I don't have a credit score

Yet one more thing screwed up about this country (the U.S.) ...

Looking into building a house, and found out today I don't have a credit score. My vehicles are paid for. I don't have a bankruptcy. Haven't had a credit card in 20 years. All my bills have been paid on time for years and years. I don't owe anyone money except the occasional medical bill which I almost always pay in full at the time.

So, without a credit score, I can't get a loan ... even though I have no debt and have regular income.

Oh, there are options. I can get some credit cards, drive up some debt, then pay into them. I can report my utility bills to the credit reporting agencies. I can get some small loans and then pay them monthly, but not pay them off because that would defeat the purpose.

Basically, as far as I'm concerned, I'm being told I have to be bonded to the master. Credit is basically another (not-so) micro transaction on life.

Frankly, in my opinion. this is bull. I'm tired of corporations trying to own us ... indefinitely.

And I don't want to hear about how the Republicans or the Democrats or whomever politically are to blame. We are to blame for allowing this to happen to us.

Lily

Early this morning my beagle Lily passed away after suffering a seizure. I am devastated. She was my baby. I might talk more about her eventually, but for now ... I just can't.

Lily turns Sweet Sixteen

My beagle, Lily, turned 16 yesterday, and for her birthday she got her very own cake.

My gifts featured at Skallagrim's YouTube channel

I'll let the video speak for itself except to say that if you have interests in historical weapons, I highly suggest regularly checking out the YouTube channel of Skallagrim.

For what I am thankful

I am thankful Kelly and I had 12 years together.

I am thankful to have Lily, our beagle. She is like having a little piece of Kelly with me still.

I am thankful for my mom. She is my rock.

I am thankful for my father. I hope he has found peace at last.

I am thankful for friends I have and have had, many who probably think I have forgotten them.

I am thankful to have my writing career.

I am thankful for the memories.

I am thankful for God.

And I am thankful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My newest writing tool -- the Alphasmart Neo

Ooo, aaah, it's like the 1980s all over again.

What you see above is my Alphasmart Neo, basically a portable word processor. You can plug it in for use, but there's little need since the three AA batteries in the back will last up to 700 hours. Yes, you read that correctly -- 700 hours. It is about the size of the smallest netbooks though lighter than any laptop I've yet to run across, and it doesn't bother with the clumsy configuration of tablets with connecting keyboards. There is no Internet access, which means no distractions. When I want to transfer my files over to a PC or Mac, all I have to do is connect them with a cord and the story moves over. It offers a simple word count and spell check and calculator, along with a few other things which I can't name right now because I never use them.

Not quite flat.

More importantly, it has doubled my writing speed. I can now tap out about 2,000 words an hour.

There are other versions of the Alphasmart which offer more bells and whistles, including some Internet access, faster transfer of files, teaching tools, etc.

Originally the various versions of the Alphasmart were marketed to the education community, specifically to grade schools through high schools. Unfortunately, the sales must not have been there since the company which made the Alphasmarts ceased doing so about a year ago. Maybe they should have tried marketing to writers, because there is a growing number of writers over at the kboards who are now using one Alphasmart or another (and sometimes more than one) for their daily writing, like me.

For some time I had been looking at word processors, but I had not found one which fit my needs. My Neo does everything I want it to and nothing more, which is perfect. I don't want extra bells and whistles or Internet access. I want to be able to carry this little gadget wherever I want and to be able to write with absolutely no distractions. I have found it perfect for that.

Actually, no, that is not from a story of mine,  though the
character menioned is. I just made up the text to show an
example of the screen and font.

One downside is file transfer is fairly slow, but apparently there is software that allows for faster movement of files. I've simply yet to try it.

Also, the screen might appear small to some, but the font size and the number of lines that can be viewed can be adjusted. Also, though it took some getting used to, I believe being able to see less of the story, and not being able to jump around in the story so easily, is what has increased my word count.

I did have an HP netbook which I quite liked, but I gave it to a family member who's computer went blooey on them.

If you're interested, you can usually find an Alphasmart or ten for sale on eBay or at Amazon. But I suggest studying the different versions first to find out which fits your needs. For me, it's the Neo.

Thoughts of a widower

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep, so I thought I'd blog a little, something I've not been doing enough of the last year or so.

And I thought I'd write a little here about being a widower, as it's been more than a few months since my wife died and a little more than two months since my dad died. I have tried not to write too much about this because, frankly, I don't want to bore people and I don't necessarily feel the need for an out gushing of sympathy and pity, not that I mind condolences and the like.

I might ramble a little. These are just thoughts of mine that have come up, some that might seem quite weird.

First of all, it still doesn't feel like she's gone. It feels like she is away at the hospital, and I am still waiting for her to come walking through the door, or for her to call me to come and pick her up. This feeling is not as intense as it once was, and it doesn't take up my entire day, but I still sense it every day.

Nights are still the hardest. Once the sun goes down, it still seems like an empty house. Our pet rabbit, Silky, passed away a few weeks ago, and that has been one more presence gone from the house. It's just me and the beagle, Lily, and while this isn't a big place, sometimes it feels far too big.

I still have most of my wife's stuff to go through. I've given away or donated quite a few things, but I'm hanging on to a lot of stuff that is either supposed to be picked up by someone at some point, or I'll be taking it to friends and family who live out of state whenever I get the chance to visit. I was supposed to have a yard sale, with the proceeds going to a local cancer organization, but it has either rained or I have had other plans for the last month.

I don't cry nearly as much as I did a couple of months ago, but sometimes I do. I'll hear a certain song, or I'll see a picture of Kelly, my wife, and often enough that will get me to weeping again.

My emotions with my dad has been different. I've hardly cried for him, though I have missed him tremendously at times, and a couple of times I've caught myself thinking, "I should call dad." Maybe I've not cried as much because he was older, had lived his life, or maybe it's because I've been in shock or numb from Kelly's death. Or it could even be the fact my father and I grew apart in the last five or so years of his life, which is an odd thing because for most of my life he and I were quite close. He had changed during the last decade, definitely the last half decade; maybe that was age catching up to him, or possibly it was his OCD or even the cancer. Either way, it saddens me that we were not as close, and I have not been happy with the fact I was not there with him when he passed ... but such is life.

My feelings about lengths of time have flipped. I used to look forward and think, "Man, I've got 20 or 30, maybe even 40 years left to live, and that doesn't seem like nearly enough." Now I look at all that time and think, "God, 20 years sounds like an awful long time." I guess living my life without Kelly makes me look at things that way.

I have unusual thoughts tied to Kelly all the time.

I'll be emptying a jar of mayonnaise and think, "She was still alive when we bought this."

Or I'll go to the store and remember, "I don't have to buy diet Dr. Pepper any longer."

Or I'll use a kitchen utensil and think, "She was the last person who used this before now."

Or I'll give away her laptop mini-desk she used in bed, my heart nearly breaking at doing so, but all the while realizing I'll have no use for the thing.

I can't watch movies she enjoyed, or movies she wanted to see but hadn't had the chance. I've tried. 20 minutes is about the most I can take. I don't start crying or anything, but there's just this growing feeling of, "What's the point?" Experiencing the movies with her was the point, at least for me, and now that's gone.

Also, I'll think about how things have changed since she was gone.

She had always wanted a smart phone, but we had never gotten around to getting one. Then my dad passed away and left me a smart phone. Figures, doesn't it?

She had wanted our vehicle paid off, and guess what? The Explorer got paid off within weeks of her passing.

She had wanted Lily, our beagle, to have surgery for a tumor. Lily had the surgery a week after Kelly left us.

Things she didn't get to see, little hopes she had, dreams. All gone.

And at times I feel as if I have died myself, that I'm cursed in some purgatory that allows part of me to live on and see what life would be without her, and even without myself to some extent.

I've also found that it's not so easy going back to former modes of life. For instance, because I work from home now, I have no strong ties to where I live. I can move just about anywhere I want. However, I have told myself I will not make any drastic life decisions for at least two years, and I'm sticking with that. But what I'm finding as I've looked back at favorite places I've lived, and as I've considered locations near where friends live, that it simply would no longer be the same. Yes, some of it is because Kelly is not with me, but it's also that things have changed, people have moved, places aren't the same as they used to be, etc. All of this is fine, it's all quite natural, but the notion of change is unsettling to me at the moment, probably because I've faced so much of it during the last few months.

Perhaps I'll feel differently at some point.

One last thing: It's easier for me to remember the good times than the bad, but I tell you, I would take the worst knock-down, drag-out fight Kelly and I ever had just to see her again.

Anyway, I'm sure there are things I've forgotten, but for now, I'll sign off. Hope I didn't depress anyone.

The life of a widower writer

I don't want to get all maudlin here, but the subject matter can be quite depressing, so if you're in the mood for something sunshiny, you might want to look elsewhere today. Just a warning.

Anyway, I've had a lot of people voice their sympathy for me over the last month since my wife died on May 11. I've also had a number of people voice sympathy over the fact my father has also been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer (of the lungs, liver and stomach) and he is entering hospice care within the next day or two. Most people don't ask for details, but some few do.

I'm not going to go into morbid, specific details. I'm not here to tell you how my wife died, though I believe it was peaceful enough, and I could easily recite the events of every single minute of the last two days of her life. I'm not going to go into details about my dad's suffering.

What I am going to do is provide a few snippets of my thoughts over the last month.

For instance, I had heard of widows and widowers speaking about the anger they felt towards their deceased spouse, and I never understood it. It seemed unfair and even a little silly to me. But now I understand. I've not been overwhelmed with such anger, but I have felt it a few times, especially when I found out about my dad's cancer. A rage boiled up inside of me, and I was angry at my wife for not being there with me to help me get through what I was going to have to face with my father. Also, during all this, our beagle Lily had a tumor rupture and she had to have surgery, and even though she has mostly recovered and is doing fine, I was a little angry at my wife for not being there for her baby.

See, Lily is a daddy's girl. Ever since I began staying home to write full-time, about four years ago give or take, Lily has stayed with me almost constantly. I can't leave a room without her following me, and if I go outside without her she will stay by the back door and sniff and sometimes cry.

Until she gets sick, or has surgery. When Lily does not feel good, she wants her mommy. She has always run to her mommy when she has had an upset stomach or ... well, anything, really. But mommy is no longer here, at least not physically (as for other possibilities, I'm not here to debate them).

And of late, after Lily's surgery and without her mommy, poor Lily has been doing a lot of pouting. She spent an hour or longer with her head under the wife's side of the bed, just laying there. A hundred times she has searched the bedroom, gone back to my wife's bathroom, climbed up on the bed, looked all over.

But no mommy.

Onto other thoughts and situations.

I find myself still using the word "we" a lot. I catch myself and often repeat myself with the word "I." For example, I can no longer tell someone "we" are proud of our beagle girl, who turned 15 years old on June 3. No. I now have to correct myself, repeat myself, and say "I" am proud of my beagle girl, who turned 15 on June 3.

Grocery shopping is weird. I now only shop for one, and despite the fact it might sound fun, I don't particularly like it that I can now buy whatever I want. Because I'll buy crap. Also, I no longer have to make three or four calls to the house to ask for specifics, or to report about some new item that looks interesting. I also no longer can expect the usual call or two to remind me about something.

Her stuff ... it is everywhere, and all of it has some memory. I can't go into the bedroom or the kitchen or ... well, really, I can't go into any room in the house without my eyes landing upon something that has some kind of meaning or memory or something reminding me of the wife.

And I still have all her stuff to go through, to throw away or donate, to sell or give to friends and relatives, or to keep. I've simply not had the time, what with dealing with my dad's situation and the beagle's surgery.

I don't want it all to sound awful. There have been times when I've felt relatively good, when I've felt that at least she is beyond the pain, and maybe, hopefully she and I might see one another again someday.

But then there have been the long nights where I sort of putter around the house in a daze, going from room to room, looking from item to item, picture to picture, occasionally putting something in a bag or box to be shipped off or taken for donation.

And of course there are the moments where all I want to do is break down and cry. Sometimes I do. I would like to say such moments are fewer and fewer, but ... well, it's been weird. I didn't cry much at first. Then about a week after her death, I had several days with a lot of crying. Then things seemed to get better for me for a while. But of late, there's been lots more tears.

My days are relatively easy. There is plenty during the days to keep me busy, at least most days. My nights are often filled with tragedy, and weekends are rough.

There have been moments where I've not feared death, where I would almost welcome it, because I feel like I would get to see her again. Please, don't take this as me being dramatic or dangerous to myself, because that's not the case at all. I have no intentions of harming myself. None.

I also have no intentions of climbing into a bottle. That has a certain appeal to it, but I think if I did that, I'd probably never come back out. And I do have Lily to think of, and my dad is still around for some while, and there's my mother (who had better stay healthy for a good long while, damn it).

I could say more, lots more, but this is depressing enough, really. Isn't it? Besides, as is often the case, I'm writing more for myself than I am for you, the reader. I hope in this instance you will forgive my indulgence.

Speaking of my writing, I actually have done a little. Not a lot, but a little. It's total crap. I know that. But that's not the point. The point is to keep doing something. I have to work, after all, because there are still bills to be paid. Maybe I can edit and rewrite at some future date, or maybe I can scrap it all and start over, but at least I'm writing.

That's all for now. Just ... hug your loved ones, and never take them for granted.

P.S. I'd like to add one last ... sensation.

Even though Kelly, my wife, and I were only together 12 years, it felt as if we had known one another all our lives, as if the time before we had met had only been a waiting period until we found one another. Now, it feels strange without that sensation. It's like I'm starting my life all over again, having to restructure my thinking, having to recreate myself.

Will that affect my writing? I don't see how it can't. But how? That is yet to be seen.

My wife has passed away

As those who follow my Facebook page are already aware, my wife died on Sunday, May 11, Mother's Day, at 2:04 p.m. my time.

It had been a long battle, more than a year of her fighting against Stage IV breast cancer. There were lots of ups and lots of downs. There were a few weeks in March of 2013 in which I had thought I was losing her. Then there were the weeks early in 2014 when I actually believed she had this thing licked because she was energetic and getting around without any aid.

All that has come crashing down.

Yes, I've shed some tears today, and I'm sure more will come. I've also fought back against tears more than once. I was there at her side right until the end, and even beyond. Thank God I've had my strong mother next to me to give support.

I have a lot of thoughts, and possibly a lot of things to say, but right at this moment I'm tired after having been awake for nearly three days and nights at a hospice center. Sleep will not be coming soon as I'm too jittery, too wound up, but I do need to try and rest, especially as I've still got some paperwork and red tape and things to face in the coming days.

And then I've got empty rooms to stare into and closets to empty and all kinds of other things I can't quite wrap my mind around yet.

It doesn't seem real. I keep waiting for her to call for me from the other room. I keep waiting to hear her television on. I keep waiting for her to call my cell phone.

But none of that is ever going to happen again. Never.

And she was only 46. I will be 45 next month. We were supposed to have at least another 20 years together, maybe 30 or even 40. Instead, what we got was 12 years.

I'm thankful I at least got that.

Kelly Morgan, wherever you are, know that you are loved, and you will always be loved. I will take care of our beagle baby, Lily, for ever and ever, and I will never forget you. Despite all my failings, you forgave me everything, and I can never thank you enough for everything you brought into my life. You opened my eyes to so much, and you made me a better person. You made a lot of people better simply by knowing them, and I fear you never realized that about yourself.

I could write on. I could write forever about her. But I have to rest. I'm sure I'll write more at another date.

Kelly, I love you, honey.

Looking back, looking ahead

About this time of year, I do a post looking back upon that year, and usually I do a post looking ahead to the year to come. Not wanting to break with tradition, this is the post for 2013, looking into 2014, as always with a focus upon my reading and writing.

2013 was a year that kicked me pretty hard, then kicked me again while I was down, and again, and then yet again. It never seemed to end, for me and my family. Bad news swamped us more than once, the worst being my spouse's Stage VI breast cancer diagnosis near the beginning of the year.

That being said, it is almost a year later, and she is still with me, and she is conscious and able to walk some, at least with a walker and some help. She has some good days, but also plenty of bad days. Most times she's not in too much pain, or at least not so much that she can't deal with it through medication. Her life expectancy is unknown, which could mean anything from a few months to a few years to, on the off chance, a decade or even two. Some of this might sound frightening, but you kind of, sort of come to live with it, to take each day one at a time. And as scary and sad as all that might sound, the important part for me is that she is still with me.

So, as bad as the year started, it has also been kind to us in its own twisted way.

And the people I could thank, those who have helped us through these tough times, I couldn't name them all. I don't even know the names of all of them. But ... thank you, everyone.

Now about my reading and writing for 2013 ... all I mentioned above about the cancer and the other bad stuff that throughout the year, yeah, it had an effect upon me, especially my writing habits, maybe not so much my reading.

In 2012 I was fortunate and busy, pumping out about 600,000 new words of fiction, all of which has been published or self-published since then. 2013 wasn't so kind. I think maybe I'll have about 150,000 words of new material, hardly any of which has been published as of yet.

On the plus side, I did a fair amount of work this year in traditional publishing. I can't talk about it, but hopefully most of that will see the light of day sometime next year. Through these writings, I had some experiences working with other writers and a handful of editors, all of those experiences quite positive. I found it quite interesting to be working with others again, and for traditional publishing, as until this year I'd mostly been doing my own thing, or occasionally having contact with traditional publishers but with few fruits for my labors. So, 2013 was good in a lot of ways despite my lack of writing.

As for reading, I read more than my usual amount of non-fiction, and I strayed further from speculative fiction. In fact, I hardly read any fantasy in 2013, and I'm feeling the need.

Which brings me to 2014.

I'm hoping soon, perhaps in the next couple of weeks, to dropkick myself back into some fantasy reading. It's been far too long. I strayed from the genre a couple of years ago because I was feeling somewhat burnt out on it, but the time is drawing near, very near, for me to jump back in. I'm looking forward to it.

As for my writing in 2014, I hate to make predictions, especially after getting slammed with personal stuff in 2013. However, I am about halfway through my next Kron Darkbow novel, and I hope to have it finished and edited and ready for self publishing sometime in the first quarter of 2014. As things stand, this will likely be the longest novel I've ever written, probably about 160,000 words when I'm finished with it, so it's taking a little longer than usual to wrap up.

After that novel, I'm not dedicated to anything in particular, but I have been feeling the urge to come up with a sequel for my 5-part Mage Hunter serial, which has been relatively popular, selling nearly as well as my best-seller, the Kobalos Trilogy. I do have a story idea for this sequel, and hopefully it will have gelled a bit more in my mind by the time I can get to it, if I get to it soon.

Other than that, I have no specific plans for my writing in 2014. Thousands of ideas float around in my head, but which one I'll get to at any given point is up in the air. It usually depends upon my frame of mind. Epic fantasy will almost assuredly be on the menu, but I might step over into the horror field again as it's been a while and I'm missing the fun of working in that genre.

Time will tell.

I do hope 2014 is a better year for myself and my loved one's than was 2013. I also hope I manage to write a whole bunch more in 2014.

Again, time will tell.

I hope some of you will enjoy the ride with me.

Did I see a ghost? Southern gothic comes to life

I recently spent some time in the city of Savannah, Georgia. It was my first extended stay in that city, though I had driven through and by it on several occasions throughout my life.

Savannah is a truly Southern gothic city. Even by day there is a spookiness about it. Perhaps it's the two-hundred-year-old buildings, more than a few of them mansions by today's standards, that reside at every corner. Perhaps it's the strict layout of the old city, roads written upon a map so filled with precision it almost screams "the Illuminati were here!" It could also be the creepy Spanish Moss that hangs from huge, crooked trees older than the nation in which Savannah resides.

It probably doesn't help that there are at least a half dozen ghost tours, with signs and posters advertising such not uncommon.

There are plenty of ways to tour Savannah, with plenty of "official" tours available, either on foot or on bus or trolley or even by bicycle. There are multiple tours of the city itself, then individual tours for particular sections of the city, then tours for individual buildings, museums and libraries and huge churches and the like.

Savannah is a city doing well in capitalizing on its history.

But back to the ghost tours.

Savannah is a city labeled "America's most haunted city." I'm not sure about this, but my guess would be there are a few other cities that also use this label. New Orleans comes to mind, for instance. As mentioned above, the city of Savannah is spooky enough that I have no qualms considering it a haunted city.

While I personally did not witness or experience anything there that made me a hardcore believer, there were a few little incidents that were strange.

But first I want to take a step back. For those who don't know me, I want to point out that I am not a believer in the supernatural, the mystic, the transcendental, etc. But I'm not a complete skeptic either. As I've said elsewhere, I have never experienced anything that has made me believe 100 percent in any of this stuff, but I try to keep an open mind. To my way of thinking, to completely disregard even the possibility of the supernatural, that's just as dogmatic as those who go around espousing not only belief in such, but who try to make sure everyone else believes as well. None of that's me. I'm interested enough as a writer to do a little investigation of my own from time to time, but I'm not convinced one way or another.

Okay, back to Savannah.

As I said, during my recent visit there, a few odd things happened.

First off, there were the photographs. And let me apologize here and now for not having any of the photographs available here. They weren't my photos, as I did not take any. I'm not a person who feels a need for a camera at every single event in my life. I'd rather have the memory of the experience than the memory of me holding up a camera to capture some image I'd probably never look at more than once or twice the rest of my life. If perchance I have access to the photos at some future point, I will post them here on this blog, but as is the photos belong to some friends who live far away from me, and I don't know how they would feel about my using their images in a public venue.

Anyway, the photos.

Some friends and I went on one of the ghostly tours. Basically you ride around in a bus with about 20 other people. It's night. The driver cruises you around town, stops every so often and informs you about the supposed supernatural occurrences that have allegedly occurred at one place or another, usually an older residence or former residence that has been turned into something else, a museum house or art gallery or something similar.

During this tour, which lasted about an hour and a half, I did not notice anything out of the ordinary. The hair didn't stand up on the back of my neck. Nothing like that.

Afterwards, as my friends and I were driving back to our hotel, a couple of the women mentioned that they thought they saw something moving behind the curtains of one particular house, and that this minor event had unnerved both of them. As I was with these two the whole time, I did notice that neither of them had gotten together to discuss this particular house or the window there before we entered the car. This isn't enough to make me any kind of believer, but it was a bit odd that two separate people shared a minor event that unsettled both of them. Still, it could have been anyone behind that curtain, not necessarily a spook.

Once we got back to our hotel rooms, everyone broke out their iPads and their smart phones and started comparing photographs they had taken during the tour.

Things got a little more spooky here.

At first I saw nothing unusual. Several people pointed to a small blurry figure seemingly standing next to one of the old buildings we had seen. Everyone in the group said the figure looked like a little boy. To me it looked sort of vaguely like a fire hydrant, or perhaps a short garbage can. No one could remember a child around the building, but I also couldn't recall a fire hydrant or a garbage can. I mark this up to usual expectations from various opinions concerning ghostly images.

The next photo was apparently the creme de la creme, everyone seeing it (but me) believing it showed a pair of ghosts, a man and a woman embraced in a kiss. Everyone but me raved about how strong the image was, about how you could see the two figures with their arms wrapped around one another and their lips touching. Me, I saw a tall tree with some shadows of leaves from other trees. I was told repeatedly there had not been a tree in that spot. I could not remember a tree either, but it's not like I go around remembering where trees are located. I looked at the photo multiple times, and I still never saw anything unusual.

Another photo was of the window where the two women in our party had seen something moving. There was indeed a darkness behind the window that was unique to it when compared to the other windows, a dozen or so, of the big house, but does that really mean anything? A shadow behind a window in the night? It could have been anything. The way the light laid upon the window. Someone in the room. A gust of air brushing against the curtains. This photo did nothing to convince me of anything.

Then came the last photo. This one showed two figures standing atop the roof of one of the large houses. I can write this with a straight face because that is what I saw. The figure on the right was a man wearing a tie, his collar high and stiff and white, like the old paper collars common in the early parts of the 20th Century. The second figure, the one on the left, was harder to make out as it was much more blurred, but it also seemed to be a man. The two figures were looking out from the roof in the general direction of the camera taking the photograph. Were these two figures ghosts? I don't know. I don't necessarily believe they were, but it does raise some questions. What were these two individuals doing on the roof of an old house late at night? Were they paid to be there? Were they part of the tour, sort of actors who filled a roll? I repeat, I don't know. I do know the tour guide did not point them out and made no mention of seeing anything weird during the tour itself. But two people on a roof doesn't make them ghosts, even if the house is supposedly haunted in a city that is supposedly haunted. And why were they wearing older style clothing? Again, ghosts? Maybe, maybe not.

I'm still not convinced, but that last photo struck me as more interesting than the others.

Besides the photos, there was also a little "episode" I personally experienced on my own.

I was in a candy shop downtown Savannah with my significant other. While she was waiting in line to purchase some chocolate-covered almonds, I went in search of a restroom. I meandered around for a while with no luck in my quest, when I finally saw a sign for a restroom, the sign pointing out of the candy store proper and into a sort of indoor mall that was connected to the store.

Strolling my way into the small mall, I found it was mostly full of art galleries, which seem common in Savannah. Following another sign for the restrooms, I found my way up a stairway of curling black iron. Then I came out on the second floor of the building.

Until that moment I had not thought about the age of the building I was in. The downstairs portion, the mall and the candy shop, had looked very modern. Upstairs was a different story. There were a couple of art galleries up there, but the lay of the land was quite different. Most of the walls weren't covered with sheets of dry wall, but were old brick. Looking around and taking note of the general shape of the ceiling and what I could make out of the various doorways and the like, I decided the mall was stationed in what must have been an old warehouse or some other large structure from a much earlier time.

My reaching that second floor, and realizing the age of the building, set me back a little. Nothing unsettling happened, but I was surprised after all the glitz of modern life below. Also, whereas the candy shop and the mall had been bustling, up there I found myself quite alone.

Looking around, I finally found the door to the men's room.

Immediately upon entering, things felt ... different. The room was cold, chilling to the bone. And that didn't make sense because the outside temperature was in the 70s and the rest of the building had not been overly air conditioned. Also, the walls and ceiling and even the bathroom fixtures themselves were old, quite old, I'm talking late 19th Century old. Everything had been painted over, of course, there was no denying the age of the room.

But all of that was nothing to the sense I had of being watched. I even looked around for a mounted security camera, but nothing came to view. It was as if someone else was in the room with me, watching me, even judging me. It wasn't a hostile feeling, but it was definitely a sense of unhappiness, as if someone was saying, "You are not wanted here."

So, I wasted no time doing my business, washing my hands, and exiting.

Was that a ghost? Or something similar? I'm not convinced it was. The coldness of the room could be explained away in several fashions. And that weird feeling I had? It could have just been the moodiness of the old room bringing about an affect upon me. That, and the ghost tour and all the talk about ghosts (which is practically impossible to avoid in Savannah), could have infringed upon my mind so that it would have been almost impossible for me to not have had such an experience.

Ghosts? Maybe, maybe not. I cannot say one way or the other. But I did enjoy my stay in Savannah, and I'll likely head back that way eventually.

What I want to say about cancer

I don't talk much on this blog about my personal life for two reasons: 1.) I like my personal life to remain just that, personal, and 2.) This is mainly meant to be a blog about writing in general but my own writing in specific.

However, cancer always seems to be in the news, and sometimes it hits home for the speculative fiction crowd.

Just a few days ago, the fabulous Eugie Foster announced over at her site that she has been diagnosed with cancer. I'll let Eugie tell her story over there.

I'll tell what I've got to tell here.

That I know of, no, I do not have cancer. I have enough health problems of my own without cancer, some quite serious health problems. I live with congestive heart disease, gout, a heel spur, and all the various ailments that go along with all that stuff. Unfortunately, I have not aged well, and the last few years my body has gone down hill on me quite a bit.

Still, I do not have cancer.

That being said, like millions of people in the U.S. and across the globe, cancer has had an effect upon my life.

Three of my four grandparents died of cancer. And because you'll probably be asking yourself at this point, the fourth died of slipping on some ice and cracking his skull.

Stop laughing.

Seriously.

Done yet?

Okay, back to cancer.

I also lost an uncle to cancer about 25 years ago, and he was only three years older than I am now.

More recently, about five years ago my mother was diagnosed with Stage I breast cancer. She had a tough time of it for a year or so, including having a breast removed, but she pulled through. She was declared cancer free last year, and now her chances of having cancer again are about the same as anybody's.

Most recently, my better half was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer this past January.

Stage IV.

That means the cancer has spread beyond the breast(s) to other parts of the body. In this case, the lungs, the spine and other bones. So far.

The first thing anyone asks whenever I or my loved one tells them about this is, "How long do you have?"

It's almost become a joke. Really, we laugh about it sometimes. How long do you have? Nobody knows. That's the truth. Even all the doctors, the specialists and oncologists, can't give a good estimation.

She could have a few months or a few years. Some small number of cases live ten to twenty years.

But the chances of long-term survival are much better nowadays than they were just five years ago. And back then, things were better than they were five years before that. And so on back through time.

You might be nodding, thinking, "Well, of course. Medical treatments have come a long way."

Yes, they have. But the reality is my better half's survival rate is much, much higher now than it was just five years ago.

Think about that.

I'm sure logically you realize the importance of this, but I'm not sure you can emotionally, not unless you've been through something similar.

As recently as March of this year, the woman I love was practically comatose. Even the nurses and doctors did not believe she had more than a few days left. I went home from the hospital every night expecting a 3 a.m. phone call telling me the worst.

But then, slowly, through various treatments and movements from one hospital to a facility and then to another hospital, she got better.

Now she can walk some, with the help of a walker. She has pain, but it is manageable. More importantly, she is conscious and aware. Sometimes her memory slips a little, but that can happen to all of us. Some days are better than others.

But she is home, and relatively healthy. This after she had been hospitalized for nearly six months.

Some would call that a miracle. I'm not necessarily saying it is a miracle, but others would.

Okay, I've rambled on about cancer, but I've not really imparted any wisdom. What is it I really want to say here?

I want to let others know there is hope. There is survival.

Cancer has not been beaten, but much of it can be treated now, especially breast cancer, which has been studied more than any other type of cancer. Long term survival rates are improving all the time, and today's cancer patient might possibly live long enough to actually be around when a cure is discovered, if one ever is.

I don't wish to give false hope, nor do I want to get all spiritual. Cancer is still deadly.

But again, we laugh when someone asks, "How long do you have?"

Why? Because we don't know, and we don't think that way. We don't think, "Oh, she's only got a few months or a few years." We go on with life, we live life, however long we've got.

With my heart condition, it's not impossible I'll go before her. Or I could get hit by a train or struck by lightning. I could even slip on some ice and crack my skull.

It happens.

Now stop laughing, and go live your life.

My brief, real-life search for vampires

I've never told anyone this story. It's not that it's a secret or anything, but more that I never thought it was much of a big deal. Still, the memory hit me recently, so I thought I'd share since the Halloween season is just around the corner.

Lo those many, many moons ago when I was an undergrad (1980s), I took part in a class on 19th Century literature. At the end of the semester, we students had to turn in something like a 20-page paper on the history behind a particular novel. At the time I thought 20 pages was a ton, as likely did most undergrads, but now I'd laugh and think, "Wow. 20 pages is nothing."

Especially given the novel I was handed for my report.

Dracula, by Bram Stoker.

I've never been the biggest fan of the novel. I've read it a few times over the years, and I do enjoy it, but I don't gush over it like so many others I've known.

It was also fortunate for me to have landed Dracula because at the time I already knew a fair amount about the real-life history of vampirism. I was still in a phase in which I wanted to be a horror novelist, so I was somewhat well read in all things horror, the supernatural, the occult, etc.

Keep in mind, this was in the days before the Internet. My knowledge had been gained almost entirely from books at that point.

As time drew near for my paper to be due, I did like every other undergrad and waited until the last minute. Or near abouts. Maybe a week before the end of the semester, I decided it was time to get serious about this paper because it wouldn't write itself.

I gathered and studied my personal books at home, the ones I thought would provide me with information and bibiliographical material, but I felt it wasn't enough.

I wanted to go deeper, to study in detail the rise of the idea of vampirism.

To that end, I made a trip to the main library in the city where I lived. It was in an old building even then, a building that now houses a historical museum. The aisles were tight, rooms were empty, and the lights didn't always work. It was a gloomy place, what one might think of as a spooky place.

I always felt myself alone there. More than alone. It was like being stranded in a world made of nothing but books. There easily were hours that would go by without me seeing another living person unless I glanced out a window to the surrounding streets, and even those streets weren't near as the building was surrounded by a sizable yard.

Anyway, I spent some time there doing my vampire research. And I came up with nothing. Yes, nothing. Available were very few books which had any indepth material, or at least there was no material I did not already have access to through my books at home.

Disappointed, I decided to give my university's main library a try. It wasn't as old, but it was much larger than the city's library.

There ... things got a little weird.

Going through the library's card catalogues (remember, no Internet, very few computers), I was glad to find there were indeed more than a few books pertaining to my subject, some of these books apparently quite deep into the history of vampirism, especially during the Middle Ages.

I broke out a trusty yellow pad and a pen and started up a list of all these books, along with the Dewey Decimal numbers to allow me to find the books. By the time I was finished, the first page of the pad was filled. I had something like 25 books to research, most of which I'd never heard of before.

Great. That got me going.

By the time I got a chance to begin my serious hunt for these books, and I wanted them all for my own purposes if not for the upcoming paper, night had spread its dark wings upon the campus.

Placement of the first book was supposed to be on the third floor. I went up to find the book. It was not there. I shrugged it off, figuring the book had been checked out. I went on to the next book, which was supposed to have been on the floor above. It also was not available.

I kept up my search. It took hours. Midnight was drawing near.

And none of the 25 books were to be found.

Odd.

Especially considering these weren't mainstream reading materials. Some of the books were a century in age or older. I couldn't fathom that all of them had been checked out. A few of them, maybe even half of them, yes, I could accept that in the off chance some other student (there were 25,000 of us, after all) was also doing similar research.

As closing time neared, I decided to head to the ground floor. My plan was to ask one of the librarian assistants to run a computer check for me to find out what had had happened to all these books.

Hitting the stairwell in the oldest end of the building, I began to work my way down. I had started at the very top, the sixth floor, and kept plodding down and down and down. All the while, I never passed another living being, which was unusual. I shrugged it off due to the lateness of the hour.

When I reached what was familiar to me as the ground floor, I tried the door. It was locked.

Weird. I'd never known that door to be locked.

Even odder was that the narrow vertical window in the door through which I usually could see the front room of the library, it was covered by some kind of paper or poster. And I could hear nothing beyond. Usually there would be the hustle and bustle of students, librarians and assistants, even at this late hour. But now? Nothing.

Was my watch wrong and closing time had already come? Had the library's hours of operation changed without my noticing? Was I locked inside?

By this time I was becoming somewhat frustrated. I had spent hours trying to do research and nothing had come of it. Now I was possibly locked inside the library.

I considered climbing back up to the second floor to try the door there. Even if I was locked in the library, perhaps I could find an assistant working late or a security guard. If worse came to worse, perhaps I could find a phone to call the campus police and let them know about my situation.

But I didn't do that.

To this day, I'm not real sure why I didn't do that. It would have been the logical thing to do.

Instead, I continued my way down the stairs.

I knew there were lower levels to many of the major buildings on campus, including the library, but those basements were not my true goal.

Most students at the time were not aware of it, but my university had an underground tunnel network that connected most of the major buildings on campus. The tunnels were mainly for employees to use, to quickly allow them to move from one spot to another without wading through the throngs of students that often filled the grounds. I happened to be aware of this tunnel system because being a journalism student and reporter and editor for my college newspaper, I had a few connections not readily available to most other students. I had even been down in the tunnels once, but that had been in another part of campus. The portion of the tunnels I had seen had been quite modern looking, mostly concrete block, clean and lit well.

I suppose my thinking was that I would head down to the tunnels and try to find my way to another part of campus. But I really don't remember giving it any thought at all.

I just headed down and down.

At the first sub-level landing, I noticed the steps and the landings were not as clean as the levels above. There was grime and grit built up on the walls and at the sides of the steps. The flourescent lighting was dimmer, weaker, and there was even an old plastic bucket sitting in a corner with dirty, grayish water floating about within.

Ah, well. Students and staff didn't come down here, so the custodial staff probably didn't care so much.

There was a door on this level, metal and thick looking. It was locked, and there was no window through which to see.

Inexplicably, I continued down.

The next basement level was even dirtier and darker. The single flouresenct bulb flickered off and on. The walls were nearly black with grime.The door here was also locked, and grungy looking.

I kept going down.

On the third landing, I could barely see. The light here did not flicker, but it barely burned. You know when a flourscent bulb has nearly died and only glows a very light purplish color kind of like a blacklight hung over a '70s rock poster? Yeah, it was like that. Also, there was so much gunk on the floors that my steps were tacky, and I was afraid to touch the walls for fear of coming away with who knows what.

But, thankfully, there was another door. Another big, thick, heavy metal door.

I tried the cold, round handle.

And it opened.

I gave a sigh of relief.

But then I stopped. There was no light beyond the door. I only opened it a few inches, but I could see nothing inside but a flat blackness. And the chill. It felt like waves of cold were rolling from the room beyond. I remember having a jacket on, and I still shivered.

The better part of valor gave me caution at that point, and I decided to close the door.

Glancing around, I saw the stairs went even further down, but there was no light there. More blackness lay ahead of me if I continued along my path.

Standing there, I felt a bit foolish. I told myself I wasn't going to go through a dark door into someplace with which I was not familiar, and I would be an idiot to go down a stairwell into darkness, but deep down there was more to it than that. I was beginning to feel as if I was caught up in something ... unusual.

The search for the books. The eerie stairwell. The door that opened into a black darkness. It was kind of like something a Lovecraft character might experience, and I was well aware of Lovecraft even at my young age.

I decided it was time to head back up the stairs, to try the door at the ground floor again, or perhaps to continue to higher levels in search of an open door or a person or a phone or anything.

My way was not retarded. Nothing slowed me in the least, other than my growing fatigue at the lateness of the hour and all the walking and climbing I had been doing.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually I reached the ground floor again. Oddly, the window in the door was no longer covered, and beyond I could see the familiar well-lit main room of the library, plenty of people floating around there and the sounds of their hustling and bustling coming to my ears. I was most gratified to find the door opened easily at my touch.

By this time it was near one in the morning, and the library staff were preparing to close up for the night. Still, I had to finish my paper, and I wasn't giving up yet on my hunt for those books. I had a few minutes left, so why not make the best of them?

I proceeded to a desk, one of those long and tall and wide and giant desks you see only in old libraries, and told the lady behind it of my general situation. She asked to see my list of 25 books, so I handed it over to her. She spent a couple of minutes tapping away at the keyboard to the computer in front of her, then frowned and called over a younger person, a guy about my own age and obviously a student. Apparently the older woman had felt her computer skills weren't up to the task, so she was seeking help. The newcomer tapped away for a couple of minutes himself, then he began frowning.

Finally he looked up at me through his glasses. He seemed a little worried. "All of these books are missing."

"Missing?" I asked.

"Yes," was the response, with no qualifications.

We stood there staring at one another for what felt like long seconds. Eventually, I asked, "Well, were they stolen or checked out?"

"Yes," he said, which didn't exactly answer my question, "but none of them have been returned."

The woman looked as if she should add something to the conversation, so she said, "They've been gone for at least a year. All of them were checked out within a matter of days of one another."

Flummoxed, I still wouldn't surrender my quest. "Well, can't you see who checked out the books and contact them to return the books?"

The guy glanced at the screen again, then back to me. "That's the thing, though, it doesn't say who checked them out?"

"What?"

He turned around the heavy computer monitor so I could see its glow of bright orange on black. Then he pointed to a digital row of the list of books I had been seeking, his finger coming to rest at a specific blank space next to one of the books.

"Normally there's a name here telling us the person who checked out the book," he said. "But as you can see, there's nothing. And when I checked for the card number of the last person to rent the book, there was nothing there either. I've never seen this before."

Both of them stared at me confused.

At this point, I lost my cool a little. I didn't curse, but I do think I stomped a foot.

Glancing around, I'm sure with frustration clear on my face, I said, "Man, I've spent hours in this place, and it's been a waste. I've climbed from the top of the building all the way down to the third sub-basement, and I've got nothing to show for it."

They looked at one another, then looked back at me, their confusion all the greater.

"But, sir," the guy said, "this building only has one basement level. It's the cafeteria."

I stared back at him. "Can't be. I was just down there."

The woman provided a grin and a "tch," then added, "Honey, I've worked here nearly 30 years. I can tell you, there's nothing below us but the cafeteria."

It was then I remembered the library's cafeteria. I had only been down there once before, but I did remember it.

I muttered something, thanking them while retrieving my written list of the 25 books, then shuffled my way out the door and into the winter night, which wasn't as cold as that chill I had felt coming from behind that basement door.

Nothing more came of any of this. I finished my report with the books available to me at home. I seem to recall getting an "A."

Now, it has been about 25 years since those events happened, so my mind might not be perfect about all the details. A while back I found that hand written list of 25 books on vampirism. It was stuffed into one of my old notebooks on Roman history (yes, I kept them, all six). I thought I might try to find those books today, especially since I have the power of the Internet at my fingertips. But alas, I have misplaced the list again, and will have to search for it.

I would like to add that I am not a believer in the supernatural. But I'm also not a disbeliever. A few strange things have happened to me in my life, things which I can't readily explain, but none of them were so odd that I couldn't imagine some natural reason behind them. The little tale I've told above is all true as I recall it, but I'm not sure it bordered on the supernatural. Perhaps I was overly tired. Perhaps my memory is incorrect. Perhaps there was just a series of misunderstandings.

I don't know.

But sometimes, every once in a while when I think about that little situation, I can't help but feel that something was giving me a warning, something was saying, "Stay away."

Whatever the matter, I'm glad I didn't go through that basement door.

Untitled

Eleven years ago, almost to the day, we met standing in line at a German deli. We both like quality sandwiches, so that was a good start. After we chatted for a few minutes, she excused herself to go to the restroom. As the minutes ticked by, I figured she had bailed on me, must have not liked what she'd seen. But I wasn't leaving, not without my sandwich. Finally she returned, and we ate together and talked together, and ...

That was how we met.

Eleven years then rolls by. Sometimes it feels like I've been with her a thousand years, as if we've always been together. Other days it feels like it's only been a matter of minutes.

We have loved one another, raged at one another, held one another, cried together, fought together, snuggled together, shared tremendous losses with one another, and experienced joys with one another.

Then, at the end of that eleven years, it comes down to a single hospital visit for a hurting leg. Just a sore leg. Surely nothing more than a minor fracture. A shot, a cast, a cane, that's all that's expected.

But it is not all that is received.

Stage IV breast cancer that has spread to the lungs, the liver, and the spine. At least it has not spread to the brain.

Chemotherapy treatments will begin immediately, soon after to be followed by a transfer to a special cancer unit at one of the top hospitals in the country.

Survival could be a matter of months, maybe a couple of years. Some few "miracle" cases, between 1 and 3 percent, have long term survival of 5 years or longer. But even then, at what cost? Surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy, pills, needles ... a never-ending barrage of medical treatments almost as devastating to the body as the cancer itself.

It is quite possible she will never return home. And when I am home I see the now-warm glass of Diet Coke she left sitting on the nightstand. I see her night clothes on the floor next to the bed. I see empty rooms and the wide eyes of a beagle staring up at me, those eyes pleading, not understanding.

So, I sit and I type and little else seems to have any meaning.

Oh, yeah, and I pray.

Because there is nothing else to be done.

Backing off the online world

After two blog tours in the last six months, I've decided to take a break from online life. No, I'm not going to give up blogging altogether or anything like that, but I will be backing off some. I enjoy blogging and social networking, but frankly, it's just become too much. Every time I turn around there's some hot, new site that everyone just has to be on.

I say enough. I already spend time on Facebook, Kindle Boards, various blogs, and sometimes twitter. That is more than enough. It's time to spend more time writing.

Which is what I'm going to do right now.

After I feed the beagle.

Only in America ... will a stranger hand you a loaded gun

So I'm visiting my mom last week in Jesse Helms country. She lives out in the country, not much different from where I grew up in Kentucky. There's next to nothing out there except trailers and churches, with every few miles a small country store looking like it's about to fall down.

I dropped in one of these small stores, as I often do. I was just going in to pick up a candy bar or something. In the back of the place was a table around which sat four or five good-ole boys. If you have to have the term "good-old boys" explained to you, I'm probably not much help. Let's just say that with my beard, ball cap and gut, along with my Kentucky accent, I can pass easy enough for a good-ole boy and might even have a little good-ole boy in me.

Anyway, I get what I came for and walk past the table on my way to the counter. To my surprise there are several semi-automatic handguns on the table between all these fellows. As a former owner of firearms, I have some interest in the subject, so I started paying attention to the conversation at the table.

Most of the talk was about the various worth (in quality, not dollars) of the guns on display. One of the guns was a Taurus, and it was built upon a similar model to one of my favorite handguns, the Beretta 92FS. Both are nine millimeters, but in my opinion the Beretta is a far better handgun than the Taurus. I made a point of letting the group know my opinion.

I was surprised when none disagreed with me. It wasn't that they were a bad lookin' group of fellows or anything, but it's a rare thing for one gun enthusiast anywhere at any time to announce an opinion without a hundred other gun enthusiasts gettin' all up in arms (so to speak).

I knew none of these men. I'm not a local. Very few people know me in the region.

But suddenly one of the guys picks up the Taurus and hands it to me, saying something like, "Get a feel for this thing."

I do not hesitate. In a safe manner, the barrel facing the floor and my trigger finger outside of the guard, I take the weapon. It is heavy. Heavier than I expected.

Because there are bullets in it.

How did I determine this? Because I popped out the magazine and stared at the brass with my own eyes. Then I partially tugged back the slide and sure enough, there was another round in the chamber. At least the safety was on.

I slid the magazine back into the gun, hefted it a little, talked a little bull with the guys, then place the firearm back on the table.

After a little more chat, I paid for my donuts or whatever and made my way down the road.

This is not an exceptional story. I'm sure such things happen all the time.

But driving down the road, it dawned on me: Would such happen anywhere else in the world than America?

Yes, it probably would, but I'm guessing in few places and quite rarely.

Imagine, handing a loaded firearm to a complete stranger. You'd never do it, would you? Neither would I. Oh, I'm sure I could imagine some extreme circumstances in which I might be willing to do such, but they would be few and far between.

How did these guys know I wouldn't hold the place up? Or just go on some shooting spree? How would they know if I were some recently escaped psycho on the prowl for someone to kill?

I guess I looked enough of a good-ole boy that I passed the muster. Just glad we didn't start talking politics or religion, because I'm sure there would have been some disagreements at some point.

But I still say the Beretta is a better firearm.

My thoughts on the new KDP Select, plus Facebook and YouTube

In case you haven't heard, Amazon recently announced a new digital publishing program called KDP Select, which is part of the company's more broad KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) program. If you are unfamiliar with KDP, it is basically Amazon's program for allowing writers and publishers to publish e-books through Amazon.

If you are unfamiliar with KDP Select, what this program does is allow writers and publishers to make their e-books available to U.S. Prime Amazon members through the Kindle Owners' Lending Library. Make sense? Probably not unless you're an indie author or a publisher. Basically, think of the Lending Library program like the old-school libraries in which you could borrow books for free, except in this case it's e-books, and technically it's not free since you have to pay to become a U.S. Prime Amazon member.

Still, what this means for readers is they can pay some money and then borrow an e-book each month without having to shell out the full purchase price to read the e-book. Of course it also means the reader will not actually own the e-book, thus the e-book will only be available on their personal Kindle for a month.

Are you lost yet? Sorry. I realize all this might be over the heads of a lot of folks who are not writers or publishers. But, to be honest, this post is mainly for those who are in the know.

For writers and publishers, what does KDP Select mean for us? It opens up a potential other market, with a chance to make some more money.

Unfortunately, at least as things stand right now, there are a lot of down sides to this. You have to read the small print. Actually, I highly suggest anyone considering using KDP Select should read the small print before jumping right in.

Why?

Well, first off, if you join the KDP Select program, your e-books within the program are exclusive with Amazon for at least 90 days. If you don't understand the word "exclusive," in this case it means for at least 90 days you cannot sell those e-books that are part of KDP Select anywhere else online, including on your own website. Do I need to repeat this? I hope not. I hope the importance of this got through to you the first time.

Secondly, the money to be made from KDP Select is somewhat questionable. I'm not suggesting there is not money to be made here, but ... well, let me try to explain. If you have an e-book enrolled in KDP Select, you do not get paid the same way you do in the KDP program. In KDP, you sell an e-book and you get paid for it. In KDP Select, each month Amazon allots a certain amount of money to the program, then you would get a percentage of the program. Considering the amount of money Amazon is going to allot to KDP Select could change from month to month, and considering you are being paid a percentage instead of as a straight sale, you will never know how much money you are making or can make from month to month, at least not until it's time to pay you, and then you have to trust Amazon's word on what your percentage of sales should be.

Thirdly ... I'm not going to go into a thirdly. Just read all the fine print. Most of it does not sound very good to me, to be honest.

As you can likely tell by now, no, I am not planning to take part in the KDP Select program. I see little benefit to it as things stand right now. If the program should change in the future, I will reconsider.

I'm read several places online where some indie writers are saying KDP Select is a good thing because they're not selling at any of the other sites anyway, so why shouldn't they just publish everything through Amazon?

Why? Does one have to be a brain surgeon to figure out the why? Because it is never a safe bet to have all one's eggs in one basket. Is that simple and quaint enough for others to understand? In the long run, indie authors are much better off having their e-books (and books, for that matter) for sale at as many different venues as possible.

For example, if an e-book is placed within the KDP Select program, that means at least for 90 days it is not available at B&N, Smashwords, Apple, Sony, Kobo, Diesel and plenty of other, lesser-known sites. Even for those who do not sell much at those sites, 90 days is a death sentence for their e-books; one is almost guaranteeing their e-book will never get any recognition at those sites, or anywhere else beyond Amazon. Which is downright foolish. Amazon is big, but it's not the end-all, be-all of e-book sales.

Now let me add here that I do not mean to disparage Amazon. I don't like their KDP Select program as it is, and I have concerns about some of their other business practices, but I don't blame the company for what it does. It's looking for new and/or other revenue models, which only makes sense for a business, especially one as big as Amazon.

However, I would like to bring up a few names: AOL, Compuserve, Netscape, even eBay.

Recognize those companies? Younger folks might not. Older folks will. Us older folks can remember a decade or more back when those companies were huge, dominate forces in the Internet world. All of them are still around, admittedly, but none (with the possible exception of eBay) are anywhere near as powerful, financially strong, popular or as useful as they once were. EBay is still the strongest of that group I mentioned, but even they are practically useless for most consumers nowadays, at least compared to what eBay used to be until about 10 years ago.

I bring up all these dinosaurs of the Internet because I see a lot of today's major players making the same mistakes those companies made a decade ago. Those older websites/companies were at the top of their game at one time, and they did certain things very, very well. Their customers loved the sites, and loved what the sites and companies did for the consumer.

But enough wasn't enough. Those companies couldn't simply focus upon what they did well. They had to expand. They had to try new things. They changed their interfaces, they brought about new products, they did a little of this and they did a little of that ... meanwhile, they moved further and further away from what they once upon a time did at the core of their business model. And eventually, over a few years, they began to lose customers.

I see this happening today, and my prediction would be the same fate awaits many of today's giants, though it might take a decade or so for it all to work out.

Every time I sign onto Facebook, there's some new change, always something annoying and usually not helpful to me as a user. What this does is make me go back to Facebook less and less.

YouTube I have already given up on. The site has changed so much recently, I practically find it worthless.

And, unfortunately, I'm starting to spot signs of Amazon doing the same things. Expanding. Reaching out. Trying new things. All while forgetting about its original mission.

Please don't get me wrong. I realize growth is good and necessary for business. I get that. Really, I do.

But when it gets to the point in which a company is no longer serving its customers, those customers will go away.

It's happened before. It'll happen again.

Just ask Compuserve.

Thoughts on job hunting and setting one's own destiny

I had been thinking about getting a job lately. You know, a real job. I don't have to. I make enough from my writing to keep the bills paid. But it's been three years since I've had a regular job job, and of late I've kind of missed working out of the home, being out among people. My thinking was I'd get some little, part-time job somewhere working 20 hours a week, just enough to help a little more with the bills and to get me out of the house.

After a few months of looking and a handful of interviews, I've changed my mind. I no longer want to get a job job.

Here's why: It has come to my attention that the workplace today is sheer insanity.

I look back upon my life, 20 years of working in an office, and now I realize most of that was a waste of my time. Other than some friendships I made as a journalist, I have nothing to show for it. Let me repeat, nothing. No, I do not have a pension because most companies did away with those. I used to have a 401 (k) but I had to cash in on that when I got laid off a few years ago, so that's gone. I guess someone could argue, "Well, yeah, but what about all that stuff you bought over the years?" You mean all that stuff I sold, gave away or junked because I realized I didn't need it anymore? That stuff?

I don't want to come off like some Occupy Wall Street protester, but seriously, I can't imagine ever working for anyone else again. In my opinion, unless one has children or has some possibility of special benefits looming (retirement or tenure or the like), working for someone else is bonkers.

Every damn job I saw, from high-end corporate positions down to the lowliest toilet scrubbing jobs, wanted someone with "high energy" and "available to work any and all hours" including weekends and holidays and getting no extra pay for it. No benefits. No chance of promotion. No guarantee of even having a job in a few months. Uh, yeah, when I was 20. I'm not 20 any more, not by a long shot. And no, I'm not willing to scrub your toilet at three in the morning for minimum wage.

Call me lazy. Call me a radical. Call me anti-American. I frankly don't give a shit. Selling one's soul to the company store is highly overrated and gets you nowhere in the long run but to an early grave.

Screw that. At my age, after what I've experienced in my life, I'd rather be homeless on the street than working my ass off to make someone else rich.

Never again. I'll keep writing.

My apologies to my friends who find themselves still stuck in the working world. I'm sorry you're there, but please, please, try to find something where you can set your own destiny. If that happens to be within the corporate world, so be it, but do your own thing.

A goodbye to Chloey

I just wanted to say goodbye to Chloey, to leave some mark upon the world for her, for others to know she existed and was loved.

Chloey was a rabbit. She died recently, and she went out in a lot of pain, crying out in the night and thrashing about. It was heartbreaking to watch, to be able to do nothing more than be there with her.

Little girl, you are missed. I wish I could have done more for you, especially in the end, especially because you were such a good girl. I do not know what lies beyond this life, if anything, but I do know your pain is gone. My hope is you are in good hands. If everyone from over the years is there with you now, please tell Porthos, Zoey, Antonio, Gracey and Cranberry they have not been forgotten.

Sometimes you get lucky ... with The Beatles

Recently I was visiting a city about an hour from where I'm currently staying, and visited a thrift store. From time to time I go into such stores to look at the selection of old books, and I've been fortunate enough to come across some great finds.

But this time I didn't walk about with any books. Instead, I found these six beauties:

Yep, six Beatles singles, all originals from Capitol Records from the 1960s. All with the sleeves, and all in at least very good condition.

Am I the biggest Beatles fan in the world? No, but I do like them. And I count myself fortunate with this find at a thrift store.

What am I going to do with these six 45s? To be honest, I'm not sure. I might keep them, or I might not. I might sell them on eBay, because I'm sure I could at least double the $60 it cost for these albums.

I just knew I could not pass them up when they came along.

And I heard a rumor from one of the thrift store clerks they have some Monkees 45s on the way and possibly some more Beatles singles.. I'm not much of a Monkees fan, though they had a few decent songs, but maybe this means the store will have more 45s in the future. I'm keeping my eyes out for some Beach Boys, and I'll be visiting this store again very soon.