No Tiger there is no privacy

When I saw the first news report about Tiger Woods and his tangle with a fire hydrant, I wondered how long it would take before he evoked the "privacy" clause. This is a faulty concept held by many celebrities. They believe, erroneously, that they are only available and therefore "famous" only when they and their handlers say they are. Oops.

The concept of being a celebrity is that people know who you are and are interested in your life. When you have yourself photographed with your wife and kids and grant interviews concerning your favorite color and favorite cookie, you are saying you want to let people see your life. There is now an implied contract between you and the fans gives them your life for their consumption. You must GIVE THE MONEY BACK if you wish to break this contract.

This part didn't surprise me. Celebrities often want to take the money for endorsing products because they are who they are, but then don't want publicity when they are picked up for DUI. Get over it Tiger. The privacy clause doesn't work for other people. It also doesn't work for you.

However, I am less amused about his "refusal" to speak with State Police. Huh? You have a choice when you have destroyed public property? How arrogant can you be? Say you are sorry and replace the hydrant. Do community service or whatever it takes. The longer this drags out the longer you are news. Have a press conference after you speak to the police, and admit your failings. Stonewalling only keeps you in the headlines.

And most of all, stay inside your house if you want your life to remain private. And don't expect this to go away any time soon.

Being aliberal and why it helps me sleep at night

Can you tell when someone is lying? Do you know without a shadow of a doubt when your child really doesn't have homework? Can you tell every time without fail when the truth is being revealed to you? Do the police know when someone is telling the truth? Or lying? Do juries?

The answer here is no. Absolutely unequivocally No. Sometimes you guess right. Sometimes people pull the wool over your eyes. It's the human condition. It's what drives the economy and literature and nearly everything else. Am I really getting the best rate? Could the car dealer come down more? Does he really love me or does he just want in my pants (ok that one is a no-brainer)?

People are unable to "know" the truth. They may think they do, but they do not. Not every time. Not without doubt. No omniscience among humans.

So it stands to reason that I nor a social worker nor a government employee know when someone is "really" needy. Or what that means. Or if it matters. I don't know what the criterion is in another's life or belief system that means I need someone's help in feeding myself and my children.

Could someone lie to me and say they need things when they don't? Certainly happens all the time. Executives need bonuses. I'm relatively sure in my belief system they could forego that trip to Cannes to keep more people in their company employed.

I'm sure I'd rather see people work for what they have. I'm also sure if you have children and no skills, there are no jobs. If having children and sleeping with the sugar daddy is earning your place in society, then I'm there. I don't make the money for the things I have. My husband does. So I deserve this more because I married better?

Until I'm omniscient, I wish to take someone's word that they cannot feed themselves without help from me. I'm willing to support 80 people's drug habits so that 5 children do not go hungry. I don't know other people's problems. I'm not God.

And for those of you who think you know what and who deserves this, I've go a news flash. You are not God either.

A place of Execution ... almost

We are huge Val McDermid fans here at chez speer. She is one of the very few authors we both read and really enjoy. Usually one or the other of us is the fan and the other one reads one to see what all the fuss is about. After said reading, the fuss still remains a mystery. Not with Val. I admit I was the first reader, but David believed the fuss after reading Mermaids Singing.

So we were thrilled that Place of Execution was coming to PBS. Even for readers not into her series or some of the other stand alones, this is a book that demands to be read. It is one of my absolute favorite books.

And what an incredible disappointment the series was. How do I hate thee, let me count the ways.

I was tentative about the job change for Catherine. She is writing a book, not doing a er uh whatever thingy she was doing in the tv version. Ok tv is visual, maybe it makes sense. But alarm bells are going off that the ending is in danger if it's not just her project.

And dear god, what in the world was the grandmother-mother- daughter "relationship" doing in the production? Daughter and mother--not in the book. Not even tangentially. Ok, trying modern Mom with the whole guilt thing. Whatever. Still not in the book. Not needed to tell the story about George.

And here we come to crux of the problem--the story is about Catherine. WTF. The story is most assuredly not about Catherine. It is about your life being changed by having all your beliefs pulled out from under you. George's career was based on the "result" he got by hanging Hawkin for murder. And Hawkin was not guilty. He was despicable and putrid, but not guilty of murder. George had been fed a pack of foma.

Where is the daughter Alison had after she was raped by Hawkin? The actual reason she left the village, not because her mum "thought it best." What? Really? The child is an integral part of the story.

And George has a son as well. Born on the day Hawkin was hanged. His relationship to his son and his wife are essential parts here. But we get Catherine's melodrama.

The investigation turns up a pic that Alison has defaced. She scratches out her cousin's picture. We believe she does it because he is getting sexually attracted to her, but that is not the reason. He is the only one not abused by her stepfather. He's too "old" for Hawkin to fancy. But the tv production throws that out there without a real explanation and then takes away the one in the book.

But the most heinous crime is that Catherine is one of the abused children too, but doesn't remember. Luckily my television survived the avalanche of things I threw at it at this point. Give me strength. The whole closed village closely related enough to pull off the false murder of Alison without ANYONE letting anything slip during the investigation is ruined by this bit of absurdity.

And where is the moral dilemma? Do you out Alison? Do you think Hawkin got what he deserved? Do you ruin innocent lives? Catherine, the real Catherine, cancels the project. This Catherine hands the decision off to someone else which is why this production wouldn't even have succeeded as an original idea. Every motive, every clue, every relationship was written as melodrama. It was a soap opera, built around the idea that Juliet Stevenson needed to chew the scenery.

When it is time to pull the plug on me in the hospital, give me two and half extra hours. I want the time back that I spent watching this. Val, the cast, the book, and the readers deserved better.

Rewarding bad behavior

This is going to be a venting my spleen sort of entry. I'm feeling quite put upon, and I probably won't mean anything I actually say. But this reaction I'm having right now usually leads to no more ms nice guy on my part.

I'm tired of the squeaky wheel getting oiled. I'm tired of passive-aggressive behavior working. I'm tired of having to make a scene to get rewarded.

I was mostly raised by my grandmother. At least I only took the things she said to heart. She was genteel and ladylike in ways that pass understanding. I never heard her say negative things about anyone--not her son-in-law who couldn't handle money to save himself. Not her daughter-in-law who held up her son for money during both the marriage and the divorce. Not even my mother who committed suicide. She gave the wastrel son-in-law money, the divorced son a home, and stepped in on the things she thought I was missing. She was a magnificent lady.

I want to be as gentle and benevolent as she was. But I just can't. I feel robbed when I'm the generous parent who always has to give up my time with my kids for people who suck at life. Or maybe I suck at life for not instilling a little bit more guilt into my children.

I feel robbed when my children struggle because they have been taught to behave. No one takes notice when they struggle because they don't disrupt a classroom. Maybe I suck at life for not letting them be as demanding and selfish as their classmates.

I feel appalled when self-promotion works better than actual ability or intelligence. I hate how shallow the world has become. I have commiserated with people who are pressured to self-promote more and can't find it in themselves to do it. Or do it grudgingly just to keep up.

I feel demeaned and tawdry when my husband has to scream over the phone to get internet service installed. It gets results, but offends my sensiblities. But I've gotten the attention I needed so maybe I need to lose the sensibilities.

But mostly, I just want all of you to stop rewarding bad behavior. If someone pulls passive aggressive bullshit on you, call them on it. Do not give them what they want until the behavior changes. This is a simple child-rearing principle. Sometimes it means putting your fingers in your ears and going la lalalalala, I can't hear you. But it works. Pavlov was correct. You can extinguish behavior by not rewarding it. And you continue it by giving in.

bouchercon

The strangest thing happened to me at Bouchercon. I realized how much I missed being in school. Listening to all the discussions, even the ones that were not panels, was exhilarating. I get so bored at home talking to myself. And here was an entire hotel full of people who read.

And I see the attraction for authors as well. I know being seen and promoting the new book is the publisher and agent approach to conferences. Get my author out where people will buy the book. Exposure is everything.

But writing is such a solitary thing that the authors seemed to enjoy seeing each other. They hung with each other a lot of the time. And talked about books and writing a great deal of the time. And how cool is that? A huge salon of writers in a bar in a Hyatt.

We went to great panels. The humour (this is for Martyn) panel really delivered. You could hear the audience laughing all over the second floor. Chris Grabenstein and Donna Andrews have spent so much time together that they could take this act on the road. The Chris/Donna show was repeated at the auction where people paid huge sums to be in a Michael Connolly and Sue Grafton book. The bidding went by me really fast.

And we heard people we are going to sample who were on our panels like the aforementioned Martyn Waites. Such an engaging Brit.

The biggest surprise was the author who turned out to have been one of David's interns at the Associated Press. I looked at the name and said I thought we knew her. We did. That was a lovely surprise. So look for Persia Walker.

Yeah, it was worth it.

randomness

So Heather finally updated, and I'm feeling the pressure. And so many Bouchercon thoughts are buzzing around that I felt the need.

David has decided since Bouchercon that he and I need another blog devoted to mysteries. I see the thought process, but since I'm so GOOD at keeping at this one that I'm not sure how adding to my things not done list will help.

I started this because I got tired of columnists especially, not really bloggers, complaining about how hard it was to write one column a couple of times a week. I thought that was so bogus. And I wanted to write to them and say I'll do it. Give me the money. And all you whiney famous and rich people--I'll take your money too and try my hand at famous and rich. So this was to be a personal challenge.

I also hated when columnists wrote columns about writing. So this blog was never to devolve into how I couldn't find a topic for the day. Such a really terrible topic. Who cares how hard your job is--just do it. Or as we say here at chez speer--give the money back.

I kinda hoped I'd write more if a "safe" outlet were afforded to me. Nobody really reading it, but something I hoped would be more than a journal. Things I hated. Things I loved. My various rants about politics, grammar, life, the universe, and everything.

So I still have put the butt in the chair issues. It's not topics that elude me. It's motivation. It's doing this instead of twenty other things. Things that might actually improve my quality of life. Like the dishes.

But David will, I'm sure, start this mystery blog. So now there will be 2. God help us.

Life Amnesty

I'm sitting in the sweltering 90 degree heat while technicians fix my air conditioner. And it's my own fault. I didn't clean the filter/coils often enough. Especially with the hairy animals we had all over the house.

What I want is an amnesty from life. No life events can happen for a month while all those things I meant to do get accomplished. Like cleaning the furnace coils. All the garden weeding, mulching, harvesting, canning, and picking fresh bouquets get done. Every inch of the house gets cleaned within an inch of its life. That includes everything out of cupboards, cabinets, storage cubicles, basement shelves, and closets. Cleaned or tossed. And all the storage things themselves cleaned. And the washer and dryer cleaned and moved. The books alphabetized and sorted. The tax and financial records brought up to date. Winter clothes get put away. Garage gets cleaned. The sentra gets its trip to the car repair.

Nothing interferes. No doctor appointments, business trips, pleasure trips, nights out, sleepless nights that become sleepy days, special events, or illness. Nose to the grindstone. All work. No play.

I figure that month would make everything else go so very much better. I'm willing to do it. Can someone arrange this for me? I think 2 years from September I have an opening.

My boy is thirty

I really can't believe it. He's really 30. He's been married 9 years. He's got 2 kids. Yikes.

Time is so weird and elastic. I remember thinking when he was a terrible sleeper that it would never end. I'd be stuck in Mom Hell with a crying baby forever. Forever seems to have a short shelf life with kids.

I hated his teen age years. We argued all the time. Mostly about stupid stuff. Sometimes things that stemmed from his resentment at being the oldest and in charge a lot of the time. I don't think I truly understood his feelings then. I have no siblings. It just seemed natural to ask the other driver in the house for help with the increasingly complicated household we became.

Now he's a responsible adult. He's a great dad and good husband. He's become thoughtful and a genuinely neat person. I'm so proud of him.

And now it is so nice to just kick back of an evening, have a drink with him, and talk. No more fraught conversations. Just discussions about the state of the world. Or his job. Or his brothers. Things you discuss with other adults.

And he talks about being in Dad Hell with crying babies. And I tell him it doesn't last nearly long enough.

And the debate continues

I was doing the internet lol after reading a snippet about Harrogate, the mystery writer's convention in the UK.

John Banville, who writes under a pseudonym as a mystery writer (and I'm totally unfamiliar with him in that guise), basically on a panel said that his Booker nominated fiction is harder to write and therefore of more value. Better because all male endeavors are a competition. Even when a male author talks about his own work, one book "wins" over another. Well the panel audience was a bit stunned. I mean you come to a mystery gathering and tell people they are reading and writing inferior books. That's a way to win friends and influence people. I personally just crossed him off my list of must reads.

But my hero comes to the rescue. Reginald Hill (who I'm completely familiar with in the guise of mystery writer) said that it's always a toss up when he goes to write a book, but when he and his wife discuss it, they always decide he'll write best-selling mystery novels instead of a Booker prize book.

Laughter and relief fill the room. But the big ugly question remains out there--is genre fiction somehow a lesser commodity than Literature (note caps)? And who decides? And what does it say about a reader who doesn't read Literature?

I am an omnivore when it comes to reading. There are few categories of books that I do not read. I really like mystery books, but I read the Booker shortlist usually if I can get my hands on the books. I've read 2 books in the past year that I felt were beautifully written. Lyrical almost. One was On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, a Booker award winning author. The other was Still Life by Louise Penny, a first book by a mystery author. These were both just well-written. And Ian McEwan is not a better author than Louise Penny.

And I've read some books that I labored through or just finally gave up on completely. I won't name names, but the books fall into all categories of fiction. I've quit reading lots of Booker authors. I've put down mysteries. The writing is the touchstone. I borrow this from Matthew Arnold, not because I think he's right. I think he's dead wrong. He wanted to compare to other works, touchstones of (male) writers who we all just "knew" were good. That isn't it. Being able to put the words together to achieve your goal. That's the touchstone.

So what gives? Beyond short-sightedness and a certain prejudice and bigotry, the answer is the same here as in all human endeavor. 95% (or more) of everything is crap. Whether you buy cars, dishwashers, or books, lots of them will be worthless. With books, a crime against the environment for killing the trees. And some books are just middlling. I don't hate it that I read them, but they are not my favorites. Or memorable. Just like a car. It's not a lemon, and it might serve the purpose right then. But it's not a Ferrari.

And as readers, we should recognize the Ferraris when we find them. Without thought to race, color, creed, or literary categorization.

A man's reach ...

should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?

I've decided my garden is following the philosophy of Browning. Our grasp on the homefront has been exceeded. I have more aspirations for outdoor plantings than I have time or space for. But I adore watching all my favorites bloom, so I soldier on in a very military way in my war on weeds.

But then comes the downside. One of the beds gets absolutely choked because it's turn for weeding didn't materialize. I was out of town, or it pours that day, or ... Pretty soon all I can see is the creeping charlie in the roses.

My fab husband tries to redirect to me to the garden in my mind. The one that has no destructive bugs or crab grass or aphids. The garden where roses never lodge and chipmunks don't eat the ripe tomatoes. The garden that has no tree suckers that are now too large to just pull.

But what would I do in such a garden? After planting was done, the work would be done. It'd be like planting a field of soybeans or corn. And I'm not a farmer. I'm a gardener. I enjoy conquering the recalcitrant weeds. I love coaxing something back from a bug or weed attack.

And I can retreat to what's a heaven for when it's all too overwhelming. The perfect beautiful garden. Picture perfect every day.

There is no creeping charlie in heaven.

Back from vacation

Does everyone's house go completely to hell while unattended for a week? I'm bowled over at the yucky clean up in aisle fourteen going on since I returned. Shouldn't my house just hum along, waiting for my return. I may never get on top of it again.

My garden looks like someone took packets of weed seeds and sprinkled them everywhere. I had these beds looking pretty fine when I left. What happened? I pulled enough crab grass yesterday out of my flower beds for several lawns worth of crab grass.

No wonder houses that stand empty fall apart so quickly. I guess I don't realize how much I'm holding back total collapse for my house. Almost makes me feel like I must be doing something while I'm here. Wow, that's a new sensation.

So wish me luck on restoring some amount of order to chaos. Confidence is not high.

Hate talk

I just read the most remarkable screed against marching bands that I have ever encountered. Dennis Dodd, a paid character assassin for CBS sports, just completely went off on bands everywhere calling them dorks and losers basically. I am totally offended for more reasons than I can count.

First, I don't have a national pulpit to refute these attacks. If I respond with a comment, it carries the weight of "oh Yeah." And I'll get the jock smirk tone that the original essay carried as if that is an answer. This is unprovoked bullying of people who are not public figures, and CBS should be ashamed.

Second, this attitude promotes hatred. It makes high school football players think it's ok to beat up the "band geeks" because Dennis thinks they are losers and less than human. This is exactly the kind of attitude that got Matthew Shepherd killed. He was just a queer. It was ok to beat him up.

I thought we didn't pick on specific groups of people for who they were or what they did. I think this essay is a hate crime and incites hatred. I'd like to see Dennis prosecuted under

federal law because no matter how cute he thinks this is it isn't.

I'm not sure what made him decide this was his target, but someone ought to make sure he doesn't assault anyone again. I'm sure he couldn't think of what to write about, so he decided to go with what is easy--picking on someone. I can easily make this entry all about the various sins and bloopers committed by various sports broadcasters/writers. It's easy to pick a target and throw hearsay around. I could spend days just on the overwrought prose of Super Bowl writing. But I don't bully. I merely present facts.

I hope CBS thinks this is serious. Making fun of people who are not public figures is mean and hurtful. And potentially dangerous. Dennis needs to direct his anger at whatever drove this drivel. I can suggest a good therapist.

Oh, and Dennis, ole buddy, you don't march a French horn.

The earlier you

The last couple of weeks I've been thinking about having some sort of gathering where all your friends bring their wedding pictures. First marriage if that applies. I'd like to see everybody with all the hair replaced on heads and weight unreplaced on bodies.

I believe this stems from the fact that I have incomplete memories of so many friends. I didn't go to high school with them or most of the time even college. I'd like to see how they looked back in the day. I feel like I'm missing a part of who they are.

I began thinking about this when I stayed at a friend's house, and the wedding pics were on the wall. The couple looked so different from the 50something grandma and grandpa that I know. I think I feel like I've got no better handle on the people they were than their kids and grandkids do. And we do share the same time if not the same geography.

I also recently tried to describe my wedding attire to a friend and she tried to describe hers to me. And her sister's because my friend was maid of honor for her sister. It turned out that both being Northern Illinois girls our finery came from the same place. New Glarus, Wisconsin--the place to go at the time for material, etc. if you were making your dress, and accessories if you were not. All of mine came from there. Her sister's as well. Including the maid of honor dress.

Today if these people got married, I'd be at the wedding. But we were strangers then. I want this glimpse of these friends of mine, married now almost as long as I have been. I love to get out my pictures because my husband looks about 12. And nobody sees that guy anymore. I want to see the guy/the gal that they married in the same way. Because we all were not born old and fat despite what our children think.

So if I can think of a reasonable way of doing this, I'll let you know. It intrigues me.

Technophobe

I have a confession to make. Despite this blog and my iphone, I'm a bit of a Luddite. Science and technology whirl around me without my grasping even a bit of it. Typing this on my computer uses as much technological knowhow as I possess.

You know those neat link things people send you in emails? I don't know how to do that. Copy and paste and attachments are as savvy as I get. And pictures and audio files? Forget it. I have no notion of what's involved in Heather's blog with pictures and blurbs, etc. Way way beyond my ken.

I operate on the transistor radio model. I had a little black model in the 60s that came right up to my level of competence. Two switches. One to turn the thing on and off which also acted as the volume. One switch to learn that did two things. Nirvana. And the other control handled the stations. Only AM. No FM. It fit me to a tee. I listened to WLS from Chicago, and it was all I needed to do that. I want everything to match that level.

But I am disappointed in my quest for the transistor radio model. Every appliance, computer, phone, etc. wants to do more. and more. And I lose my mind trying to buy simpler models.

Recently we looked for a new refrigerator. We had to. The old one went. So every model I looked at had all the stuff in the door. I want this appliance to hold my food at an acceptable level that prevents botulism in my home. That's my requirement. Trying to find one that didn't serve me seven settings of ice through the door and cold water was nearly impossible. Finally managed that. But an added feature of this one is an alarm when the door stands open. Like when I'm putting groceries away. Everyone in the house at one time or another has yelled, " shut the **** up." Ah yes appliances which annoy you. That's a goal.

There are buttons on my car that are a mystery to me. I can't turn on the DVD player in there. Don't know how. And the car explains everything to me in pictures. I'm not only a Luddite; as I mentioned in the last blog, I'm completely non-visual. I picture things through words. So a car with many buttons (non-transistor radio) and picture (non-word) is nearly impossible for me to cope with. It's a wonder I know where the key goes.

I'm equally mystified by all the magical forces at work in my home--electricity, plumbing, etc. For me, I turn switches or handles, and sometimes the magic works. And sometimes it doesn't. Burned out bulbs, blocked sinks--the magic failed. Right now the magic works on the computer. If it doesn't, I'm lost. I'm that person who needs to be reminded that the magic doesn't work if the inoperative appliance is unplugged.

My solution is to live in a house full of gadget geeks. It strokes their egos to give me that smirk as they roll their eyes and fix everything. I'm fine with that. If they want to clutter their heads up with how all this stuff happens, so be it. Just don't make me do it. I'm busy filling my head with words, not processes. I like it that way.

The soundtrack of your mind

So yesterday I went outside to comfort my plants and cheer them on. Despite all the rain, some of them are gobsmacked by the heat. I visited the vegetables and the perennials who were being quite the wimps about the whole thing. Especially the ones in the "shade" garden. Not enough shade apparently. Then I went around to the roses. And my brain started playing "Yellow Rose of Texas" when I was--you guessed it-- looking at the yellow roses.

Now I don't hate the song, but let's just say it's not on my ipod. I wasn't necessarily looking for a concert at the time. Why did my brain feel the need to serenade me?

This happens to me quite often. I don't dare watch the swiffer commercial or I'll hear "Don't you want me baby" all day long. What I want to ask my brain is why it has this compulsion.

Why does my brain have this life of its own where it picks and chooses the soundtrack of my life? And why doesn't it pick songs I really like? "Get Back" is always appropriate to be playing in my mind. It's one of my favorite songs of all time. However my brain seldom plays it for me.

Now this is a disconcerting. Either my brain doesn't know what I like or it does this on purpose. I would think since my brain is what forms what I like that it knows the songs I like. So that leaves option number two--it does this on purpose.

Putting a positive spin on this phenomenon takes some doing. But I think it does this because that part of my brain is bored. I seldom listen to music or television because I really enjoy quiet. Maybe the years of 4 boys in the house made me long for silence.

But my brain doesn't accept that as an excuse. Stimulate me now or I'll play dreadful things you hate. And this is an effective tactic because I run for the ipod to make "The Yellow Rose of Texas" go away.

Apparently I am trainable after all.

Why I buy books

The outfit collective had an interesting question: Why do you buy the books you buy? Basically the question was posed in reaction to the thought--Does my publisher's marketing department have a clue about what sells a book? And if the publisher's suggestions are any indication, no they do not have a clue.

First and foremost I have NEVER read a book because of cover art. Even from the library. I am totally a word person. Pictures have no meaning for me at all. This includes icons on cars and appliances. I can't speak this visual language. DOORS OPEN. That I get. An icon of my car viewed from the top with the doors open--I got nothin'. First of all I never view from the top. And everything else that's wrong with the assumption that I should be able to "read" the picture. I can't. I am verbal, not visual. My feeling is that a lot of readers are word not picture people like I am. So all the stress about cover art is wasted on me. People who like words read books.

I do read books because someone I trust to have somewhat my taste in reading recommends that I do. This can be a personal friend, a bookseller, a reviewer, or less frequently, a blurb from an author I already know. I won't buy a book based on this, but I will read it. I will read books from the library based on recommendations. This happens a lot. And I do move from there to purchasing the author if I liked the book. Of course if I start to distrust the reviewer after a couple of bad steers, I'll quit reading the reviewer, too.

I will read authors if I like a short piece of theirs in a magazine. This is how I started to read Ian McEwan and Julian Barnes. I'm not a big short story fan, but it can suck me in. And mostly once I like a certain author, I buy their books until they write a stinker. Or go so off course that I'm no longer interested.

I will buy a book if I meet the author and like her/him. I just purchased two books at a mystery convention because I liked the author. Maybe I'll never buy them again, but that does work for me. Although if the books sound like something I'd never want to read, even the most charming author won't get my money.

Now and then I'm drawn to books by the subject matter. I started reading Pat Barker because I was in the midst of my World War 1 mania. Read her trilogy and then read all the rest of her books. This happens infrequently because I'm mostly not caught up in a subject like that. But it can happen.

I'm not sure about the whole facebook/twitter thing. I can't imagine finding an author that way without a recommendation from someone, and I'd get that without the electronic intervention. I personally haven't discovered any author or book that way, but I know someone who has. I'm dubious about its practical application for me.

That's me really. Voracious reader always looking for the next book.

Do what I want

Thinking about what writers owe readers.  Not that this is an issue for someone who doesn't have readers, but I've seen a couple of discussions elsewhere about the direction characters go or how often they show up.  Readers, having immediate access to their favorite authors, are unafraid of telling them  online where they have gone wrong. I'm personally guilty of being tired of author "stand alone" books which take them away from my favorite series characters. Of the mystery authors I read, Dennis Lehane has been most guilty of this lately.  And I've just quit reading his books.

The most famous instance is the letters received by Doyle and his publishers after Sherlock Holmes  was "killed" by Moriarty.  An outcry ensued.  Doyle was forced into resurrecting him, much against his own inclination.  He felt pressured and unhappy with this result.

Anthony Trollope killed off a character in the Barchester series when readers complained about her personality.  Then the same readers complained because a lot of the tension left that series of books.  In this instance the readers were wrong.  They were supposed to hate her.  They forced him to continue the series without a villain.

I am one of those readers, my friends.  I'm not gonna get on someone's blog and tell them they are doing it wrong.  But I will quit buying the books.  I missed Angie and Patrick, so I quit reading Lehane.  Mystic River I read, but then my attention wandered.  Haven't read one since. And I have quit reading Elizabeth George because she killed a main character.  That truly peeved me.  In a series I want the main character to have something go right.  After the trials and tribulations of the book, toss the character a bone.  Don't just add to the misery.

I'm not advocating authors arranging panels to make sure they know what the readers want to happen next.  But going in a bold new direction may have its own little problems for you.  Your book sales may decline.  I do think being perverse because you are in a snit (which I think is what happened with Conan Doyle) may cause more headaches than you think.

So what do you owe your readers?

Back from tour.  Beyond the whining.  Don't miss it like I used to.  Just a sense of duty that I've done my bit.  Mostly get no appreciation back, so don't really enjoy it anymore.  I did my best and as usual it's not enough.

But back to my garden and my house.  My poor pink garden was so choked with timothy grass that I'm surprised it's even surviving.  It was good to spend the morning pulling up miscreant plants up by the roots.  Focused my energy and anger.

Other less satisfying jobs are slated for later today.  Cleaning out the fridge and making a grocery list loom large for this afternoon.  After tour, I really don't want to sit and plan menus, but it's gotta be done.  Because I crave non-sysco type food.  Salad will be featured prominently this week and maybe broccoli since it made heads while I was gone.  As did my Romaine lettuce.  YUM.

I hope to tackle the backyard later in the week.  I think I've weeded as much as I can today.  

My best surprise for a Monday was that my large rose in the pink garden did not die after all.  I was a very happy camper to see it coming back.  I'd given up on it.  So it's a good thing I was gone and didn't dig it up or something before it had a chance to come back.  Made it all worthwhile as I tore all my remaining nails.  

Time to move on to less time wasting pursuits.  oh bother.

medicine bah humbug

I'm already so over this go round of doctor visits.  Go see this one, go see that one with huge gaps of time in between is for the birds.  This is going to go all year because I'm gonna have to keep cancelling things.  Next appointment--day the baby is due.  We'll see where the kids are on this with making appointments with their doctors.  Maybe I can go for a consult that day.  I don't know.  It's almost 3 weeks away though.  Obviously my time and peace of mind is of no concern.

So terribly tired of it all.  I knew this would be like this.  It plays into my all least favorite things--waiting, talking on the phone, being treated like cattle.  You lose all control when you submit yourself to these people.  Their timing, their methods, etc. win out over yours.  It's like dealing with the airlines.  I hate it.  It's why I am reluctant to go.  It invariably becomes a circus.

Calgon--take me away.

Writing for myself

So none of the blogs I usually read have anything new.  So I thought I could write instead of read. A novel concept.  Novel, get it?  I got a million of them.

Mostly I want to say that I will miss the hell out of John Updike.  I haven't loved every single thing he's written, but the ones I've liked have stayed with me a long time.  I even enjoyed his critical pieces because they were usually humorous as well as informative.  If Updike said something sucked, it usually did.  Many writers don't make good critics.  And many good critics don't make good writers.  He could do both.  A great gift.

I loved the Bech books.  I know everyone else loved Rabbit Angstrom, and I had some affection for him too.  But Bech was oversized and amusing.  He always caused his own predicaments while Rabbit suffered from omission not comission of sin.  In the "real world" people like Rabbit irritate me.  So no matter how good the writing, I was always slightly annoyed with him.  Bech amused me no end.

I'd like to think that another book starring Bech was around the corner.  What a horrible thought that it is not.