Glitches Galore

An odd picture of our new environment. The ocean had all these weird patterns one day. We never did find out what caused it. It’s beautiful like this too.

Sometimes our Glitchersons thing is about…to borrow a term…Mundane mishaps. We have not been having a great start to this year. Soon after Christmas, Piers got sick. At first it seemed like a mild cold. Or whatever. It didn’t really seem like Covid. We’d neglected to send off for more tests, and by the time we got some from Amazon , the time for testing was past. I of course got sick too. 

Piers, as usual, though he was really sick for a while bounced out of it and was good as new before long. I did not bounce. Unless you consider that what I did was bounce right onto bronchitis. Oh, man, that was miserable. It lasted for weeks on end. I used to get it yearly when I was a kid, but it had been decades since I’d had it and years since I’d been very sick, except for covid twice.

When I was a child my parents would keep me home sick for as long as they could without skating close to truancy. Once I started coughing I didn’t stop for half of forever. I can remember my mom taking me to the bathroom, putting the lid down on the toilet, running the tub nearly full of hot water, and holding me on her lap to breathe in the steam which somewhat eased the coughing. We don’t have a tub here, so that fix was out for.me now.. So I coughed. And coughed. And….

I do a lot of research and tend to take care of myself. I knew antibiotics don’t work with viruses, which was backed up by my visits to Google. I drank as much fluid as I could. Rested. And coughed. And coughed. And…

When I finally stopped, it was as if the world suddenly changed, which it did. Silence settled over our home. The peace was bliss. Oddly. Piers slept through it mostly. I would have hated to keep him awake, but he’s very lucky to pretty much be able to sleep at will. He took such good care of me, bringing me food and drinks, so we could have bed picnics together, doing chores for and with me, loving and supporting me through the ordeal. 

He still does all that, because I’m still not fully recovered. More Googling has me convinced  I have post viral fatigue, a condition similar to Long Covid, on top of actual Long Covid. I’ve been doing the invalid routine still, while I  rest and rest and rest, and slowly recover from one of theworst illnesses I’ve had in ages. 

I’m so glad Piers’ didn’t go into bronchitis. Hell turn 90 in August. Though he seems so much young. The older he gets the less sick he needs to stay, so we got lucky. He’s pretty amazing. Every day, while he was so sick, he kept working on Xanth #50. He’s pulling out all the stops to make this one even more fun and special than usual. It will be quite a ride. 

A glimpse of Piers’ view as he writes.

His bird’s eye view of a sunrise.

I’ve only just recently started feeling human enough to start writing again. I’m working on my part of a new collaborative dark fantasy story with Piers. I’m so glad I’ve taught myself to write on my phone. I love writing on the couch, where I can turn to look at the Pacific out the wall of glass with the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, and always in earshot of the whooshing waves. It doesn’t get any better than that. Though Piers might disagree, as he writes perched at his desk by a window where he can gaze out over our beautiful neighborhood, seeing bustling traffic, beautiful flowers in season, many palm trees, and very distant snow capped mountains. Different writers are inspired by different environments. Of course.

The waves that so loudly accompany my writing time with their whooshing.

Thrown into the middle of all this was a 4.6 earthquake several weeks ago that we drastically felt. The floor seemed to undulate at first. Then we felt the building sway! That was very freaky. No harm, no danger, though. Just a bit more excitement than we might wish for. 

I know some of you come here to try to see why there haven’t been any HiPiers Newsletters in so long. We’ve had everything from technical difficulties (AKA glitches), to being super busy, to just general Glitchersonsiness. A very late one is in our tech guy’s hands now and will hopefully be up soon. We apologize for the extended delays. I intend to learn how to successfully post them myself, which should expedite matters somewhat. I need to get more of my strength and stamina back before I tackle that, though. 

Please bear with us, and know that Piers’ is fine and enjoying our still new to us adventure. He exercises regularly, including working out every day with 20 pound dumb bells, and most importantly to him and all of his readers he does his favorite thing…write his wonderful books and stories. (I was his fan too, long before I was his wife!)

Curse

Our story written together, held together.

Our Dark Fantasy story “Curse” is out in the world now. Published in a flash fiction anthology, from Mannison Press. A long time ago, in another life, I discovered the writings of a fellow named Piers Anthony. I started reading every one of his novels and stories I could find. It wasn’t easy to find many books published in English from my home in housing on an army post in Germany. Precomputers. PreAmazon.

Eventually I was in Tennessee sharing a house with my mother, who was also my best friend in the world. I wrote a fan letter to my favorite author, and by what seemed to be some marvelous miracle, we ended up in a correspondence that lasted nearly a quarter century. Why did it end? We met in person, after his wife and my mother had both died as the result of long illnesses, fell in love, and got married.

After about three years in Florida we recently moved to the beach in California. We’ve discovered we enjoy writing together. I’m a published author as well, and we’ve been working on some projects. “Curse” is the first one to be published. Hopefully the first of many. Seeing our names together in our byline and the ToC is a dream come true. Pardon me while I go stare at the title page some more!

When A Writing Fantasy Becomes Fantasy Writing

Anyone who reads this blog may remember that science fiction and fantasy author  Piers Anthony was my favorite author long before we met (after a near 25 year correspondence), got married, and he also became my favorite husband. Not surprisingly, over time I had a little fantasy/dream. It was all about how cool it would be to write and be published with him.

Well, sometimes dreams really do come true. We have written a fantasy flash fiction together. “Curse” will be published on October 12, in Faux Paws, a Minibook Anthology from Mannison Press. He has a second solo flash fiction “The Net” that will also be published in Faux Paws.

I can’t begin to describe how much I’m looking forward to seeing our bylines on “Curse” together. It will be our first published collaborative work. Hopefully, there will be more to come. We are currently working on a couple of cowritten books. Things get interesting when two published authors get married and find that they enjoy writing together.

When Only Your Neurons Do The Writing

Sometimes, no matter how much you enjoy writing, the rest of your life takes precedence. Piers got me this mug a couple of days ago, and I’ve been thinking about its message. It could mean any number of things, depending on the day you’re having. I’ve decided that for me, it means to write the story your brain’s screaming at you to tell, even during those days when you’re too busy to sit down at your keyboard and tappity tap the keys. Let your mind do its thing…plot, run dialogue, show you imagery that makes you smile…. You’re still a writer, even if your mind contains all of the process, when the need arises. Yes, sometimes you forget exactly what you want to physically write by the time you can. That’s okay. The gist is still there. Hopefully. If not your brain was still made happy by the experience. If you remember it all, all the better. When you get back to those keys, it flows like a river of words. Life sustaining word water…the stuff devoted writers crave and always manage to find a source of…even if the river is sometimes a synaptic flow looking for its waiting vessel.

Star Trek: Picard, Strange New Worlds, and I

I am a long time Star Trek fan, who fell in love with The Next Generation from picking up a novel on a whim. I don’t remember which one it was. That was a long time ago. It had Picard and Doctor Crusher on the cover, which got my attention. I’ve always thought Star Trek novels had gorgeous covers. I remember Kieth Birdsong’s work being particularly wonderful. So, I read it, really enjoyed it, and eventually read more than 200 Star Trek novels across the franchise. Devouring book after book as fast as I could get hold of them was one of the greatest joys of my reading life.

Then loving Star Trek so much that I was inspired to begin writing fiction became another great joy. I taught myself to write by studying my favorite Star Trek authors, Peter David and Michael Jan Friedman. I entered the Strange New Worlds Contest…many times. I won three times, had some stories make the alternate list, and all but one make the second read pile. Having my winning stories published in the Strange New Worlds anthologies by Pocket Books was a wonderful experience. Seeing the first one on bookstore shelves was a highlight of my writing life.

My third winning story was published in Strange New Worlds 10. It was “The Very Model”, wherein I explored what it might be like for Picard and Geordie to try desperately to coax Data’s positronic…being…out of the depths of B4. It was set, of course, in the aftermath of Star Trek: Nemesis. Data was dead. Many fans wanted it to stay that way. Enough already with bringing beloved characters back from whatever fate had befallen them. Let it go…let it be…let Data be gone. But I couldn’t. I wanted him back and one of the best things about writing is that what we can imagine, we can make happen.

So, in the tiny corner of the Trekverse I controlled, Picard spent arduous hours on the holodeck, trying to coax his friend to emerge back into the world. B4 was certainly not Data. He was childlike. He was…well, he was not the sharpest spine on a lionfish. Geordie tinkered, Picard encouraged…Data flashed in and out, bit by bit. At one point he sang some Gilbert and Sullivan, but he was far from the very model of anything at all. On the holodeck any scenario can be deployed. So they tried having Data’s long dead daughter Lal help him to return to them. Slowly, eventually, painstakingly, Picard was able to converse with the Data he knew. He was back. A real boy again. Or as close to as possible.

Even people who didn’t want Data brought back liked the way I did it. It was gratifying to win some of those fans over. People who did want him back loved the story. That’s gratifying in a whole different way. Time has passed, SNW ended, with volume 10.

Now I’ve watched Star Trek: Picard and I absolutely loved it. It is beautifully shot, directed, and the viewing experience is very cinematic. It has a sophisticated style that in some series might seem slick. In Picard, it is simply perfect. It has a similar feel to The Next Generation, yet it’s also something brand new. For me, there were unique bittersweet moments that went beyond old characters returning and old characters leaving us. When there was mention of Data’s heroic death, his remarkable life, and the friendship he shared with Picard, it resonated with me not only because of how beautifully the stories were told, but also because I was given the honor and pleasure of putting my own mark on the Nemesis aftermath. Picard tells its tales differently, of course, but hearing those beloved characters speaking of arcs that sort of run parallel to mine was a wonderful experience. Unique to me, as I watched the first season and look forward to many more to come.

That’s one of the best things about Star Trek. There are always more stories to tell.

Life In My Rearview Mirror

I was out with Piers one day, while he sawed off a fairly large pine tree branch right by the driveway. It had died and was positioned just right to whack the car with pine cones as we went by. It sounded like we were being somewhat gently chastised by a sack of tennis balls. I go with him as support crew for such minor adventures. He’s more than capable, but the spectre of accidents looms. And of course there’s always the chance a maurading gang of feral pigs might wander through at an inopportune time. It’s alligators that worry me, though sightings are rare. There have been three in the past year or so. One is all it takes.

So, I was sitting in my car, looking around for something to take pictures of. Hmmm, no animals of any kind lurked. Just a couple of fast moving butterflies flitted past. Ah ha. Then I spotted a fun subject to photograph. My husband, in the rear view. I thought that was cool enough to experiment with.

As opportunity arises I’ll play around with the concept more, but for now this one is an unusual little portrait of an unusual man. At 86, he’s remarkably strong and fit. Moreso than anybody else I know, of any age. He exercises daily, eats carefully, and maintains himself like a piece of finely tuned machinery. Yes, he still writes. A lot. But that’s one aspect of a man with a mission…to live life to the fullest. And to enjoy it well, as goes the title of his favorite movie…what dreams may come.

Food And Words

https://gutsycreatives.com/blog/favorite-foods-of-5-famous-authors/?s=09

This article caught my eye instantly. I couldn’t wait to see which authors and what foods. Well, maybe now I wish I’d waited a little longer. Some of these foods are…um…gutwrenching. I know that’s not the proper usage of the word, but it’s how I feel from some of these descriptions.

I’m right there with Stephen King about oysters, so Hemmingway rhapsodizing about eating them is a bit too much detail for my taste.

I have this mental image now of Agatha Christie swilling her favorite drink and can’t quite wrap my head around the experience. I’ve had the stuff in Devonshire. It’s good. On scones.

Victor Hugo worries me. I did not think a single human could eat that much. I can’t help but wonder if he felt les mis, after his gargantuan meal.

I’m very much afraid Vladimir Nabokov made me mentally run away screaming at the very thought of a delicate wing disappearing between his lips. Why, Vladimir? Why?

To each his own. The strangest thing I ever ate was a snail, but I certainly can’t call it a favorite food. Once was quite enough. So, I’ll be completely mundane and declare chocolate as my favorite. Who knows? Perhaps my taste hasn’t matured into proper quirkiness yet. Maybe I’ll fall in love with bird’s nest soup or pickle pie…nah, I’ll stick with chocolate.

When You Can’t Make Lemonade

The saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” can sometimes be laughable. In the last three months, I’ve had shingles, a huge boil on my shoulder, a strained shin muscle, and an allergic reaction in my fingers, all jumbled on top of each other. I’m half expecting a plague of locusts any minute.

I’ve had what I call strings of bad stuff happen periodically. This one is one of the worst, though. I’ve never known anyone else to experience such things at once, but there must be some. I can’t possibly be all that special.

One thing I’ve learned is that shingles are as bad, possibly worse than people say. The pain and itching and difficulty sleeping they cause garner sympathy, empathy, and a solid dose of horror whenever they’re mentioned. Those who haven’t suffered through them had a mother, grandma, or great uncle’s first cousin’s nephew who have. Possibly all of the above and more.

I’ve had big boils before. This one seems to be in secret competition, like a pumpkin that wants to be the biggest and most impressive in all the land. I call it the hell hole on my shoulder.

I never noticed the muscle that sheaths my shin. Until the day I reached high on tiptoes to get a dryer sheet, four tried to come out of the box, and I kept insisting I only wanted one. Who knew you could strain a muscle by tiptoeing? Well, we do now. To the tune of barely being able to walk for a couple of weeks and using a cane.

I think the adhesive on the surgical tape I use to hold gauze padding into my shirt to protect that and the boil is the culprit there. Or the red ink on the boxes it comes in. Or, or, or…I’m eliminating it first.

And all this on top of my ever present compressed sciatic nerve pain. At least all the rest to get over it all has helped my usual exhaustion.

So, the point of this is that my posts have been erratically timed and for good reason. Tweets too. I had to mostly back off from working on my fiction writing, though I have been working on a dark dystopian SF thing that I intend to give a hopeful ending. And in real life, I intend to carry on and come out the other side with hope for a good long stretch of not bad things happening. Really, if all this stuff was going to happen, now is a good time for it. It’s not like I was going anywhere, anyway. Odd. A reason to be grateful for lockdown. Since I can’t quite force any lovely lemonade out of these medical lemons, I’ll settle for chocolate.

A Victorian Reading Station

The ingenuity of Victorian craftsmanship demonstrated in this "Reading Station" by Charles Hindley & Co., с.1890. pic.twitter.com/qSZIIgBI8y

— 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 (@Steampunk_T) January 27, 2021

There is just no predicting what will pop up on Twitter. One minute I had never heard of a Victorian Reading station. Now I want one. For me the one in the pictures is perfect, except I’d want the seating area to be deep wine color, instead of green. I can just imagine the shelves filled with all manner of magic in the form of books, a couple of soft velvet throws for the seats, and maybe some plants along a few shelves. Heaven. It would be an amazing place to write, too. A couple of Tiffany lamps, perhaps. The only problem I can imagine is where on earth, read in a house, such a piece of furniture would fit. I suppose a big, charming Victorian Painted Lady would be just the place. But then there would be the problem of the stairs. As grand a structure as a Victorian Reading Station would be worth any effort to bring it home. I have a feeling they’re rare. Anything this special would have to be.

Travel writer and journalist Jan Morris dies at 94 – BBC News

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/amp/entertainment-arts-55021555

I have read only one of Jan Morris’ books. I wish I had read them all. As it is I consider them on my bucket list of books yet to read. I found A writer’s house in Wales on a bargain table in a now defunct brick and mortar bookstore. The cover attracted me into buying it. What a bargain it was. It started my love affair with Wales. I’ve since traveled around Wales and always yearn to visit Morris’ writer’s house there. Their book stack has rendered me envious for decades, though I fear if I ever dare construct one, I’ll be found lying trapped beneath the tomes at some point, reading whatever is within arms’ reach until rescued. I never met Jan Morris, though I always wished I could. Her fine writing made me feel as if I had.