Red-bellied Woodpeckers, who come to the suet, bark butter, and peanut feeders. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSG1HLVTYmKhZUULQg7hz6xS2s81M5qk6gocBRDXQlk-emG5S5mhlGQoW4XWWUUowkL56WT857jEe-CbSjUyfmaBXXrZG9_Nq1FmiwL1dYFzkU2pbnNceb3iUn0I4s0qDkyK8ezQNXYuQ/s1600/downy+woodpecker.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSG1HLVTYmKhZUULQg7hz6xS2s81M5qk6gocBRDXQlk-emG5S5mhlGQoW4XWWUUowkL56WT857jEe-CbSjUyfmaBXXrZG9_Nq1FmiwL1dYFzkU2pbnNceb3iUn0I4s0qDkyK8ezQNXYuQ/s1600/downy+woodpecker.jpeg" height="239" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
The Red-bellied woodpeckers often bring their youngsters once they've fledged to the peanut and suet feeders, and then those youngsters will continue to visit as they mature. It's pretty cool.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
I saw an Eastern Whip-poor-will once, in one of the raised planters:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
They really do blend in that well. I didn't see the one in the planter until I was practically on top of it, and then it burst out and flew off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />And Baltimore Orioles, males and females (it may be the same pair I see), come by several times a year, no matter the season, always for suet and bark butter:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<br />And finally, one of the coolest birds: the Northern Mockingbird:
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mockingbirds only show up at the feeders during the winter months, and then only for suet and bark butter. I've had one occasionally pop into the platform feeder and grab a few shelled sunflowers seeds, but it's rare. They have gorgeous, varied songs, and are very attractive, athletic, and sometimes aggressive birds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And that's pretty much it for unique birds that I've come to know since arriving in Hillsborough, North Carolina. Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal to some, but to me, birds are amazing, beautiful, and fantastic creatures, and I, for one, love them, and do not take them for granted. Perhaps some day I will post about some of the other birds I've seen around the area and the state. For now, I think this is enough.</span><br />
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Thanks for reading!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-66344955061824913232014-01-30T12:11:00.000-06:002014-01-30T16:21:31.136-06:00The wedding poem<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was married September 7, 2013. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I, who have always wanted to be married, but never really thought I would be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am married to someone I always knew I should be married to, but not someone I always knew, or thought I ever would know. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was, or we were, married by someone who understood how rare, how special, how...perfect this marriage, this meeting, was. Is. Someone who took the time to find a poem that was as touching as it was unexpected. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A poem that was as much a surprise as the woman I married. And perfect. As she is perfect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perfection is never expected, and thus, is always a surprise. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Here is the poem Jill Malone chose for us.)</span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when persimmons ripen</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when fox-kits come out of their den into snow</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when the spotted egg releases its wren song</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when the maple sets down its red leaves</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when windows keep their promise to open</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when fire keeps its promise to warm</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when someone you love has died</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>or someone you never met has died</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when someone you love has been born</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>or someone you will not meet has been born</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when rain leaps to the waiting of roots in their dryness</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when starlight bends to the roofs of the hungry and tired</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when someone sits long inside his last sorrow</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today when someone steps into the heat of her first embrace</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today, let this light bless you</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>With these friends let it bless you</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>With snow-scent and lavender bless you</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Let the vow of this day keep itself wildly and wholly</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Spoken and silent, surprise you inside your ears</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Sleeping and waking, unfold itself inside your eyes</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Let its fierceness and tenderness hold you</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Let its vastness be undisguised in all your days</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">~Jane Hirshfield "A Blessing for Wedding"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"With this ring, I thee wed; with this body, I thee worship."</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-39820491603165934872014-01-24T11:41:00.000-06:002014-01-30T11:01:43.474-06:00Women and Words<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was chatting with Andi Marguette (<a href="http://andimarquette.com/">http://andimarquette.com/</a>) over the holiday season, and she invited me to write a guest blog for Women and Words. I thought it was a great idea, and a great opportunity to promote my work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's not always easy to come up with a topic for a blog, which is why I'm not very regular in posting them. It's even more difficult to come up with a topic when you've been invited to be a guest on another site and are given a deadline. It was a great experience though, and I enjoyed it. Click on the link below to head on over to the Women and Words site to read my blog on research. And then check out the rest of the site to see what else goes on. There's never a dull moment with the ladies over there!</span><br />
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<a href="http://lesbianauthors.wordpress.com/2014/01/24/research-research-research-by-rebecca-swartz/#comments"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">http://lesbianauthors.wordpress.com/2014/01/24/research-research-research-by-rebecca-swartz/#comments</span></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-73080983180694605982013-11-07T15:06:00.000-06:002014-01-30T11:02:16.365-06:00Marriage, puppies, and other things<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It has been months since I last blogged.<i> Months! </i>I'm a little shocked by how much time has actually passed since I last wrote something here. But now, here I am, to tell about all the wonderful things that have happened in the interim.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My sweetie and I were apart for three months, during the spring and early summer, and that wasn't much fun at all. But I was still adhering to the rules, and the rules were that I couldn't be in the U.S. for more than six months out of a year. It was tough, but we weren't going to mess with things and thus mess up my chances of getting into the country and staying in the country. So we persevered, and sometimes we suffered, but many times we laughed as we talked about our days, and the things that went on. When two people have to be apart, for whatever reason, for a length of time, how you handle that time apart, and how you are during phone conversations (we didn't Skype, but we did FaceTime a couple of times) says a lot about how strong your relationship is. And that's all I'm going to say about that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So anyway, the end of June rolled around, and finally, FINALLY, we could be together again. In Dallas! I was attending the Golden Crown Literary Society's Conference, for their 9th annual awards conference and ceremony. My debut novel, Everything Pales in Comparison, was a finalist in two categories, Debut Novel, and Intrigue/Romance. My sweetie joined me in Dallas, and we had a very sweet reunion. Many, many women said wonderful things about my novel, and I signed many books. Sadly, my novel did not win any awards that weekend, but many other deserving books did, and it was an enjoyable time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Here I am signing books.)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqh6pJfXWyI98_EigzVGmOTGC0S8PE5irbnMAu4-qxNgLuxjKo_TbmwqKUKM3gejUz63kC0zviH2Vw8rsPMCKdlkL0Cqb4F6hsng6TKMl6aozV3kT9JeBuE-zdOHTgNuh2nNw_pzbnVfU/s1600/GCLS+book+signing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqh6pJfXWyI98_EigzVGmOTGC0S8PE5irbnMAu4-qxNgLuxjKo_TbmwqKUKM3gejUz63kC0zviH2Vw8rsPMCKdlkL0Cqb4F6hsng6TKMl6aozV3kT9JeBuE-zdOHTgNuh2nNw_pzbnVfU/s320/GCLS+book+signing.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(My novel cover was poster-sized for display.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Selfies: my sweetie and I, awards night.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Flying back to North Carolina (home to me, by this point) via Dallas, we had an interesting little episode going through security. Or rather, I did. As my luggage was going through the x-ray machine, everything paused, while the guards looked fixedly at their screen. Finally, they pulled my suitcase, and me, off to the side, and asked me, while pointing at the object on the screen they were scrutinizing, whether I could explain what it was. For a moment, I went completely blank. And then I laughed, albeit a bit nervously.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Oh my god, that's a dog toy. A Kong." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had been unable to find one previously in NC, so I managed to find one in Winnipeg, and packed it to bring with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is what it looked like when I bought it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0h89ZKfcgMWDmtsO6ZVyBZlavkEgpJmcQ6BzqJRilkmvt8OxVZrEHK6sLiwSAoSoZStjc-T7Mel6UdzSlTcyMSaOhWiSnAAusRev61bkYp3sXgP2oxADdGcvUvJAm9w60UmFCjaTkdo/s1600/Kong+Aqua+Large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0h89ZKfcgMWDmtsO6ZVyBZlavkEgpJmcQ6BzqJRilkmvt8OxVZrEHK6sLiwSAoSoZStjc-T7Mel6UdzSlTcyMSaOhWiSnAAusRev61bkYp3sXgP2oxADdGcvUvJAm9w60UmFCjaTkdo/s320/Kong+Aqua+Large.jpg" height="320" width="196" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, on the x-ray machine, neither the packaging nor the rope shows up. Only the weird shape of the Kong itself. I can see why it would raise...concern. Or eyebrows. When they opened my suitcase to actually view the object, it was clearly just a dog toy (they took it out and studied it though, just to be sure). Once it was safely stowed away again, and my sweetie and I were getting our stuff together once more, I gave a laugh and a shake of my head, saying, "Wow, I never even thought of that thing. It looked so strange on their machine, I couldn't think for a moment what it even was. It looked like a damn butt plug!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Behind us we heard muffled laughter, and we turned to see more guards behind us, on a raised platform behind a low shield of plexiglass, observing. The laughter had come from a (attractive) female guard, who had obviously overheard me. I really blushed at that point, my sweetie gently grabbed my arm, and we headed off to find our gate, still laughing, and laughing for quite some time afterwards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once back in NC, and with the relevant section of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) now struck down, my sweetie and I headed to my immigration lawyer to find out what we needed to do to further our (my) application to immigrate to the U.S. Well first, hahaha, we had to get married. And so we did. It took a couple of months, and lots of planning, but we did it. In Spokane, WA. With Jill Malone officiating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Here we are getting married. Look how handsome we all are!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(And here we all are afterwards.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I asked Jill to marry us, I did so because she is a writer and a poet, an author whose work I hugely enjoy, admire and respect, and who, as a person, I admire and respect. When she married us, she read a poem, a beautiful poem, which I will share some other time (it's a bit long). And that map in my sweetie's hand? She wrote her vows on that. Beautiful, touching words, written on a map of Spokane. Which she memorized (the words, not the map). I had to read my vows from the paper they were written on. Hers were better than mine. This is one of the reasons why I love her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back to NC, where we contacted the lawyer, and also planned our after-wedding party with friends in Hillsborough and the surrounding area. And then, and THEN! along came this little guy:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We first met Lucas when he was 5 weeks old. That's the picture above. He wasn't named Lucas then. He was just one of a litter of eight Border collie pups my sweetie was photographing for a local breeder. He was the runt, and he was small and adorable, and we fell in love with him instantly. But he was already spoken for. And we had no plans to add another puppy for at least another year. A couple of weeks later though, the breeder announced on her Facebook page that he had become available; the couple had had a health emergency (the man suffered a heart attack), and so they couldn't take him. I contacted the breeder immediately, expressing our interest, spoke to my sweetie, who said yes, and out of thirty some odd people who also expressed interest, the breeder chose us to be his new guardians. My sweetie named him Lucas. And the rest is history. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our after-wedding party was a huge success, and a lot of fun. The weather, which had threatened rain, was perfect. We had about 50 people show up. We received hugs, and well-wishes, and gifts, and gift cards. We had music, and beer, and great food, and everyone seemed to have a really good time. No one from Winnipeg came; in the only negative part of it all, some people I had known for a very long time did not even congratulate us, or send a card or gift. Sometimes I'm not really sure what to think of people. Other than that, though, I can't say which I enjoyed more, getting married, or the party afterward!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And now it's November. We've just filed our paperwork with Immigration and Homeland Security, and soon we will know whether I will be welcomed into the U.S. I have continued writing, working with the dogs, and occasionally pissing people off with my brand of truth and honesty. My sweetie is working three times as hard, and every once in awhile pisses people off herself. I love her dearly. And this life, with her, in North Carolina, with our puppies, and our friends, I love it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All of it.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-61069965523550213952013-04-22T00:18:00.001-05:002013-04-22T00:45:09.343-05:00My little brother no more<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I called my baby brother tonight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Considering I just turned 50, and he's now 44, he's not really my baby brother anymore. But, of course, he is. Even though his life experiences, I am sure, far surpass my own. After all, he has married, raised children, bought a house or two, become a business owner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have done none of these things. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I haven't spoken to him in over two years. Not since our dad died. And not because he did anything wrong. He <i>didn't</i> do anything wrong. But I think, because I treasured him for so long, I expected...something. I don't think he knew, though, that I <i>did</i> treasure him. But I did. I adored my baby brother. I can only remember ever adoring him, from the time he was a tiny baby. And after, as an adult, for a very long time, he was one of the only reasons I stayed close with that family. My dad, of course, being the other reason, and the main reason.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I was nine, and my little brother was three, we ended up in the Children's Hospital together, he to get his tonsils out, me to get my tonsils and adenoids out. I recall, vividly, our dad staying with us for some time once we had checked in. He played games with us, read us books, sat while we ate our dinner...and then he had to leave. I don't recall him stressing this, but I do remember that I felt very responsible for my baby brother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The next morning we went for surgery. All I remember of that day is 1) someone asking me to count to ten, and 2) waking up in our room very groggy, with our dad at my side, and vomiting blood in one of those weird, small, oddly shaped basins. And that was in the late afternoon. I was pretty much unaware of much else for some few hours. But when night came along, and it was lights out on the ward, and my dad had obviously left at some point, my baby brother, who was in a crib next to my bed, started crying. Now keep in mind, I was nine years old, and I was a skinny little girl. But my little brother was crying, this little boy that I adored and (I suppose on some level) had promised to take care of, and so I went to his crib, pulled him out, and took him to bed with me, where he soon fell asleep. Some time later, a nurse came and took him from me. I don't know how she knew, unless she'd come by on rounds. But she took him from me, put him back in his crib, and told me very harshly that he had to sleep in his own bed. I remember that specifically. And what I also remember specifically of that moment is that he SCREAMED.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now keep in mind he'd just had his tonsils out. I don't think screaming was a good thing at that point. But the nurse just turned and walked out. And I remember feeling very angry. I was nine years old, and my baby brother was doing his best to scream his lungs out in the crib next to my bed, and I just couldn't handle it. I got out of my bed, went to his crib, and he immediately wrapped his arms around my neck as I pulled him out once again. I took him to my bed, and we curled up for awhile. And then he said he had to go to the bathroom. And so I climbed out of the bed, and I took him in my arms, and I carried him out of our room, past the nurse's station, to the bathroom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I remember two things from that specific time: When I carried my baby brother to and from the bathroom, the nurses on duty commented, "Oh, that's so cute" or something to that effect. In other words, they saw me, and didn't stop me. The other thing I remember is that there was some sort of stand set up, and it provided Freshie (which was a kind of Kool-Aid, back then), and I asked my little brother if he wanted some, and he said Yes, so I poured two paper cups, and took them to our room. I remember this vividly. And the nurses never stopped us. I took him to bed with me, and that's how we stayed until the morning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that is all I recall of that time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have never been close to any other members of that family, other than my dad. I had always sought out my youngest brother, specifically because I had always felt so close to him. Well, as it turns out, that closeness is not something that stands the test of time. He grew up, and so did I. But he grew up in ways I never did, at least in terms of responsibility. He married, raised a family. Something I never did. And so a distance was introduced. And that kind of distance is not something you can ever close, and maybe that is how it should be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Childhood is priceless and irretrievable. You cannot hang on to something that is bound to change in ways you can never conceive of. For many years I wished to have again the relationship I had always had with my little brother. But it's entirely possible that I misunderstood that relationship, and it had changed long before I became aware of that change. It would not have been the first time that I had been misled into believing that some relationships are unchangeable. That I had misled myself. And I have been very guilty of that in the past.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, after two years, I contacted my baby brother again. Out of the blue. And I told him, because I hadn't, "I had to walk away." And he said, "Well, that was your choice. I didn't understand it, but that was your choice."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And he's right. It was my choice. And I would not do it differently. But, after a few more minutes of conversation, he also said, "You know where I am. You can call me, if you want to. I would like you to." And I said I probably would. And I probably will. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I cried after I talked to him. I have missed him, and I feel bad for the decision I made, even though it was the right decision. I feel I should have told him why, even though at the time it was instinctive, and I didn't know why. That I had to come to terms with a lot of things. And one of those things was, even though he is my baby brother, he is not my baby brother. Not anymore. And that is an important distinction. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To me, anyway.</span><br />
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<br />Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-64646855252149127952013-04-05T20:36:00.000-05:002013-04-06T09:04:23.507-05:00A Dear John by any other name<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dear <st1:city>Winnipeg</st1:city>,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm sorry, but I'm leaving you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For too many years you have been cold to me, colder than any
other (okay, there was Churchill, but that was short-lived), and I just can't handle it anymore. And even when you
were warm, your warmth was fickle, changeable, not to be trusted. I often found
myself holding my breath, hoping, This time, let it be <i>this</i> time, when I would be convinced things would change. But, no.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In truth, and this may be hard to hear, I have found
another, much warmer, much greener, and very friendly. There are gay issues that cause me
some concern (where you have almost none, and I love that about you), but I
feel those things can be worked on. Indeed, things are looking very hopeful in
that regard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I loved you once, I really did. But I think, over time, what
I really loved was the idea of you. Of course, the fact that I hadn't really experienced
any other didn't help. Oh, sure, when I was younger, there was <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>,
and <st1:state>California</st1:state>, even <st1:state>New
Mexico</st1:state>, but they were so foreign, so far away. I
couldn’t seriously consider them. But now that I am older, <i>now</i>, with my new-found freedom and experiences afar, I embrace
distance, and what was once foreign is no longer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You have been good to me, and good for me. If not for you, I
would not be who I am. I doubt, however, that I have had a similar impact on
you. In fact, I doubt I've had any impact on you at all. You will continue on in your slightly naïve way, believing that there is
nothing wrong, that everyone loves you, and you can do no wrong. And that
saddens me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have so many good memories of us: Summers! (Mostly awesome.) Walking through Assiniboine Forest (even though the trees are kind of short and unimpressive), the Zoo (okay, no, not the Zoo, not ever), the malls (though they lack the prestige of other malls I have visited, but let's not get into that), the Wolseley district (even with those distasteful garbage bins, but let's not get into <i>that</i>), the one-way streets which make the downtown so (maddeningly) easy to navigate. The MTS Centre (it was about time). The recent introduction of IKEA (too little, too late, sorry). The Festival du Voyageur (okay, no, I've never enjoyed that). I've even enjoyed your downtown (which, yes, has it's negatives, but let's not get into that either). The Jets! (Well, I'm not a hockey fan, but you deserve an NHL team.) Walking from one end of the city to the other. That was certainly a good thing. At least because I could. Not because it was beautiful or stimulating. Okay, enough of the good memories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I came back to you, many times. Each time I left (and, as
you know, I left many times), I told myself this was the last time, I would not
return. Yet I did. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I had nowhere else to go.
And you welcomed me. That was very sweet of you. And truthfully, I expected
nothing less. But the time has come now for me to leave for good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Please don’t take this personally. It’s not you, it’s me.
Okay, no, wait, it <i>is</i> you. But that’s
not your fault. You can’t help who you are. Changing is not in your nature. I
accept that. I hold nothing against you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It will take me awhile to get my things together. Please be
kind to me during this time. I promise to speak well of you. I always have, and
I always will. But you and I do not have a future together. And I am expected
elsewhere. I am sorry I cannot say that I will miss you. I wish you nothing but the best. Because you deserve it. You really
do. I only hope you live up to your potential. Because I see so much potential in you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All the best,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rebecca</span></div>
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Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-33311454038748704542013-03-11T17:01:00.002-05:002013-03-11T17:01:38.628-05:00In the name of research<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometimes, some people do things that you really just have to shake your head at. You know they deserve a smack upside the head, or a kick to the shins, but they've behaved <i>so</i> badly, all you can do is gape at them, before shaking your head and walking away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As part of my research for the novel I'm working on, I needed an historic house. Hillsborough has plenty of historic houses, to go along with its plenty of history. I knew this, and it's one of the reasons I chose the area for my book. I've driven and walked around the town quite a lot, and saw many houses that might do, but there was really only one that I thought <i>would</i> do. It was a handsome white house, up on a hill, not far from where we live. We pass it every day, sometimes more than once. It has four Corinthian pillars supporting the portico; they dwarf the front door, giving the house something of a grand appearance, very Southern. I personally think it's quite attractive (not that I would want it), but my sweetie does not find it so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I kept thinking this house would be perfect for what I had in mind, but I didn't know what the inside looked like. There's an important scene that takes place inside the house in my book, and I wanted to see if such a structure could support what I had in mind. One day, just before Christmas, I noticed a For Sale sign out front. And I thought,<i> </i>Oh, maybe that's how I can get a look inside. I wasn't going to pretend to be a buyer; I was an author, I had a business card, I did not need to pretend anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So off I went to the realtors in town, and I walked into their cramped little office which looked as if it had been recently thrown together, and badly at that. A mousy-looking little guy with mostly silver hair and a bit of a stoop to his shoulders came out of the back and asked how could he help me. I introduced myself, passed him my card, which he glanced at, and then told him why I was there. I said I wasn't interested in buying it, I didn't have a million dollars (the asking price) laying around. I asked if it would be possible to see the house from the inside.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Oh, of course," he says, "I don't see a problem with that. I'm not the agent for that property, but I can call him and set up a time to visit. Would you like to do it today?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was surprised by this, but had nothing planned, and so said, "Sure."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We agreed on a time of three p.m. I thanked him, and again made it very clear that I was not interested in buying the property. He laughed and looked at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well then, why would you want to see it?" he asked with a smile, and of course I figured he was joking around with me and the question was rhetorical.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When three o'clock rolled around, I was parked just up the street from the house. The fellow I'd met earlier showed up a minute later, parking behind me. We greeted each other, then made our way up to the house. He showed me the outside, a little postage stamp of a yard, a short section of wrought iron fencing affording no privacy from the neighbours I could clearly see, but that wasn't important to me. I just wondered why people would want such a place, situated as it was. We went back to the side door, which was open, with only the screen door closed, so we could see in. My guide knocked, and called out, waited perhaps five seconds, and then opened the door.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In we went, with him saying, "I know we're expected, I guess so-and-so (the actual agent for the property) isn't here yet." (Okay, I know what you're thinking: Is this guy even an actual real estate agent? Seems kind of cavalier, right?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once inside, the first thing I see is beige wallpaper with vertical thin green stripes. Everywhere. How anyone could find <i>that</i> attractive, I don't know. But again, that wasn't a concern of mine. I just wanted to get a feel for the layout. I could make it look anyway I wanted, and likely do a better job than whoever their interior designer was. There's a small library to my right, and a stairway leading upstairs in front of me, and a dining room or something to my left.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My guide waves me forward. "Have a look around," he says, "do what you gotta do. I'll see if the homeowner is here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I take four steps into what seems to be formal dining room, and then the side door to the house opens, and this big guy comes in, old, greying, but still rather formidable-looking. My mousey little guide greets him with, "Hey, here's so-and-so!" (Obviously, I'm not bothering with names here, there's no point.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The big guy comes up to me, eyeing me closely, which made me uncomfortable. I introduced myself, and held out my hand. He ignored it, pointedly. I felt myself colour slightly, and said, "Ohhh-kay, that was rude" slowly and carefully and loud enough for him to hear. He frowned, but said, quite brusquely, "Have a look around, let me know if you have any questions."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I said, "Sure, okay," even though I was thinking this was maybe a bad idea. I wandered into the kitchen. Both men followed me, and I looked around at the windows, the counters, the woodwork, getting a feel for the house. And then, before I could speak, the big old guy starts talking about which appliances are staying, about the age of the countertops, about the newer windows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I'm not interested in buying the house," I told him, and he frowned again. And I thought, <i>Oh, shit.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The mousey little guy doesn't say anything. Not a word.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I thought you understood that," I then said. And I told him who I was, what I was, and why I was there. I described the relevant part of my story, and started to explain why I needed an inside look. Before I could finish, he interrupted me, waving his hands and saying, "Whoa, whoa, no way, hang on." And again, I thought, <i>Oh, shit</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Before I know it, there's another old guy in the room, not big like the one guy, and not small like the mousey one. He was right in the middle, and he looked very puzzled. The big guy says, "Here now, here's Mr. so-and-so, the homeowner, you tell him what you just told me and see what he has to say."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And so I did, I started to tell the homeowner what I was after, I told him the relevant part of the story, and before I got finished I was again interrupted. "Okay, no, no, that's enough, you're done," he says, waving his hands before him like the other guy, as if I've been yelling at him non-stop for ten minutes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I'm done?" I said, frowning now myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Yes! You're done!" he says, his voice rising. "This is ridiculous! You come into my house, with this story of a story, and I should just let you wander around? You could rob me blind! No, no way, you're done. Out you go!" And then he rounded on the mousey little guy. "And what were you thinking? You call yourself a professional? I don't believe this!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the mousey little guy says, without hesitation: "I thought she was a buyer."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I turned to look at him in disbelief, my eyes much wider than normal, I'm sure, but I kept my mouth shut. I apologized for the misunderstanding, and for wasting anyone's time, and promptly left.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The mousey guy followed me out to my car. He said, as I opened the car door, "I know what you've got in mind, and maybe I can help you with another house, if you want to keep looking."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Um, yeah, no," I said, as politely as I could. "I'm a writer. I'll just make something up."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For what it's worth, I did end up finding a better house, a house more suitable for my story. I drove around some more, discovered this house way off the road, went on up, and met the homeowner. When I told him who I was, gave him my card, and told him what I required and why, he listened carefully. I told him the story of the other house and the experience I had there, and promised him I was a law-abiding citizen and would not rob him blind. This made him laugh, and he ended up giving me a tour of his house, which I had just finished researching online (historical Hillsborough, remember?), and answering my questions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But now, every time my sweetie and I drive by that house on the hill, either I will say, or she will say, "There's the house I was thrown out of."/"There's the house you were thrown out of." And then we laugh and shake our heads.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because sometimes, that's all you can do.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-36019840992932581242013-03-08T20:44:00.000-06:002013-03-08T20:47:21.300-06:00Little stick girl<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've been a scrawny little thing my entire life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Actually, I personally have never called myself scrawny. Or skinny. Or underweight. I've always called myself lean. And sexy. And kickass. But, I digress.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm 5'5", and my "ideal" weight should be around 125-130 lbs. The most I've ever weighed was 110. Mostly, I've been between 100 and 105, and awhile back, during a particularly rough time, I was down to 96 lbs. A coworker said at the time that I was too skinny to be walking around. That made me laugh, but of course, it really wasn't a laughing matter. She was serious, and concerned, and I got that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thing is, while I may admittedly have been kinda scrawny, I was almost always in really good shape. I worked out. Especially during my 30s and early 40s, I was very buff, with well-defined shoulders, back and arms, and killer six pack abs. (My legs were always chicken legs, I was never able to build them up.) And I was always healthy. My health has never suffered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Here's a little side story for you: I was adopted when I was 15 months old. I was taken from my biological mother for reasons unknown to me--but you can guess, since every other child, 9 of them in fact, with different fathers, had been taken from her. At the time of my adoption, I was just introduced to orange juice, and a bit of egg. My adoptive father, every time he told me this, marveled at it, with a shake of his head. I was hungry all the time, crawling on the floor and eating crumbs if I could find them.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once, a woman I was dating (the one who tried to kill herself three times because she couldn't cope effectively with life in general) called me anorexic, which hugely offended me. Not because I was or wasn't, but because she used it in a pejorative sense, as an insult, when you never should, and obviously she hadn't a clue about high metabolisms, about eating (I do love to eat) and not being able to gain weight, about wanting to gain weight when many women just wanted to lose it (and so many wanted to give me their extra weight, hahaha), or worrying about not having any extra weight if you end up in the hospital with some terrible illness or injury, and could die for the lack of it. But people can be ignorant, and behave badly, and I've met my share.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So why am I writing this blog post? About the skinny me? Well, because the skinny me no longer exists. And I can thank my age (almost 50, believe it or not), menopause (pretty much done, thank god), and my (hearty) enjoyment of beer and less cardio over the last 12-18 months (frankly, the laziest I've been ever). I have managed to gain 30 lbs, so I am now a somewhat fuller figured 140. Okay, not really fuller figured, but I have filled out, and while I'm not entirely comfortable with my belly and thighs, and I know losing about 15 lbs of it won't be completely easy peasy, still, it took me my entire life so far to get here and experience this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The (stupid) thing about menopause is it changes a lot of things. Things that are often taken for granted. I'm not going to get into those things, and you should be grateful for that, but let me just tell you, for <i>me</i>, it's not as bad as it is for some women, yet it's still a pain in the butt. <i>My</i> butt, in fact, which is no longer the sexy little butt it used to be. And mostly, really mostly, I'm okay with that. Being the slender, little kick-ass almost-butch-but-not-quite I've been my entire adult life was cool, but I'm alright with the almost-50-still-cute dyke I have now become. Some things suck, but they're inconsequential next to the fact that I am still who I am (though more mature, and thank god for <i>that</i>), and also because, compared to some people, I actually <i>have</i> matured, and some people haven't, and I feel genuinely sorry for them. But I promise to never blog on <i>that</i> topic, or those people, and I will keep this blog relegated to my own life and experiences. Because that is how it should be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So in closing, I'd like to say that getting old sucks, but I'm dealing with it pretty well (and yes, I know I'm not old <i>yet</i>), and that the CHANGE OF LIFE hasn't been as horrendous as I'd been led to believe. But the generation I <i>could</i> have learned from, I never got to know, because I was raised by a woman who came from a generation and a country that knew nothing about sharing, or learning, or teaching all they could have, because they were themselves repressed. And <i>that</i> is much more difficult to come to terms with, I am sure, than the relatively easy transition I am experiencing without their guidance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the end, I think, we learn so much on our own. Because we have to. Because so much still is close-mouthed by the people we could learn from...and learning about life pretty much on your own is not a bad thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not a bad thing at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-87890493499311733442013-02-06T06:27:00.002-06:002013-02-15T06:56:53.941-06:00The Next Big Thing<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The very talented Jill Malone (see link below) tagged me to be a part of The Next Big Thing, where writers talk up their work in progress. That makes me #33. It sounds like a great idea, so here goes:</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What is the working title of your book?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The title of my current work is <i>Falling</i>. I don't usually have "working titles." Once I'm well into the work and comfortable with it, the title will usually present itself. I find it easier that way, to sort of let a story name itself. So far, my titles have stuck. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Where did the idea come from for your book?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've always been fascinated by the concept of vigilantism, people who take the law into their own hands to deal out justice; also, by heros, both ordinary and super. I didn't consciously think of Falling in those precise terms at it's conception, it was kind of murky to begin with, but as the idea grew, it definitely encompassed those concepts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What genre does your book fall under?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Intrigue/romance, as I see it. Someone else may label it something else. Genres are funny (and not so funny) that way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is an interesting question, because my stories are all very much like movies as they occur to me, as they play out in my head, how I write them, and how they read. However, I've never had any one actor in mind for any of my characters. I know how <i>I</i> picture them, but choosing a name actor to play a character has never worked for me. So I guess I'd have to say someone(s) unknown. Those kinds of movies, with unknown or just emerging talent, are often my favourites anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Former cop turned security consultant picks up a hitch hiker and discovers she is a vigilante wanted by the FBI.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What is the longer synopsis of your book?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Falling</i> is the story of a former cop whose career comes to a screeching halt after she intentionally shoots-to-kill a fleeing rapist. Dismissed from the police force, she opens a private security consulting business, catering specifically to women who have been, or fear they may be, sexually assaulted in their homes. While enroute to a client in a different part of the country, she picks up a female hitch hiker, and after a night spent together, discovers the young woman is a vigilante, wanted by the FBI. When the two part company, the former cop begins to seriously doubt and question her own morals and ethics for not turning the other woman in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This book, like my first, <i>Everything Pales in Comparison,</i> and my novella, <i>Forever</i>, will be published by Bella Books.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Approximately two and a half years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Who or what inspired you to write this book?</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This book was inspired by two different songs. I'm often moved and inspired by songs and compositions; in this case, a song called <i>Ghosts</i> by Kerri Anderson, and (not ironically at all) <i>Falling</i> by Alison Moyet. The latter provided the soundtrack to the scene where the two women first meet. The former is the underlying theme of pain and darkness, and, ultimately, the hope of redemption.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All of my work has a thread of hope running through it. This story is no different. There is pain, and confusion, but there is also humour, and beauty. The characters really are, in the end, trying to do the right thing. But hope is not always easily perceived.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Please check out Jill Malone's The Next Big Thing here: <a href="http://www.jillmalone.com/the-next-big-thing" target="_blank">www.jillmalone.com</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-68320102403044910872012-12-10T00:57:00.003-06:002013-02-15T06:55:25.920-06:00Imagine this...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was recently a part of an author's panel discussion that took place in Asheville, North Carolina, at a lovely independent bookstore called Malaprop's Bookstore & Cafe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was an event that I had put together, after a failed singular attempt earlier in the year, when I was informed by the Events Coordinator that Malaprop's was choosing to do more group events, as opposed to single author events, in order to draw larger crowds. I was also informed that my topic of discussion, "The Evolution of Lesbian Fiction" was definitely acceptable, and so, I set about making contacts with that topic in mind, and the event came together. Ann McMan, Vk Powell, and D. Jackson Leigh agreed to join me, with Salem West moderating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The event was a wonderful success; we drew a large crowd of mainly women, but with some males also present (okay, to be truthful, the venue was crowded). I had never been a part of a panel discussion and so the evening was an education for me, and a fine experience. The audience was visibly interested and engaged; this came through most clearly when our moderator, Salem West, asked pertinent questions of the authors, and those questions (and our responses) raised questions from certain members of the audience. I could see people nodding, smiling, frowning in thought, and itching to raise their hands to ask a question before the Q&A (which we did allow them).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The overall feeling was that the evening could well (and happily) have gone on much longer than the time allowed. Once the ball got rolling, and people's questions were being answered, it seemed that more questions came to mind, and we had a hard time addressing each individual's queries. Indeed, by the end of our allotted time, we were unable to do so. Yet one specific query, directed toward me post-event, comes clear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which is actually the point of this post.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wasn't actually a <i>question</i> that was posed to me. Rather, it was an observation. And it was only by one person. But it was an observation that had three times been previously brought to my attention, though not quite so personally.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>PLEASE NOTE</b>: <i>If you haven't read my novel, what will follow may be considered a spoiler. I don't consider it such, but you may, and so, you are thus advised.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The reader came to me and stated that she had thoroughly enjoyed my book, but that she'd had trouble with one part of it. Specifically, when Emma Kirby, the cop, chooses to wear a dress to a funeral. This reader (and a couple of others, so far as I know) had difficulty envisioning Emma wearing a dress, had difficulty even believing Emma <i>would</i> wear a dress (and I have been told flat out, once, that she simply would not), based on their notion of the character. Even my editor had trouble with this. What I have explained (even though I probably shouldn't have) is this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just because Emma Kirby is a cop, it should not automatically be assumed that she is butch. For some reason, within the (supposed) strictures of lesbian lifestyle, any lesbian in any kind of uniform is often thought to be butch. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This is, of course, a stereotype</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Personally, as a writer, and, more importantly, as an individual, I refuse to adhere to stereotypes. Not because I don't believe they exist (I do, and they do), but because in my work, those stereotypes are irrelevant. My characters are individuals, women who do what they do, are who they are, love who they love...in other words, they are just...women. I am not interested in portraying them as other than who they are. I have specific ideas of who my characters are; stereotypes do not enter into it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Sidenote: It interests me that no one has ever asked for my own visual idea of my characters. Where Emma Kirby is concerned, I've always envisioned a cross between Neve Campbell and Sigourney Weaver. A strong woman who possesses depth and sensitivity. This visual has always been very clear in my mind. I don't recall ever thinking how someone else might perceive that visual, considering how I wrote it...and apparently some didn't.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">More pointedly, within my novel, the topic is specifically addressed: When Emma is in the bar with her best friend Nikki, and she first sees Cathy Marks. Nikki replies to Emma's statement, ''She looks straight," with, "Yeah, well, so do you." At which point, it is clearly pointed out that Nikki believed <i>"...it was Emma's lack of stereotypical attributes that attracted women to her." </i>Here I clearly address the notion of stereotype, yet immediately pass by it. I don't recall making that observation deliberately, yet I must have, because I knew how Emma Kirby presented.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Further, when the topic of wearing the dress comes up, it is clearly stated why Emma would choose to wear a dress:<i> "But for certain events, she felt that a dress was a more appropriate choice of outfit, that it denoted a measure of respect in specific instances: civic functions, weddings, funerals." </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So even though I spell it out blatantly, some readers skip right over it, or, in one case, decide to challenge me on it. And I know why this is; I asked this reader after the event, "It's because she's a cop, isn't it? You see her as butch." The answer was affirmative. And I knew that it would be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As a writer, though, I've always known that what is in <i>my</i> mind may not be in the reader's mind. I too am a reader, after all. I always have been. I know what <i>I </i>see. And sometimes, when I read what an author has said of <i>their </i>story, <i>their</i> characters, it has most certainly not been what I have envisioned. And that's okay. It hasn't taken anything away from the story I have read, and it shouldn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My hope is that, where my story is concerned, what I strive to describe, my vision, does not take away from what my readers read and/or imagine. But if it does, such was never my intention. Yet, because I'm also a reader, I understand how it can happen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which may be why a book should be read more than once. Or maybe that's just me being hopeful...</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-84294889029824072432012-09-13T22:14:00.002-05:002013-02-15T06:57:30.144-06:00Own up, baby. Own up.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hate to sound like a broken record. But every day, literally <i>every day</i>, new developments come to my attention, and I feel the need to comment on these developments.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am referring, of course, to being a newly published author. A newly published author in the age of the Internet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I feel I must make a statement here and now, with regard to the Internet and some reviewers (of books, music, art, etc): <u><b>The age of Internet is the age of cowards.</b></u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></u>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I may be new to being a published author, but I have seen in the past how people (let's call them <i>reviewers</i>, for lack of a better term) cloak themselves in the anonymity afforded them by websites like Amazon, or Goodreads, or other such sites, and feel free to then post reviews of artists works, scathing reviews at times, without any concern for taking responsibility for their words. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These are everyday people. People like you and me. People who read books, watch movies, listen to music. People who are suddenly afforded the opportunity to speak their minds about something they have read, listened to, partaken of. But these people do not share their <i>actual names</i> when posting their reviews. No. These people choose a nickname, a pseudonym, and THEN, these people feel absolute freedom to post vitriol, scathing vitriol in reference to a piece of work they have chosen to purchase, and decided they didn't like. Their courage to thus post comes from the anonymity afforded them by the very vehicle that allows them to post said review. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It would never occur to me to do what these people do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First of all, I'm not one for writing reviews. Second, if I <i>were</i> to write a review, I'd use my own name. That just goes without saying. I wouldn't resort to anonymity (I'm not a coward). If you and your review are going to be taken seriously, it stands to reason you'd post your own name. That's the professional (and grown-up) thing to do. And third, if you don't like something, just say you didn't like it, and then point out what you didn't like in concise, well-structured, well-articulated sentences. That's what professional reviewers do, after all (ever heard of Pauline Kael?). They compile what they did or didn't like, and then they present that shit in a well-articulated, well-presented article that comes across as balanced, intelligent, and mature, regardless of their opinion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I said, it would never occur to me to do what these people do. And, quite frankly, I can only imagine how unhappy these people must be in their everyday lives, so unhappy that they have nothing better to do than to rip apart the work of an artist who has toiled far more toward the completion of a piece of work than the individual reviewing it has possibly toiled in their whole lifetime. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, don't get me wrong, I realize that the above statement is contentious. But you know what? To be reviewed by some lame-ass individual who just happened to buy my book because it looked interesting, and they then found out it wasn't, and THEN they decided, <i>Oh, I have an Amazon account, and this nifty nickname that doesn't identify me, and so I can now spout off about my displeasure </i>ad nauseum<i>...</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm sorry, but I simply cannot take such an individual seriously. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For the record, because I do believe in honesty, I am posting this review of my own book (click on the link below if interested). I am also stating blankly that I am not unduly troubled by said review. I have checked out the other books reviewed by this individual (and you can too), and those thus flamed, and my opinion of said reviewer is no higher than it was. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let me state unequivocally: I do not write porn. I have no intention of writing porn. I am happy to disappoint this individual in this regard, since they seem to place much emphasis on the "sex scenes" and do not seem to have an actual grasp of, or appreciation for, the art of writing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Finally, in closing, I am, as stated, new to this publishing world. I have a lot to learn. I know this. But I will not allow a review such as this to brow beat me into submission, passivity, or apology. I write what I write. If you don't like it, say so. But if you're going to say so, don't be a fucking coward about it.</span><br />
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<i>Fear has its use but cowardice has none ~ Mahatma Gandhi</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/review/R31EU5BMWMBCSO/ref=cm_cr_pr_viewpnt#R31EU5BMWMBCSO">http://www.amazon.com/review/R31EU5BMWMBCSO/ref=cm_cr_pr_viewpnt#R31EU5BMWMBCSO</a>
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-47015514357887855392012-09-09T14:31:00.000-05:002012-09-09T15:06:40.371-05:00"Assholery" is the word of the day<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last night I finished reading Orson Scott Card's latest novel, Earth Unaware, penned in collaboration with Aaron Johnston. The novel is a prequel, taking place before Ender's Game, the first in the Ender series, all of which I've read over the years. I've enjoyed the Ender series, though it did get a bit tedious toward the last couple of books. But Ender's Game was my favourite.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The most recent novel, which is the beginning of a new series, was enjoyable as well. In fact, I would say I liked it a lot. I'm fairly picky about my science fiction/fantasy reads, but these books by Card held my interest and were entertaining and engaging. I went to my Goodreads list, to give it a 4-star rating, and then I noticed that the very first review of the book had given it only one star. I was intrigued, and started to read the review. It was a good review, and I actually agreed with pretty much all of the points raised. Still, I enjoyed the book. And then, reading the closing statement of the review, I saw this: <i>"...my disappointment with this and OSC's raging homophobia make it almost impossible for an impartial thought."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>
Whoa, I thought, where did <i>that</i> come from?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The reviewer does not expand on this statement. So I decided to Google "Orson Scott Card homophobia." Up popped numerous accounts/thoughts/opinions/articles on the subject. Orson Scott Card is a bona fide homophobe. Damn.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here are some links to articles I read (the first one uses a very fine word, <i>assholery</i>, which is right up there with <i>asshatery</i>). It's not necessary to read these, of course. I just want to show that I've done my homework.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.giantfreakinrobot.com/scifi/orson-scott-cards-homophobia-affect-enjoyment-enders-game.html">http://www.giantfreakinrobot.com/scifi/orson-scott-cards-homophobia-affect-enjoyment-enders-game.html</a>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.ornery.org/essays/warwatch/2004-02-15-1.html">http://www.ornery.org/essays/warwatch/2004-02-15-1.html</a> (this one, written by Card himself, is <i>really</i> long--feel free to skim it--and he uses the term "lesbian women"...as if there are other types of lesbians.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://greensboro.rhinotimes.com/hc.e.211703.lasso">http://greensboro.rhinotimes.com/hc.e.211703.lasso</a> (Written by Card again, it proves the point one reviewer made, that Card should shut his trap, but doesn't. He undermines his once respected reputation every time he spouts off like this.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are countless other articles and opinions out there, but it becomes redundant, when it's obvious what the man's stance is.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, what has been troubling me, what's been on my mind since I found this out late last night, is that I have enjoyed the stories this man has written. Ender's Game is considered by many to be brilliant (the U.S. Marine Corps Professional Reading List had made the novel recommended reading for several lower ranks up until 2011, after which it no longer appears on the list. I don't know why it was removed, and I don't particularly care). Having enjoyed this man's work, for the most part, and then finding out that he's an outspoken, homophobic asshole, it occurs to me to wonder, does this in any way affect my enjoyment of his work? Technically, realistically, no, it doesn't. I've already read those books, the enjoyment has been had. Does it colour my perception with regard to further work? Yes, it does. (And for the record, I only ever bought used copies of his work, and the latest was a library book, so I haven't lined his pockets with my own money.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are numerous people out there, writers, actors, poets, painters, who all have their own opinions, their own thoughts, their own feelings, on certain things, and some of them are racists, homophobes, anti-semites. But they act in movies, write books and poetry and music, they paint masterpieces, whatever they do, and I enjoy a lot of it. If I don't know of their views, of their opinions, then I shouldn't feel bad about enjoying their work. If I do know, and I still pay to see their movie, or buy their book, does that mean I support their viewpoint? Or does it merely mean that sometimes I like to watch a good movie, and the viewpoints/opinions of actors, directors, etc, don't matter? That I just want to enjoy the movie (or book, or whatever).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't know the opinions and feelings and views of everyone who ever wrote a book, starred in a movie, or made a record. And you know what? I don't <i>want</i> to know. This age of information, in my opinion, is the problem. People spouting off, as Card has, thinking we all want to know his opinion, or others being quoted spouting anti-semitic, homophobic or racist comments, who should know enough to keep their mouths shut when out in public. I don't want to know these people's opinions. Certainly not if they're hateful. I just want to read the goddamned book and enjoy it. I am aware, however, that such a mindset cannot, and does not, work in this world. But it's very, very disappointing to find out something like this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And now that I know what I know, I cannot speak highly of either the man or his work...because an artist's work is a reflection of the artist. It would be, and is, difficult to maintain an objective, impartial stance, when I'm gay, and he hates gays. And is very vocal about it. I cannot unknow what I know. And I do believe that knowing is better than not. I believe that knowledge is power, and I would rather know than not. But I don't have to like it. And I don't like it. It bothers the hell out of me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the very least, you now know that about me.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-88892914592566787582012-08-30T18:05:00.000-05:002013-02-15T06:58:17.449-06:00Opinions are a dime a dozen<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Are you familiar with Goodreads? If you're on Facebook, and you read (maybe a lot), it's possible you know of Goodreads, or even use it yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For those not in the know, Goodreads is a site where you can list books you've read, and you are given the option of assigning a star rating to them (1 star = didn't like it, 2 stars = it was ok, 3 stars = liked it, 4 stars = really liked it, and 5 stars = it was amazing). It is very clear, when you hover your cursor over the stars, exactly what the numerological ratings stand for. You can also write a review of the books you've read. I choose not to do this, as I don't consider myself a reviewer, but also because I feel that the star rating system works well enough on it's own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most of the books I've read have received either a 3 or 4 star rating. Some very few have received 5 stars, and a few have received 2 stars. Even fewer have received 1 star. Meaning I (just to clarify) "didn't like it." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I like Goodreads. I read a lot. A LOT. And it pleases me to have a way to convey how I feel about the books I've read. I understand that it's just my opinion, but I think it's pretty cool to have something available whereby others (who may or may not value my opinion) can see how I, personally, feel about a book I have read. That is the sum of my feelings with regard to Goodreads. I certainly don't profess to know how others view it. I am, after all, only responsible for myself and my own actions and opinions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, imagine my surprise, when today I received a message from an author whose book I had assigned a 1 star rating. Keeping in mind that that 1 star rating means I "didn't like it," I was quite taken aback by the fury with which this author addressed me. My rating was viewed as a "personal attack," was considered "unprofessional" and "viscious" [sic], and my morals and ethics were called into question if I did not remove said Goodread's rating, and/or this individual from my Facebook friends list. I was also threatened with "repurcussions" [sic], and made aware that it works both ways, that my book was subject to the same rating by this individual, with a harsh critique to match (this, of course, makes no sense, unless you're 10, but there you go).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Apparently, I'm supposed to be nice to everyone. I'm supposed to play nice, and get along, and support <i>all</i> authors. By posting this rating, by showing my opinion, I was not doing anything of the sort, and was actually involving myself in "personal attacks" on fellow authors.Well, the last time I checked, voicing my opinion about a book I've read is not only allowed, but encouraged, and is not considered a personal attack. Or am I mistaken in that? It would appear, according to this person, that I am very severely mistaken. And that by posting a 1 star rating (which, remember, means I "didn't like it") I obviously "hated" the book, and if I hated it so much, I should have kept my opinion to myself, as it was very unprofessional to state this opinion. (I'm very clear on the difference between "not liking" and "hating" something. Yep, very clear on that difference. And I'm <i>pretty</i> sure Goodreads is too...which is why the 1 star rating specifically says "didn't like it.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So what did I do? I removed the book and my rating of it, and then I removed the individual from my Facebook "friends" list (for clarification's sake, they had requested <i>my</i> "friendship," not vice versa). I did this not because I lack conviction or integrity, but because people like this, with their bullshit drama, and no life, and lack of their own conviction and integrity, piss me off supremely. I did, however, send a message back, and I <i>did</i> apologize. Because it is not my intent to upset anyone. It actually never occurred to me that someone would <i>get</i> upset over something like a stupid rating on a stupid app where it's understood this is JUST PEOPLE'S OPINIONS. It's not like I went on a diatribe and spouted hate speech all over the internet. And I've received my own 1 star ratings, and negative reviews, and I would never have thought to jump all over anyone who thus posted. Why the hell would I? Everyone is entitled to their opinion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, from this point forward, I will no longer post those books I didn't like. Anything I consider to be a "1 starrer" is no longer getting posted. Because I don't need the aggravation of receiving any more stupid messages from people who have no clear perception of reality. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And <i>that</i> is all I am going to say on that matter. Other than the fact that threatening me is just not a good idea. Oh yeah, that.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-5116306522187209532012-08-28T17:00:00.000-05:002012-08-28T17:54:20.110-05:00It's not easy being mean<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I decided I am officially a bitch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Backstory: </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I went to Staples this afternoon, to get an inkjet cartridge (colour black) for a new printer which was boxed without one. It came with a colour cartridge, but not black, which, when you think about it, is just plain stupid, but of course, is also probably brilliant marketing. And since I'm a writer, and suck at marketing, they will not starve, while I will. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyway, I went to Staples, and almost immediately saw the wall full of inkjet cartridges. And I do mean "wall full." I've never owned a printer (which my sweetie thinks is appalling, but she's a graphic artist, so I'm not offended), and I can't clearly recall the last time I ever had to buy an ink cartridge, but the sight of an entire wall filled with choices was almost awe-inspiring, but was really more annoying. And if you knew me, you'd know right off that when something is annoying, that's a bad start.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I walked up to the wall of cartridges, and my eyes quickly scanned it, until I found the Lexmark section. I don't know how many cartridges there were, but if I were to assign a number, replaying that image in my mind, I'd say there were at least 40. But probably more. Which is daunting, to say the least. I had no idea how I was to know which plain black ink cartridge I was supposed to choose. I vaguely recall a time when buying an ink cartridge for a printer was not so complicated. But that was a long time ago, like maybe 7 years. I was hopelessly out of touch with what I now faced.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At that point, a salesperson suddenly appeared at my left side, as if out of nowhere. A very large male salesperson. With some sort of breathing problem apparently: he was wheezing softly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Can I help you?" he asked, very solicitously.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Well," I said, shooting him a glance and then quickly looking away, "I'm trying to find a black ink cartridge for a printer." I held out the slip of paper upon which I'd written the model number of the Lexmark printer. "I have the printer model number, but how do I find the right cartridge for it?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Oh, well," he said, a bit breathlessly, "printers are...well, they're complicated and confusing, and kind of touchy, and really, I only like one printer," and he suddenly shot his arm out to point, past and behind me, where I knew the shelf of printers was, "and it's that one, it's so straightforward, and..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the space of time it took him to lay this spiel out, I'd spied the plastic booklet attached to a clip before me, at about waist level. It obviously held the information I needed, the various printers names on it's cover, and undoubtedly, the types of cartridges required for them. I reached for it, and began to quickly flip through it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While I did this, the fellow next to me was still expounding on the merits of the printer he favoured. When I found the Lexmark name in the booklet, I didn't even look up. It was obvious to me he hadn't a clue about ink cartridges, and I was further annoyed with him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"You know what," I said flatly, as I looked through the booklet, "go help someone else, because you're not helping me."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I literally felt the guy deflate. He stood there for about two seconds more, and then quickly departed. And I thought briefly, <i>Wow, Rebecca, that was rude.</i> And you know what? I didn't really care. Because why would someone who is supposed to be a salesperson, who supposedly should know the products of the store, offer his help, when he obviously doesn't know how to help with the product I'm looking for? What did he hope to accomplish? I have no idea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I went back to my car, I realized I'd been a perfect bitch. And that I no longer have the patience (and haven't for awhile now) to deal with people who have no idea what they're talking about. If you don't know something, if you can't help, then say so. Don't waste my time, and yours, spouting off about something in an effort to impress, to someone who is not easily impressed, and who is present for only one thing. Because I now realize that I won't put up with it. Once I would have. Once I would have been patient, and long-suffering, and then been irritated further once I'd left. But I don't do that anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I related this story to my sweetie, she laughed. "Oh, no," she said, "you in <i>that </i>situation? That's just a bad scenario all around. You just don't have the patience."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She knows me. Better than I know myself, sometimes. Because I do believe I have good intentions. I don't mean to be mean. I'm not a mean person. But I simply no longer have the patience. And if that makes me a bitch, well, I'm alright with that. Because I found what I needed on my own. And maybe that guy actually did go help someone else. Or will. Someday.</span><br />
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(Oh, and as it turns out, you can't buy just a single black ink cartridge for this printer. You must buy it bundled with a colour cartridge. Which was already supplied. See what I mean? I'm STARVING!)<br />
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<br />Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-34164144410800355432012-08-21T13:36:00.002-05:002012-08-27T16:42:08.704-05:00To review or not to review...<br />
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<span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;">The other day, I read a comment made by an
author in regard to marketing and promoting of one's work. The author (who may
be fairly successful and fairly popular, though I really don't know as I've
never checked, and frankly, wouldn't know how to even if I were interested)
provided suggestions for promoting a book, one of those suggestions being that
a writer should not be shy about asking readers who have sent good feedback to
write a review on Amazon. </span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
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This topic has bothered me greatly, and so I feel the need to talk about it.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
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I have no problem with how anyone chooses to market and/or promote their work.
At least I don't think I do. I'm sure there are myriad ways a writer (any
writer) could choose to do so, and I'm certainly not familiar with all of them.
On a personal level, however, having received extremely positive feedback from
readers, either who are known to me or are complete strangers, it has never
once occurred to me to ask them to write a review on Amazon. Somehow,
ethically, to me at least, that just doesn't seem proper.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
I understand the purpose of these "average person" reviews on Amazon
(and on Goodreads). I do. People like to know what the everyday individual
thinks of books they, themselves, might be interested in, or how that person's
perception of a book they've read compares to their own. I get it, I do. But
not everyone considers writing a review of the book they've read and enjoyed
(preferring, perhaps, to keep that enjoyment to themselves), and not everyone
is <i>comfortable<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>writing a review,
thinking that such things are better left to those whose job it is (even those
who may have grandiose ideas of being reviewers). I don't even feel comfortable
writing a review of a book<span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span><i>I've<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>enjoyed (or even one I haven't),
though I will share publicly on my Facebook a brief slurry of synopsis and
thoughts.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
Currently, I have exactly one review of my book on Amazon. It was posted there
at the same time I was made aware of it on my publisher's website. That review
was written by a bona fide reviewer, and I was very pleased and surprised to
see it posted so soon after my books release. My publisher is in charge of
sending copies of my novel to known reviewers. I sent one copy myself to
another known reviewer, and that review was posted (not on Amazon) just under a
month later, again surprising and pleasing me.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
I'm new to this writing life. This world of writers, publishers, marketing,
promotion. I'm learning as I go along, and for the most part, it's been a
pleasant learning experience. I haven't been shy about talking about my work,
or about sharing my work. I hand out business cards, talk my book up with
complete strangers (in my usual reserved fashion), and point people to my
website. I share the positive, and I share the negative; I'm fully aware that not
everyone will enjoy (read: like) my book, and I think that even a bad review
has its merits (okay, no, I'm not sure I think that at all, especially after
the one - and only - negative review received thus far. What a silly
piece of work that was). </span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
It would be lovely to see reviews piling up on Amazon, or wherever. But I'm not
going to ask my readers, who take the time to contact me privately to let me
know how much they've enjoyed my work, to then post a review on Amazon. I can't
even imagine doing this, let alone how I would phrase it. It somehow seems so
very self-gratifying, and self-serving. Which, you may argue, is exactly the
point. And I suppose it is. But I personally just can't imagine doing it. If
someone chooses to post a review, of their own volition, hey, I'm all for that.
Of course I am, why wouldn't I be? But I am not going to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>ask</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>my readers to do so. And not because
I'm shy. I most certainly am not. </span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="background: #CBCBCB; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
There is one other topic I'd like to discuss, briefly, while on the subject of
posting reviews on Amazon. A while back, I was privy to a discussion, the gist
of which I gathered centred around a review posted by the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>spouse</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of an author, and how the objectivity
of said review could not be guaranteed, because, well, I guess all spouses
opinions of their partners work is biased, and whose spouse wouldn't say good
things about, or give 5 stars to, said work? Some participants in this
discussion went so far as to suggest that it would be prudent of the spouse of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>any</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>author to state said relationship
clearly, upon which (I'm guessing) the posted review could then be discounted
as unreliable and wholly biased, as is only right and proper, in their eyes.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
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<span style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Now, I suppose this discussion may have come about for some very
good reason, but for the life of me, I simply cannot think of one. Okay, wait,
before you lambaste me for being naive, I <i>do</i> know there are people out
there who would do and say anything in favour of their spouse. And yes, you’ve
got to wonder about those people. But really, if you’re serious about your
craft, if you know your stuff, if your work is good, you know it’s good. Simple
as that. It’s nice, very nice, to have other people say so. Of course it is.
Validation is a lovely thing. But if anyone, ANYONE, ever suggests that my sweetheart,
who is the very epitome of intelligence, discretion, and discerning taste,
would ever support a piece of work of mine that was not the quality both she
and I (and everyone else who knows me well) expected, I will thrash that person. Whatever the shortcomings of some
spouses of some writers, those shortcomings do not apply to my sweetheart. Nor
do they apply to my friends. I am far, far too particular to associate with
anyone who would mislead in this manner, simply in an effort to stroke my ego. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">One more thing: Before anyone decides to comment, I’m aware of
the apparent contradiction here, that by virtue of my even bringing up this
topic, I am thereby asking (0r suggesting) readers (now) post reviews. Such
a thought process on anyones part implies that my readers are a) easily manipulated
and/or guilt-tripped, b) unable to think for themselves, or c) stupid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">FYI, my readers are d) none of the above.</span><span style="color: #191919; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: #191919; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">(Update 08/24/12 - After some understanding and encouraging discussions, I've come to see that there is nothing strange at all in asking readers to post reviews. As I said, I am new to this writing world, and new to this kind of self-promotion. But I'm learning!)</span></div>
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Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-4255202723306934002012-06-03T20:00:00.002-05:002012-06-03T20:03:13.134-05:00Difficult choices<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This is what happened:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I had boarded the plane from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. My seat was near the front of the plane, and when I reached it, my seatmate was already seated. He looked to be in his 40's, roughly good-looking, and he gave me a perfunctory smile as I motioned that mine was the window seat. He stood, I took my seat, and considered asking him to switch with me. I don't like window seats, prefer aisle seats, but when I'd booked the flight I'd forgotten to mention this, and so. He seemed rather stiff, vaguely off-putting, and so I decided not to ask to switch. I took my seat, belted up, and removed the magazine from the sleeve pouch in the seat back before me. (I absolutely need to read immediately when seated. I do not enjoy flying in the least.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A couple of minutes later, the flight attendant came by, and my seatmate motioned to her. She bent down, and he spoke quietly in her ear. She nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, spoke quietly in return, and then moved on. In my periphery vision, I could see the fellow next to me seemed tense. And as the plane prepared for take-off, he stiffened even more in his seat, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">At about this time, I buried myself in the airline magazine, trying not to pay attention to our take-off. I steadied my own breathing, and continually reminded myself to relax, while trying to focus on the words on the page in my lap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When I fly, I'm not usually aware of the person next to me. I'm too busy trying to convince myself that what I'm doing is not completely foolhardy, and that I will survive to reach my destination. But because I was in a window seat, where I did not wish to be, and because the person next to me seemed so very tense, I was very aware of him. He kept readjusting himself, took deep breaths, reached to flip quickly through the safety manuals in the seat back, and then he started rubbing his left arm, actually massaging it, albeit almost subtly (there's no subtle way to massage your arm, really).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As the flight approached cruising altitude, I finished with the magazine (those things are all fluff, after all) and glanced over at him. His eyes were still closed, he was still massaging his arm, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. I felt bad for grabbing the only reading material provided, since I had a novel in my knapsack I could have read, but couldn't be bothered to dig for at the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Here you go," I said, offering the magazine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He opened his eyes, looked sharply at me, and then the magazine. He smiled, a tense smile, but still a smile. "Thanks," he said, taking it from me. He opened it, flipped through it quickly, and I knew he wasn't reading it, because less than a minute later, he replaced it in the seat back pouch, readjusting himself yet again. He leaned back, dropped his chin, breathed deeply, and began massaging his arm again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It was then that I noticed the MedicAlert bracelet on his right wrist. And I thought back to his quiet exchange with the flight attendant, wondered briefly at the need for the bracelet, and then thought, <i>What the hell</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I leaned toward him, spoke in a low pitched voice toward his ear. "Are you okay?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He shot me a quick look, glanced away, and then took a deep breath. "No," he said. He looked at me again. "No, I'm not."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I felt a certain amount of alarm at his admission, but figured I'd started the conversation, might as well continue it. I mean, I couldn't very well say, <i>Well, hey, that sucks, but shut up, and let's get through this</i>. We had 45 minutes to go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"You want to talk about it?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He took another deep breath. The conversation that followed I don't recall verbatim. He said something about having a heart defect since birth. Said he hadn't been able to have surgery because it hadn't been advised, was too risky, but had finally opted for the surgery because really, what did he have to lose? And had been told afterward he had six months left to live. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am an extremely sensitive person. I can also be brash and blunt at times. I looked up at the ceiling of the plane, and then back at him. "You have six months left to live?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He nodded. "So I've been told."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Why are you rubbing your arm?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He grimaced. "It hurts. That's supposed to be a bad sign."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I looked at the seat back before me briefly. "You're not supposed to fly, are you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"No," he said quickly. "I was advised against it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"So why are you? Where are you going?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He grinned, sort of. "To Philadelphia. My uncle is dying. I want to see him one last time. We're very close. I knew I wouldn't get another chance." He paused, sort of grinned again, then kind of laughed without really doing so. "Stupid, huh?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"I...don't know." I thought carefully before saying, "If it's what you want to do, it's your life. You should do what you want. Are you okay, though?" I was really concerned about this, but I didn't know what I could do, other than ask. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He confessed he didn't know if he was or not. He was obviously discomfited, quite possibly scared, and all I could think was that he was dying, and I...wasn't. If you get my meaning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So what I did, what I didn't even really think about was...I talked to him. I engaged him. I don't know why. He just looked so scared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I asked him questions. He was from Winnipeg. He was a denturist, formally a dentist, but he despised the field. I told him I used to be a dental assistant. Why aren't you now, he asked. Because I despised it, I told him. Because dentists are assholes, I said. He laughed, which I appreciated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What do you do now, he asked. And I told him I write. And I pulled out the copy of my novel from my knapsack, and he was impressed. And we talked about writing, and pursuing goals, and dreams, and we laughed, and talked, and talked, and talked. For 45 minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I enjoyed his company immensely. He was honest, with his words and his emotions. And as the plane began it's final descent, and we'd shared a silence of a few minutes, I looked over at him and asked, "How's your arm?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And he smiled, a genuine smile this time, and as he touched it, he said, "It's better. Much better." And then his smile broadened. "Thank you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When the plane touched down in Minneapolis and we taxied in, I looked at him and offered him my hand. "Thank you," I said, "you have been excellent company. I've enjoyed our time together."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"Thank you," he said, shaking my hand. "Thank you very much. I have too."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wished him good luck. He did the same in return.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I do not know if I will ever see him again. But I know that I am richer for having met him. For having met such a brave person, who made choices, difficult choices, when too few people can or do, when so many people make only the simplest of choices, and deem those difficult.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I cannot imagine being told you only have six months to live. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But, really, even if you weren't told, sometimes, maybe, that's all you may have. You just don't know it. But he was brave, and honest, and I thanked him for that, as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Because so few people are.</span><br />
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<br />Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-42296924063570710382012-05-05T00:28:00.000-05:002014-03-12T14:10:07.210-05:00Ask me questions<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Today (and since it's 11:31 pm as I write this, it <i>is</i> still today) I gave the first interview of my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There may have been a time when I considered myself a nobody. That time is past. I am certainly <i>somebody</i>. And I am certainly someone to be considered. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me explain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was subjected to the kind of abuse that basically debases. The kind that makes a person feel less like a person, the kind that makes someone question their worth, the kind that makes someone (a child) feel as if they are worth nothing, and can never be anything but nothing.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Today, I granted an interview with a gentleman who has a fairly distinguished career in journalism. This interview came about out of my own need for self-promotion. I've written a book, a novel, my first. The world of publication, at least in my specific genre, lesbian fiction, means I am basically responsible for my own marketing, promotion, what have you. The reason for this decided need for self-promotion is that funding is limited, and my publisher cannot foot the bill for all that is involved for promoting my book as perhaps it should (or could) be. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was never very good at self-promotion. Certainly not when I was younger. Never then. I knew only when I was younger that the less attention I drew to myself, the better. I was very good at blending in, at not drawing attention to myself. Yet, if memory serves, the more I tried to not draw attention to myself, the more I stood out. I cannot comment on this. I knew nothing about it. I was only trying to get by, because it was safer to stay quiet, to stay within the small world I knew was safe, and not step outside the lines, if you will.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Today, a part of my world collapsed.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Today, I was interviewed for the first time in my life. Today, for the first time in my life, I could have, had I chosen, spoken freely of many things. But today, I was only being interviewed because of my book. I wrote a book. A novel. I sought out the interviewer, and the questions that were asked, I chose to either answer, or not.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There is an astonishing amount of power in having the choice to answer questions as you choose.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was asked questions today that I could have answered. Instead I chose not to, or deflected them. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I realized I owned the skill of deflection. That is rather heady.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was asked questions that I had considered being asked prior to. I'm a thoughtful person, and I thought carefully before answering some of those questions. Some I answered, some I did not. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was complimented with, "I wouldn't think this is your first interview. You're very thoughtful, and confident." Ah, yes, that.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't talk about myself easily. It's taken a long time to get to know myself. Most of what most people know of me is not precisely what I am. I am very good at giving what I think you need to know, without giving you what you think you know. Most people think they know more of me than they do. Frankly, I'm proud of that. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yet today, I felt I wanted to just...spill the beans. Just let it all out. Things I've kept to myself, that I should tell, and never have.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I didn't. Obviously. You still don't get to know what I refuse to let you know.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And I have no idea how the interview will read. What will be included. This drives me absolutely nuts. I am, admittedly, a bit of a control freak. Much less than I used to be. But still, I am what I am. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I loved today's interview. I loved answering the questions. I've never refused to answer questions. If you ask me, I <i>will</i> answer. The thing is, most people don't ask. And so, I don't answer. But the not asking drives me nuts. People are such cowards, in their refusal to ask.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My sweetie has advised me, in this new world I find myself in, being a writer, promoting my work, that I must not knock myself down, that there will be enough people wanting to do that, I must not do it first. I get that, I do. But since I know myself, and I was knocked down from the time I was a child, I've got the hang of it, and you know what? Go ahead. Try it. See if you can knock me down any further than I already have been. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You know what? You can't even come close. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So what I give you, you're going to have to be happy with. If someone tells you something about me, you can believe them, or you can believe me. But I will give you what I can, and you can believe it, or not. And if I give you something of myself, you can bet I struggled with it, and so it's precious. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's up to you how to deal with that. It's certainly not up to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm still in the process of giving you something of myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And that could take years.</span></div>
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<br />Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-61205760489892784432012-04-10T00:01:00.002-05:002012-04-10T00:45:12.417-05:00Life is life.<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stumbled across a couple of fine books over the last 72 hours. By a writer I'd never heard of. And really, isn't that how it should be?</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The author is Susan Wilson. The books, One Good Dog, which I read first. The second, The Dog Who Danced.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">No surprise there are dogs involved. I love dog stories. I've been reading them since I<i> could </i>read, and I've forgotten almost all of the authors of those childhood read stories. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I'm not an idiot. I love well-written dog stories. It's rare enough to find them. It's even more rare to find good dog stories with a good people story attached. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As an adult, I certainly more fully appreciate good people stories, as much as, as a writer, I appreciate well-written stories. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's the thing, though. A good dog story, coupled with a good people story is not easily come by. Susan Wilson accomplishes both. And just in case you think this is going to be a review of those stories, think again.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Susan Wilson introduces human characters who are hugely fallible. I despised many of them. The dogs, of course, were goodness. Because dogs are. But I especially enjoyed how Wilson brought her human characters around to redemption, where, as a reader, I didn't so much as forgive them their failings, but allowed that shit happens, and you were one way but you can change, and you did, so good.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is how I view people. Don't judge me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm not a fan of happily-ever-after stories. Not because I don't believe in them, but because I do, with fervour, and because I'm an optimist at heart, and I wish only the best, and hope for the same. But life isn't like that, and shit happens, and you live with it and deal.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm a writer. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As a writer, I write what occurs to me. I write, not necessarily from personal experience, but from <i>possible</i> personal experience. In other words, I put myself where I have never been, but could possibly be, under different circumstances. The old "what if?" This is what a good writer does. Or so I understand ( I don't really know. I just write. It's a thing).</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will not sugar-coat anything. I will not give you characters who lack depth, or meaning, or belief. I will not give you situations of that kind either. I will give you what I know to be true. I will give you a story that is believable and has depth, and characters who also have the same. If you initially come to despise the characters I introduce you to, know that it's entirely likely that I have, as well. I will sugar-coat nothing. It's been one of the most difficult things to come to terms with, this complete refusal to paint happy pictures without struggle, without pain, without ensuring that my characters <i>have</i> suffered, and may suffer. It's what I adhere to, because it is life. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Life right now is pretty fine. I love my life currently. Well, frankly, I love life, period. But life changes on a dime, and I'm not in the market for white-washing life's experiences. Life speaks for itself.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I believe I'd like to write those stories, the stories about how life...is life.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I'm not sure I can inject puppies as smoothly and surely as Susan Wilson has. Yet, even if I can't, I'm sure I can write as good a story.</span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcFA2O-hPaQ67V-0V-eNnURmNnIhhfsycH1Vy-mkQVx13oJf_XBzMKz_HsX9Prvxl0UnTd7scAsfc4qc0o6IG5jl-PbvG6Zcb-5uGI1mglZLogQhDcgTNd6iHyJrNw1O2lV_rb2ri62I/s1600/life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcFA2O-hPaQ67V-0V-eNnURmNnIhhfsycH1Vy-mkQVx13oJf_XBzMKz_HsX9Prvxl0UnTd7scAsfc4qc0o6IG5jl-PbvG6Zcb-5uGI1mglZLogQhDcgTNd6iHyJrNw1O2lV_rb2ri62I/s320/life.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-81628445040578150842012-04-03T00:27:00.003-05:002012-04-03T20:25:38.783-05:00Treasure a toddler's smile<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have spent a lot of my life believing I was worthless. But a lot of what has happened over the course of the years has caused me to feel that that is not so.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love children. Not all children, because some of them, like some adults, are not very nice. But if you've read the "About Rebecca" on my new website, I shared something that I really, truly love: A toddler's smile. There is a reason for this. I have been subjected to some amazing smiles from toddlers. I'll give you a few recent examples.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just over a year ago, November or December, I think, I was in Safeway, looking over the various kinds of canned tuna. I was crouched down, and as I rose to my feet, a shopping cart came around the corner of the aisle. I looked, to see a woman pushing the cart, and a little girl, with short, curly, dark hair and dark eyes, bundled in her snowsuit, sitting in the front of the cart. My eyes went right to the little girl. She couldn't have been any more than a year and a half. As soon as she saw me, she smiled at me. An amazing, open, brilliant smile. Like seeing me was the most wonderful thing. It was the kind of smile that just catches you completely unawares, completely unexpected. Immediately I smiled back, in wonder. I felt, I kid you not, as if the sun had just broken out from behind the clouds, as cliched as that sounds. I knew my smile was not even one of those close-mouthed polite kind of smiles. My jaw literally dropped into an open-mouthed smile. I felt almost in awe. The little girl's face was lit with happiness, with pleasure, as she looked at me. Completely uninhibited, completely genuine. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her mother (or so I assumed) said, as she saw the little girl smile like this, "Oh, that's so nice, look at that! What a good girl!" As if she was as surprised and pleased as I was. "Hi," I said to the little girl, who seemed to smile even more, if that were possible. And then they moved past me, and I left the aisle without my tuna, filled with such an amazing feeling of goodness.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Several months ago, I was on a plane to North Carolina. In the seat next to me, was a man who looked to be in his thirties. Across the aisle, a woman I guessed was his wife, who had seated next to her a girl of about 4 years, and in the woman's lap she held a little girl, blonde haired and blue-eyed, who looked just over a year. The little girl had a very serious air about her, and was very intent on what was going on as the plane took off. As the plane leveled off, the woman handed the little girl over to the fellow beside me, and as she made the transition, the little girl looked at me, and she smiled. A big smile, that lit up her face and her eyes. She plopped down in her daddy's lap, who positioned her to face forward, but just before he did, she looked over at me again, and smiled very cutely at me. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her daddy pulled out his laptop, a MacBook, and he brought up Angry Birds, and taking her tiny index finger in his fingers, he moved it across the screen to play the game, flinging the birds for her, keeping her attention diverted. But every once in awhile, she looked over at me and smiled so sweetly, I<i> felt</i> it. Deep inside. It felt wonderful. Pure and sweet.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"How old is she?" I asked.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Fifteen months," he said proudly.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A couple of months ago, the beginning of February, I was at Southpoint Mall in Durham, NC. I was just about to go into the Barnes & Noble there, when I saw an older woman coming toward me, holding the hand of a little girl, who was obviously not very steady on her feet yet. She was tiny, a petite little girl, in her jacket and boots, with wispy strawberry blonde hair and big eyes. As they came closer, I paused, because they were intent, it seemed, on reaching the fountain just ahead, and I would have gotten in their way. The little girl looked up at me then, and she tilted her head, and she smiled at me. It was a shy smile, at first, and then she looked away, and looked back, and she paused, and her smile broadened. It was brilliant, uninhibited, sweet, warm. I smiled back, again in wonder, not expecting such a smile.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The woman holding her hand, who must have been her grandmother, noticed the exchange, because the little girl had paused. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Say Hello," she said gently, to the little girl. "Go on, say Hello, it's alright."</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And the little girl lifted her tiny right hand, held it close to her face, and did that little scrunching thing with her fist, the fingers closing in to her palm as she waved Hello.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I felt my heart lift, and I smiled and returned the Hello wave in the exact same way. I had to. And then, with a final shy smile, she turned toward the fountain she'd been so set on, and I turned away, forgetting about Barnes & Noble.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love children. For the most part, I really do. I may not be overly fond of most people, and many people may not like me, and perhaps I am not always completely likeable. But I almost always get along with children, with toddlers. I seem to have an affinity for children of that age. I've never understood it, no more than I try to understand why I seem to have an affinity for puppies. I just do. There's a sweetness there that seems to respond to something in me. Or I respond to it.That something that tells me, that affirms, that I am not worthless, that I am not a bad person, that I am a good person, and sometimes, that can be seen right off. The fact that it's usually toddlers doesn't bother me in the least.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is what I am trying to convey here. I don't always know it. Or believe it. But little children, barely over a year old, smile at me, as if they see that, know it, feel it. And their smiles, those smiles that I rarely get from adults, reassure me that such a smile is not something that just happens. Such a smile, from a little child who is full of trust and goodness, and whose perception perhaps I should not trust, is what I trust most of all.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You may think I'm deluding myself. You may think that. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I doubt those little children think that. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because if you think about it, how could they?</span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_-mW1MdvOEF1_MLhJsm0vDw1487Ef5HSf2GPTxajIZHnbrqQF5W_79q5aJJ77fKwaH5oWG6NAncgVBQl8oLQOLL4GZlUyfQ5i_2qbeA2EUtwDs-bE-S3IyJJbjcp1PiE9SYpXQOygIU/s1600/toddler+smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_-mW1MdvOEF1_MLhJsm0vDw1487Ef5HSf2GPTxajIZHnbrqQF5W_79q5aJJ77fKwaH5oWG6NAncgVBQl8oLQOLL4GZlUyfQ5i_2qbeA2EUtwDs-bE-S3IyJJbjcp1PiE9SYpXQOygIU/s400/toddler+smile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-306170633705959322012-04-01T16:14:00.006-05:002013-04-12T22:40:41.514-05:00Weaving a not so tangled web(site)<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you ever designed a website before? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It turns out that it can be very time consuming. Both in its development and launching stages, of course, but also in the idea stages. Where you have an idea, a vision, of what you want, how you want your site to look, but you can't get there on your own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A handful of years ago, around 2004, it was politely suggested that I should think about someday having a website; most authors were heading in that direction, and it was an excellent way to promote oneself and one's work. At the time, it was a fine idea, but I was nowhere near that stage yet, so I put the website idea on a back burner. Fast forward seven years, to June 2011, and I've signed a contract for my first novel, and then things progress, and I have to start thinking about marketing, promoting, reaching an audience, and I realize, <i>Oh, I'll need a website!</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I had no idea how to build one. </span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had an idea of what I wanted it to look like. Mainly, nothing too similar to any other author's. Something professional looking, classy, that stood out, but in an understated way. I knew I could have done it myself, say via WordPress, but as I said, I wanted something professional looking and classy, which meant it couldn't be something that I had cobbled together. Also, having done something rather similar on Blogger, with this blog, I had no intention of doing the same with my website (it can be a pain in the ass). I believe in doing things the right way, the proper way, the way a website should be done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I mentioned this all to my sweetie one day, a few weeks before Christmas. She's a graphic artist. She hangs out with other artists, and IT people, techie people, web designers, etc. She knows so many people it's rather mind-blowing. And she says, <i>Oh, I can help you with that. Tell me what you have in mind, and I can find the right person we can work with. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And before I know it, there's me, her, and a friend of hers, a web designer. They're picking my brain on my thoughts and ideas, adding their own, showing me one thing, discarding another. I write text, revise it, consider placement, change my mind. I show them several websites, most of which have their own merits, some of which have none. Eventually, what was in my head makes it onto the computer screen. What they are able to do is nothing short of amazing. And it takes much less time than I expect, but it's not an easy job. Tensions rise, frustrations build, discussions are sometimes abandoned when things cannot be agreed upon. But it's like building a house, your own house. It's not <i>just</i> a house then. If you're building it, why not build it exactly to your tastes and standards? If you're going to be living there, you want it not only to look beautiful, to yourself and others, but you want it to reflect yourself, and the pride you take in it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This reflection of self is important, and it's not something some people might get when working on their own site. I was fortunate to work with two people who allowed me complete personal input, while working within their professional parameters. It's been an amazing and gratifying experience. I think we did well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Please visit my website at the link below:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.rebeccaswartz.com/" target="_blank">www.rebeccaswartz.com</a> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I hope everyone who visits thinks we did a good job as well. </span></span><br />
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Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-43784740810939892962012-03-09T23:11:00.003-06:002012-03-09T23:41:34.561-06:00Puppies vs Stupid people<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Today, I learned a lot about some people. Mainly, that some people will make untold excuses for treatment of puppies and dogs, try to pass it off as similar to what some humans go through, but which, if you are really being honest, we all know that the one bears no resemblance to the other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Case in point:</strong> This morning I read a post, that Crufts (the largest annual dog show in the world, held in Birmingham, England) had, by way of a veterinarian exam, disqualified some breeds of dogs due to the fact that they were not "representative of their breed" and "could not perform" as that breed should. In other words, they were found physically "unsound." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Now, this is a huge thing. I don't recall this ever happening. I used to show dogs, Akitas and German Shepherds. I have followed, for years, breeds and breed standards. I've attended numerous shows, and while I never felt a part of the "bonhomie" (have I mentioned I don't play well with others?) I understood the premise for dog shows. Yet I was never comfortable with the people who took credit for their dog's wins. The people who preened and strutted those wins, as if <em>they</em> had won, and not the dog. I detested dog shows for that reason, and for the fact that I spent so much money testing my own dogs with regard to health concerns, and very few others were doing so. Don't even get me started on Canine Good Citizenship or obedience trials.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">But I digress.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">This morning, the post re: Crufts, caught my interest. I thought, <em>High time</em>. But then, after reading the comments, the discussion veered into physical alteration, ie: docking tails and cropping ears. And how it wasn't inhumane. And so I thought to comment. Because in my opinion, docking tails and cropping ears is the epitome of inhumane, and I said so. Within 4 hours I'd garnered 30 likes. Within 8 hours, my comment had earned 57 likes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">My comment also earned scorn and derision. Some people likened docking puppy tails and cropping puppy ears to circumcising baby boys. They also likened it to piercing ears and inoculating young children. They were disgusted with my viewpoint, and said so in no uncertain terms. They also said that, "Once it's done, it's done, and what's the problem?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">As I type this now, there are "likes" to my comments coming in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">But there are people out there who think that what I stand by, what I stated, is absolute crap. I don't know what to think of those people. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">They purport to love dogs. But they make excuses for things you would (hopefully) never do to a child, or themselves. And these things I am referring to are done to puppies regularly. And just because they are puppies, people seem to think it's okay to do what they do, because, well, "Once it's done, it's done, and they are too young to remember, so why discuss it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">What I ended up stating, unequivocally, is that this is a moral and ethical thing. Not an aesthetic thing. Not something you can argue with regard to circumcision and boys, or ear piercing, or childhood inoculations. This is about surgically altering an animal <em>based on your own pretentions and presumptions</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Over the course of the day, I have been barraged by comments from people who have basically attacked my stance, and tried to undermine it. People who think that puppies are less than people (they have no feelings, or if they do, it's not for long, and so we can do anything to them), and so what is done to them is okay, but oh, what about circumcising boys, what about that?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Some people have actually had the audacity to question "the world I live in." As if I am living in some fairy tale world where no harm comes to any of "God's" creatures.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">First of all, I'm an atheist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Second of all, I'm an atheist.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">What offended me the most, the worst, was those supposed individuals who thought that docking tails and cropping was okay, since it was done at a such a young age (48 hours after birth) that the puppies never felt pain (they did, by the way) and therefore didn't suffer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Suffering is not restricted to the here and now. And Phantom Limb Syndrome I am sure is not limited to human beings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">My point being: If you don't know what you are talking about, shut up. Just shut up. Because all you are saying is nothing at all. You are defending your own viewpoint, and your viewpoint is selfish and self-serving, and has nothing to do with the ones who are going through the experience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Puppies feel pain. Dogs feels pain. Animals feels pain. And if surgically (I use the term loosely) removing what a dog was born with, for aesthetic reasons, to conform, is your idea of "doing what is right," then I question your morals and ethics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">No human can answer for any one else. They can only answer for themselves. Today I spent too much time trying to educate some very self-absorbed people about that. I was partially successful. But there are too many people out there who will not take a stand, who will back out when it comes to defending those who need defending...and I have no respect for those people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Puppies feel pain. You may not be able to relate to that. But it is a fact.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Puppies feel pain.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PlLxRuqHIj9R6N7l5KrPGmUPwjoGSoKSFfo-R2kjk4lY3OfAy9e56K3tpvX0gl3E2DZ5n_JLHllvQ8o6Mr0grmcjxdLmXQWi1leMcTIC-yUdnxZynUeqAjMMrAZ0I2zYg21bMGhTD5c/s1600/baby+beagle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PlLxRuqHIj9R6N7l5KrPGmUPwjoGSoKSFfo-R2kjk4lY3OfAy9e56K3tpvX0gl3E2DZ5n_JLHllvQ8o6Mr0grmcjxdLmXQWi1leMcTIC-yUdnxZynUeqAjMMrAZ0I2zYg21bMGhTD5c/s320/baby+beagle.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-13754990883660478822012-03-01T22:58:00.001-06:002012-03-01T22:58:47.432-06:00Early morning wake up calls<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">We're back to the routine of 6:30 am phone calls before she goes off to work, late morning calls when I ask her how her morning is going, an afternoon call when I ask how her afternoon is, the six pm call when she gets home and is settled in, and the last call of the night when I "tuck her in." In between there could be another couple of calls just because we miss each other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">She fills me on the stresses of her day, or of how the puppies are behaving (or misbehaving), and it's all as it should be. Hank and Sam don't seem to be obviously missing me, and I'm happy with that. It means that the time I spent ensuring she spent enough time with them (Sam, specifically, since she was working basically every day and could not spend the time with Sam that I could and was), has been accomplished satisfactorily. I had to make sure that my method of working with Sam translated over effectively, and it seems it has. This is no small thing, and I am pleased. Yet I miss them, and the puppy, enormously.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">This makes me think of something that happened back when Sam was just four months old. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">By that age, she had just gotten tall enough and curious enough, to start checking out the table and counter tops. She would jump and place her paws on either surface, and we would tell her No, and Off! It was no big deal, and was to be expected, and we dealt with it as it happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">One lovely Saturday morning, which is usually when I let my sweetie sleep in, because she worked all week and deserved to sleep in, I was up early as usual (6 am) with the puppies. I let them out for their bathroom duties and brought them back in, made coffee, fed them, played with them, then put Hank out into the run, and left Sam in the kitchen with the baby gate up. All as per usual. It was about 8 am by that time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I went to check my email and facebook. I was gone maybe 15 minutes. When I returned to the kitchen, I immediately smelled gas (the stove is a natural gas stove). I froze momentarily, and then glanced over, to see that the stove dial had been bumped. Obviously Sam, who was at that moment hopping up and down happily to see me, had jumped to check out the stove top, and had knocked the dial so the stove was now emitting gas. The room was filled with the odour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">My heart immediately began pounding, and I very carefully stepped over the baby gate, tiptoed over to the stove, with Sam bouncing at my side, and turned the dial to off. I then tiptoed to the back door, ever so carefully opened the screen door, and took Sam to the dog pen. I then tiptoed back into the house, leaving the screen door open for ventilation, and went to the bedroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">All this time I was very conscious of having to be careful to not create any kind of spark. I did not pick Sam up, because there may have been a spark from her fur against my sweater, static electricity. I made sure not to slam the screen door and inadvertantly create a spark. All this time I was shaking with fear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">When I got to the bedroom, I gently placed my hand on my sweetie's shoulder, and leaned down to whisper, "Wake up, honey, but don't move."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">She was very good. She opened her eyes, didn't move, and asked, "What's wrong?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I told her what the situation was, and whispered calmly, oh so calmly, "Just come out the front door with me." (She was sleeping in jammie pants, so don't think she wasn't prepared!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">She came carefully outside with me, and we left the door open for more ventilation, and then we went back around to the backyard...and just looked at each other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">"So...now what?" I asked (my heart was still pounding and I couldn't seem to breathe right).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">"I'll be right back," she said. "Stay here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">And I stood there in the backyard frozen as she went back in through the back door, opened windows, started the fan going in the livingroom, and then came back out. I was, to be honest, horrified, that she had gone back in and done these things, but she was perfectly fine with it. Someone has to do it, she told me. And I supposed she was right, but that someone was not going to be me. I have a horrible, disabling fear about things like gas leaks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">We then stood outside for half an hour. Waiting for the gas to dissipate. It was a pleasantly cool morning. We joked about hobbling Sam so she couldn't do a repeat performance. And seriously discussed how she must never be left alone in the kitchen, so a repeat performance did not occur.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">And then she went back in, pronounced all to be well, and we got on with our day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">But trust me, after that morning, Samantha was never left unsupervised in the kitchen. I still remember how scared I was, and how I moved so very, very carefully. And how the smell of gas overwhelmed my senses, and I almost felt as though I could see it and feel it. I still question my moves, not going to my sweetie right away, but removing the potential for sparks first. I think I did well, but I now understand how people can second guess themselves after a crisis has passed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I don't mind waking up early. But I don't ever want that kind of early morning wake up call again.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8rZvhbDyFQ-ZSTnwTRThd_CYb4u4QiW6jkzIHmjTO53oSRDwCJOwCohdKMBNhs0tauI7bz7CKLGWuCkXXmDNMuctBL-BaBJgLVBgxmg308hCsuyr5ZzTsTKS5STk7IV_RoisjW95aKA/s1600/Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8rZvhbDyFQ-ZSTnwTRThd_CYb4u4QiW6jkzIHmjTO53oSRDwCJOwCohdKMBNhs0tauI7bz7CKLGWuCkXXmDNMuctBL-BaBJgLVBgxmg308hCsuyr5ZzTsTKS5STk7IV_RoisjW95aKA/s320/Sun.jpg" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>Rebecca Swartzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431977548403306422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7287673753489744135.post-43711332119187590292012-02-28T21:27:00.000-06:002012-10-22T11:36:27.239-05:00Do something!<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Last week we went out to dinner with a couple of women my sweetie knows, at their request. They knew I was heading back to Canada soon, and so the gesture was made to say good bye and extend good wishes. About 3/4 of the way through dinner, one of the women asked politely, "So, Rebecca, how have you occupied your time since you've been here?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Now, I'm a contentious person, but not argumentative. I'm thoughtful, and while easily roused, I can think before I speak. My sweetie, as I found out later, was much more annoyed than I was. Either the question or the attitude, or both, struck us both as less innocuous than it might first appear. I, however, paused, then said:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Well, first of all, I've raised a puppy:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHfYzW96isqpGBMGvKG2LTpXqRVcxHTSgghyzDCgkY5T3eTwCJBtd5jkmgmm1mOeQELJOPQwL2MosTvE3UJYpziRcdHA4sTpiSYaYD2PRekxiSE4qfheSTju9BUaYGyvnvhEoMk1lj1A/s1600/sam's+first+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHfYzW96isqpGBMGvKG2LTpXqRVcxHTSgghyzDCgkY5T3eTwCJBtd5jkmgmm1mOeQELJOPQwL2MosTvE3UJYpziRcdHA4sTpiSYaYD2PRekxiSE4qfheSTju9BUaYGyvnvhEoMk1lj1A/s320/sam's+first+day.jpg" width="232" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ARKfzxuWUC8s1UXQmxD6rcDbItlwf2zlBMAKK5MEO-xvK0R4JsDj08o7MGyX4t4fhDM3W9tqnoW0raD255mcrenKecjA219q4yYuBpIrH4XBKmVF7yppK8sX0KImB2IsM1tpOJMZQ_g/s1600/rebecca+&+sam+for+webpage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ARKfzxuWUC8s1UXQmxD6rcDbItlwf2zlBMAKK5MEO-xvK0R4JsDj08o7MGyX4t4fhDM3W9tqnoW0raD255mcrenKecjA219q4yYuBpIrH4XBKmVF7yppK8sX0KImB2IsM1tpOJMZQ_g/s320/rebecca+&+sam+for+webpage.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">And during that time, I helped build a fence:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLD4KFuiIYyu2xjcKHntyeGrGDt3d9zsttGNCHK_asBZtQELgL-RtSnwN8k1XEJAg0K89ensLdlpPRh20cJm2-s7mQ_y7ULpbioltabQuNbtrJq5reqnT8G1VR401Eqb6jT8GKvtl5B0/s1600/outside+fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLD4KFuiIYyu2xjcKHntyeGrGDt3d9zsttGNCHK_asBZtQELgL-RtSnwN8k1XEJAg0K89ensLdlpPRh20cJm2-s7mQ_y7ULpbioltabQuNbtrJq5reqnT8G1VR401Eqb6jT8GKvtl5B0/s320/outside+fence.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">This fence was built from scratch, including digging the post holes and cutting, measuring, and nailing all the pickets individually. It covered 175 feet in total.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">I also helped renovate the ensuite bathroom:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_m01udTpXQ5bw61bl1bfdfUgKW76lXnIi5JTweQSWSHNVnGbAshyqnA_Z-xGuhbR0S814OO7nRc9GmvYrp8aEJcvqJGZA97DxQ5r_jQ2J7E0UAQApGTN8kNWYAHndkiRwefALKWimcmY/s1600/bathroom+renovation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_m01udTpXQ5bw61bl1bfdfUgKW76lXnIi5JTweQSWSHNVnGbAshyqnA_Z-xGuhbR0S814OO7nRc9GmvYrp8aEJcvqJGZA97DxQ5r_jQ2J7E0UAQApGTN8kNWYAHndkiRwefALKWimcmY/s320/bathroom+renovation.jpg" width="217" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Basically, this bathroom was a wood floor with a tub enclosure. Nothing of what you see in this photo was present prior to the renovation. None of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">In addition to raising a border collie puppy, I was deeply involved in socializing and training Hank, to be a more settled and socially acceptable dog:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT31cs8xE3104kCWuvl7UEla7jYOi7gRkKGQSloPvupErDtVok4LHVfffPmFKYK4y-j2GeSok-LV12csZGY2oIMKZl9bFCRFwj9XjPv9NlpBtPShBijC0Oj_fRvrIK5fT9Ki3MiFwGhY/s1600/handsome+hank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT31cs8xE3104kCWuvl7UEla7jYOi7gRkKGQSloPvupErDtVok4LHVfffPmFKYK4y-j2GeSok-LV12csZGY2oIMKZl9bFCRFwj9XjPv9NlpBtPShBijC0Oj_fRvrIK5fT9Ki3MiFwGhY/s320/handsome+hank.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Throughout December, I worked on the final edit of my soon-to-be-released first novel,<i> Everything Pales in Comparison</i>. And throughout October to now, I've done exhaustive research for my second novel, <i>Falling</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">And if all that wasn't enough, throughout all of that, I've nurtured a budding relationship with a woman who is the most wonderful person I've ever met, to the point where we consider ourselves in a serious relationship. Worthy of marriage. Which the state of North Carolina, and the United States of America, so far, will not grant us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">So, when asked, "How have you occupied your time while you've been here?" I can at least honestly respond that I have not just been biding my time, doing nothing, waiting for...something. I have been <i>doing</i> something. <i>Many</i> somethings. Because that is who I am. That is what I do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;"><b>Something</b>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">If I were to ask her how <i>she</i> has spent the last 5 months, I'm not so sure she could say she has accomplished so much. But I have. And I told her so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Because this is what I do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">Something. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: large;">As opposed to nothing.</span></div>
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