WordPlay

If you’re on my FaceBook or Twitter feeds, you watched this one unfold.  The evening clouds  coming in over the mountains weren’t a surprise–we knew about the rain.

When the hail started, that wasn’t a surprise, either. Biggie marble-size hail is common enough around here.  It squalls through in pretty short order.

I mean, usually.

This time, there was nothing usual about it–although as golf balls started to spang off glass and we crated the dogs away from the windows, we still thought it would pass.

Because, I mean, usually.

But within moments I was pressed against the leeward office window, watching DuncanHorse hurl himself around a paddock slippery with accumulating inches of hail–scrabbling, falling, and beyond rational equine thought.  Talk about feeling helpless…oh, I cried for DuncanHorse!

This lasted for approximately…forever.

(Yes, I’m pretty it was about that long.)

The hail piled up in drifts that would take days to melt, sandblasting the world.  When it finally–FINALLY–eased, I went out to comfort Duncan with his blanket (he’s too dignified to call it a blankie, but same effect), and gave him bute and a bonus snack of hay.  I won’t say he leaped into my arms upon my arrival, but it was a close thing.

The next days were all about discovering damage: Garbage can, holed; gutter drains, bashed; van, battered (to the tune of $6600), one solar tube cover split.  The roof damage is of yet undetermined–the special insurance catastrophe teams are here,  but taking weeks to work through the backlog.

Our scrub Oak, scrubbed. The dear little thing does still have a leaf or too...if you look closely.

My lush fall wildflowers turned into food processor fodder; we lost a little yard tree and are crossing our fingers for this year’s other painstaking transplants.  The wild juniper/pinon arroyo lands around us were thinned to a veil–neighbors across the valley are suddenly visible.  The wild grasses  were flattened, the roadside ditches held mini-glaciers of hail flow, and the giant sunflowers canted wildly out of the ground under their own weight.

Our thriving, bushy catnip

Smashed Asters probably ought to be the name of a band

OH.  The agility equipment.  Battered, shattered, shredded. I saved the table (it’s already repainted) and the A-frame (ditto), but the dogwalk…maybe salvageable, maybe not.  Insurance folks check it out this week, along with the teeter, tunnels and broad jump–and the barn, which gurgles mysteriously and has water in its structure somewhere.

Um.

As for DuncanHorse, it took five days before he shook off the soreness and the shock, but he’s back to being his opinionated self and would not care to admit he was ever in need of a blankie and a hug.

All in all, that storm left behind a little slice of damage remarkable for its completeness. No exposed car or household in this little area escaped; no skylight survived.  While most of the damage occurred tightly local to us, the storm also hit weirdly northwest of us to wreak havoc at Kewa Pueblo.

However.

In the end, it’s all part of living along the Sandias. If the beauty of these high desert foothills is dramatic, so can be the weather.  It’s also part of horsekeeping at home–and of being so drawn to the outdoors that the damage to the trees and flowers and the small creatures who perished now feels so deeply personal.

Tucked in by the house...a wee gaillardia, the lone survivor

Of course, that doesn’t stop us from crying about it, or floundering to fit repairs and recovery into the following weeks, or wandering around in shock at the gut-deep understanding that no matter how well you prepare and provide for your outdoor kids, when nature comes along, it’s not always enough.

Patty at the Write Horse sure knows it, too–Friday gives us the storm from a Risotada Training point of view.  But until then, we’re all still just putting things back together.

PS Dear Editor: v. sorry my proofs were pushing that deadline…

Agility people take “trials” and “trialing” so for granted that it sometimes surprises me when I mention “I have a trial this weekend,” and people become concerned that I’m tangled in some legal issue.

No, no.  It means packing up the van, sometimes driving a day, sometimes just for forty-five minutes to an hour–and spending two to three days getting up at 0-dark-thirty (usually 4:30, sometimes 4am) to arrive on site at 6:30 and spend the next eleven hours memorizing courses, walking courses, walking dogs, doing emotional and environmental management of dogs (huge!) and of course, those intense thirty to sixty second blasts through the course while–hopefully–grooving with the dog.

If you’ve never done this, you probably can’t imagine how all this effort is worth 90-180 seconds on the agility course.

The only answer I can give you is a big goofy grin.

Plus, of course, there’s the training. Lots and lots of that.  And it’s all time spent with the dogs.

This past AKC trial weekend?

Friday:

• It is HOT.
• Connery finishes his Novice FAST title!
• Belle earns Double Q  17/20 for her PAX2*!
• Dart Puppy learns what it means to be at a trial site!  He practices socialization!
• See neat people!
• My jaw goes WTF, that hurts!
• While juggling emergency dental appointment, begging indulgence from trial committee and affected judge to shift my jumpers runs back-to-back a couple hours ahead of schedule and simultaneously trying to prepare dogs for same, brain explodes, too.
• Brain explodes all over Connery’s jumpers run.  Ugly sight.
• Late to dentist.  Xrays, $$$, cracked tooth, inflamed toothbed…turns out if you lose a dog and don’t have the chance to grieve due to work stress, your body will find its way.  Nothing can be fixed immediately…plans are made for same.

Saturday:

• It is HOTTER.
• Fallout from brain explosion wipes out another run for ConneryBeagle, who begins to wonder where his real mom went.  Because he’s running first in each class today, he bears the brunt of the Stupids.
• Connery nails his other two runs in spite of his handler!
• Belle earns Double Q 18/20 for her PAX2!
• Dart Puppy shares his most mournful hound howl with the entire assembled trial contingent.  “Woe!” cries everyone within earshot.  “So sad!”
• Dart Puppy receives unofficial measurement by AKC rep and is found to (currently) be under 14″, a most exciting discovering!  (It is a critical determination of his agility career jump height.)
• See neat people!  Friend earns MACH!
• Jaw does not get any worse.

Sunday:

• We have MELTED.
• Brain returns!  One major Stupid Moment, compensated for.
• Connery nails all three of his runs, including a stupendous standard run!  Now has 2/3 of his Open FAST title!  Now has Double Q 19/20 for his MACH2!  (still needs lots of speed points, though)  That’s 7/9 runs for the weekend, totally in spite of Yours Truly.
• Belle earns Double Q 19/20 for her PAX2! She is six for six this weekend, with a great comeback after a season of increasing worries triggered by the stress of the January move.
• Dart Puppy is a Most Excellent Boy.  He loves his BONE.
• See neat people!  (sense a theme, there?)
• Jaw does not get any worse.  It ponders the dentist-filled week ahead.  I pretend not to know.

Sunday Evening:

• Come home, unload van with a mind to the two-day trial next weekend, feed annoyed horse, and sit stupidly in front of TV for the first time in a week.
• Best part?  Dog at my feet, dog at my side, dog in my lap.  All very happily exhausted.

Sunday PM not nearly as late as usual:

• My turn now.  Good night!

Monday Morning:

• What?  Already?

I think I’ll hit the rewind button to the part where I’m surrounded by happy, sleeping dogs…  And oh, yeah.  Just ignore this big goofy grin!

But wait! I’m doing this again next weekend!  It must be trialing season!

Belle (in late '07), by Doghouse Arts -- driving across the dogwalk

*PAX Title: The highest available title for a dog in Belle’s running class, earned even less frequently than the vaunted MACH.  In fact, clubs often don’t even bother to have the PAX poles and ribbons available; Belle was given a MACH pole & ribbon for her first PAX, and I’m guessing the same if we get this one.

Oh, I know, I know. Cheerful author blog is this.  Cheerful, perky, personable…

Well, today I’m kinda peeved. And it works for me to say:

Dear Dog Owner from the UNM Campus this Past Weekend:

Here is a clue about responsible dog ownership.

Other people, including dog lovers, have no obligation to adore your dog.  They have no obligation to greet your dog with joy, be jumped on, drooled on, or risk contact with claw or tooth.

And they should never, ever have to worry about whether your dog, as it runs toward them, has anything other than friendly intentions in mind.

Guess what.  Shouting, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly!” doesn’t count (even if you didn’t bother).  Not for a moment.  Because you never know what someone’s background is.  Have they been bitten in the past?  Do they have allergies?  Do they have injuries or weaknesses that will cause them  pain if bumped?  Balance or strength issues that will cause worry and concern at the approach of an unknown dog?

Fortunately, there’s an easy way to avoid all of this. It’s called a LEASH.  And there’s a back-up system for avoiding these issues when in public areas that invite dogs to go off-lead.  That’s called a RECALL.

On the other hand, if someone is infringed on to the point where they have to shout, “Call your dog!  CALL YOUR DOG!” then either your dog doesn’t have a recall or you’re above using it, and in either case if you had deigned to do so (which you didn’t), you would still have failed in your responsibilities as a dog owner.

Because, Dear Dog Owner, it’s your responsibility to use a leash in public areas that require it.  Period.  You are not special.  You don’t get to break that rule because it’s more fun or  more convenient.  So sorry!

Good stewardship means showing the rest of the world that dog lovers take our responsibilities seriously, and that we’re considerate of other people when it comes to our dogs.  Bad stewardship means dogs are allowed in fewer and fewer places.  Hotels charge a higher pet fee.  Parks deny organizations the right to hold dog-oriented activities–rescue fairs, competitions, dog celebration days.  Other people pay the price for the self-indulgent decisions of those like you.

And even if  your dog is off-leash in an area where such activities are welcome, then it’s still your responsibility to keep track of it at all times, and to call it back if it shows undue interest in other people, other fidos, or belongings that ought not to be peed on.  Don’t want to miss out on the scenery?  Use the aforementioned LEASH.

Do I sound like someone who bears deep wounds from the irresponsible few? You would guess right.  You would guess right that I have been attacked; you would guess right that one of my dogs has been brutally attacked a number of times, and that the dogs involved in all of these attacks were uncontrolled and charged over open ground to get us.  You might even guess right that had it not been for my quick-thinking friend this past weekend, I might well have tangled with your loose Doberman, who targeted my ConneryBeagle as he tracked his oblivious way through campus.

And that I’m really mad about it.

So, spread the word.  This is a leash:

And quite a nice leash, too. Perfect for a handsome dog.

And this is the hellahot pepper spray I have used in the past and will use again.

Not much fun for anyone.

Use the first to protect your dog–who bears no fault here–from the second.

Ahem.  We now return to our usual perky, cheerful, author-blog programming.

Back on February 3rd of this year, I posted about Jean-Luc Picardigan’s growing difficulties–managing his new deafness with his old brain injury.  At the time, I felt in my heart that he could not overcome this new burden, and for the most part I was right.  The summer was a time of trying and failing to find strategies that would improve his quality of life, even as his ability to manage continued to diminish.  I began to wonder how he would handle the cold months, with their less flexible circumstances–especially as being outside a majority of his time seemed the only thing that calmed him.

Jean-Luc, however, has taken that concern out of my hands.  With the discovery of a critical problem this past week, I’m suddenly in a position where treating this dog who is barely managing is not an option,  and not treating him is not an option.  So even as you read this, I have taken him out for some last moments on the agility field that proved to be his saving-grace therapy–poles on the ground, A-frame lowered until it’s almost flat–and I am now about to say good-bye…or am saying good-bye…or have just done so.

The decision and the loss, the agonizing over what’s right…it’s all the cost of our time together.  I won’t say it’s gladly paid, but I can only say it is so very worth it, for what we get from these short years.  Still, for today, I am rather quiet–but here’s an excerpt from that February post…

So…it happens. Dogs go deaf. Some sooner than others. So it is with Jean-Luc Picardigan, nearly twelve years old but otherwise robust.

Well…if you don’t count the brain injury.

But it turns out that the brain injury might just matter.

…

Though really, he’s always been a wonder in his own way. Cheysuli Jean-Luc Picardigan OJP NAP OJC NAC CGC started his agility training as therapy–awkward, spatially challenged, and easy to overwhelm–and was never expected to enter an agility ring, never mind earn Open-level titles and his CGC (canine good citizen). He even won a startling handful of red and blue placement ribbons along the way–he not only ran agility, he ended up loving it and doing it well!

And the picture up there is how I’ll remember Jean-Luc–that bright, sweet brown eye peering out at the world, trying his best to make it his own.

Probably there are a whole lot of things you’re happy not to know about flies and their little fly babies.

Oh, I wish was you.

It hasn’t been bad here this year, really–not compared to the valley last year when we lived not only next to a herd of sheep, but the aquecia. In fact, with that historical watering system all around us and flies being so keen on incubating in damp, warm places, I suspect that place was just plain Fly Heaven.

It was not Horse Heaven. Not come July. No talking in the paddock unless you wanted flies in your mouth. Flies bounced off our bodies and worse, into and out of our ears. I went through hundreds of dollars of fly bait, fly spray, and fly masks.

The Height of Horse Fashion. If you read horse nose language you see he is Not Pleased. This is because he believes he should be eating.

I had already done every possible thing with my own yard, but here’s a fun fact about flies–they have a quarter-mile range. Jammed into the valley with its unique urban-rural agriculture, we didn’t have a chance. Not even with my trusty fly predators scattered around on a monthly basis.

*insert fly predator love*

Baby Fly Predators, still sleeping in their shipping package

This year, we’re out in the foothills. No sheep, no aquecias (the arroyos manage our water, and otherwise we xeriscape), and lightly scattered horses. The fly predators had a fighting chance…at least, until a month or so ago.

I ran into trouble because–and here is a little tip about flies–the fly traps have to be placed just right. The right amount of sun, the right amount of heat, and the correct proximity to their favorite hang-outs.

What the human wants is to put the trap–one gallon of stinky fly bait in water–in a place that won’t affect the neighbors or the house, or stand vulnerable to horse investigation.

And they have to be placed that way ahead of the seasonal surge, which around here is triggered by the monsoon.

But here in my new location/climate…I didn’t know what the flies would want. My instinct was that the flies would want to be HERE. And HERE had no protection from Horsie Incursion.

After repeated failures, I gave up and put the trap HERE, surrounded by a little bulwark of juniper logs.

DuncanHorse still gets to it. But not very often.

So now it’s a working system, if too late to prevent the population surge–and complete with that pungent but odd fly bait. Not immediately nasty, just sort of, “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t smelled that.” And then, as you realize how the slightest molecule instantly adheres to your skin and doesn’t let go, “Gee, I REALLY wish I hadn’t smelled that.”

Solution: scrub until the affected skin is gone. Works a charm.

But then there’s later. After a few days…as the flies begin to collect. As they DIEEEEE. Then it’s not just fly bait, it’s rotting flies and fly bait. A gallon jar with four solid inches of dead flies over the world’s nastiest liquid (we can’t call it water any longer). Oh yeah.

But hey! The flies think this is even MORE exciting, so the trap works even better!

Yay!

And then comes the day. The fly trap must be emptied, rinsed, and rebaited.

Han Solo: What an incredible SMELL you’ve discovered!

This is that smell.

And this is when you learn what you really, really, wish you didn’t know about flies:

They’re explosive.

You heard me.

BOOM!

Yes indeed. You gotta dispose of the accumulated mass of flydom JUST SO.

OR ELSE.

While frantically trying to not actually touch it.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

And here, I had intended to insert a photo showing amazing masses of potentially explosive flies.  However, this afternoon I had an uncharacteristic fit of mercy and good taste, so instead….

Look! Pretties! My first-year gaillardia! California poppies! Sunflowers! (Can’t take credit for those…they plant themselves.)

These annual sunflower plants are about twice as tall as I am...

These gaillardia ought to spread nicely next year, and be good and thick!

Poppies! Poppies! Poppies! I hope these pretty little things come back next year...

What’s in a name, you say?

Oh, just EVERYTHING.

When it’s a dog’s name, it has to serve so many purposes.  Especially when you need to be able that name short and sharp for the agility course.  But when you’re like many dog folk–and writer folk–it’s got to have MEANING, too.  Even if only to amuse your very own self.

The new Beagle youngster started out with a call name of Cubbie.  Totally cute!  And to build on that, his registered name became Albedo’s Charter Member.  (Albedo = kennel name.  Charter Member = allusion to the first Mouseketeers.)

Which really, is a nice little package.  Especially for a dog headed for the show ring where such things are appreciated.

And then he turns out to be a one-ball wonder (both must descend to make it to the show ring), and THEN  someone like me comes along and says, “Er.  Cubbie isn’t a good name for agility.”

‘Cuz it’s not.  If I tried to say “Cubbie” while running, not getting lost on the course, keeping an eye on the dog, and using the right timing–well, it would come out, “Kuh!” and never find an ending.  I’d get all stuck on those bbbbbbs.

But, you know…we still wanted to be clever.  So it went like this:

Us:  What about “Musketeer” instead of “Mousketeer”? What does that give us to work with?

Muttering: Porthos, Athos, Aramis, D’Artagnan.

Well, Porthos was Captain Archer’s Beagle so that would be cute, but…see above, not a good agility name.   None of them are…

But oh.  Wait a minute. Did I not hear of one of Patty’s (The Write Horse!) clients, just this spring?  D’Artagnan Horse, nicknamed Dart?

Dart, the very perfect name not only for the agility field but for this snake-quick, zoomie little boy dog?

I am not above borrowing.

But…

Us: Shoot, we wanted to do something with “Albedo” if possible, too.

googlegooglegoogle

Oh look! There’s a DART technique for measuring/determining the albedo of various regions of the Earth!

(Disclaimer to scientists who don’t think I said that just right:  I know.)

Dart = WIN!

So I would like to introduce this dignified creature in his favorite pose, airing his singular ball, with bone:

Albedo’s Charter Member aka D’Artagnan Beagle aka…

At any given time, this is the view in the office: D'Artagnan Beagle, showing off his most prized possession

Dart!

What was I saying on Friday? About our animals and how they embarrass us in public?

Well.

If you want to be embarrassed in public, aim yourself at a puppy fun match in rally and obedience for the first time in nearly three years, and then work double quadruple kilruple overtime the weeks before, so you have no time to review the finer points of the sports involved.

You know, like just what do those rally station signs mean exactly, again? And which ones have changed since I last did this? And in obedience heeling patterns, which direction is “about turn” again? Heh heh heh.

Then get up really really early, in a body that doesn’t allow caffeine.

But if you REALLY want to be embarrassed, take not only your trained adult dogs, but an adolescent boy Beagle you’ve had for all of three weeks and with whom you spent the majority of the time just dealing with separation anxiety created by his transition.

Yeah, that should just about do it.

Let’s just say the obedience judge was Not In The Mood.

Only one thing to do:
–Apply permasmile.
–Pretend not to notice puppy brainsplosion.
–Totally fake it.
–Thank the judge at the end and FLEE! FLEE FOR YOUR DIGNITY AND YOUR LIFE!

While, of course, never letting the puppy have a clue that he isn’t brilliant. “Isn’t this fun?” you tell him. “Weren’t you a good boy?”

And in the background you hear the sound of a phaser on overload.

That’s the sound of the puppy’s brain.

Well, we didn’t come entirely unprepared for this whole venture. We didn’t fail to give the puppy tools to deal with it. So into the crate with him for quiet time with a few interspersed walkies, and several busy-with-the-other-dogs hours later it’s his turn for rally. By then I’ve relearned all the signs I got wrong in Excellent and Advanced, and Novice is easier anyway. By then, too, it’s REALLY HOT out in the sun. Puppy has been pondering life in a shaded crate; handler is showing definite signs of wilt.

“Let’s go do some rally! Won’t this be fun!”

Puppy: Will there be hot dogs?

Me: Yes! There will be hot dogs!

Puppy: I feel a hint of brain coming on.

And lo, he Qs on his very first rally leg, three weeks into our life together. Of course, this is a fun match. It doesn’t count. But it’s fun!

“Yay, puppy!” you tell him.

“I…” he says. “I think I liked that.”

Off to the only thing that actually counts, with no expectations–the CGC (Canine Good Citizen) test. So many things on this test–cleverly designed to pinpoint the things that are behavior buttons for many dogs–are exactly the things this puppy has struggled profoundly with during his transition time, a time during which his very cleverness bushwhacked his ability to cope. “I love people!” has been replaced by “Stranger Danger!” and “I don’t care about other dogs!” has been replaced by…well…”Strangrrrr Danjrrrr!”

And then there’s the fact that what with everything he’s had to learn, one of these skills was something you thought to introduce to him the day before. D’oh.

But lo. The puppy’s brain has engaged. “Will there be hot dogs?” he asks.

“When we’re all done,” you tell him. “Just kisses until then.”

“Well,” he says, “there are just way too many strangers here and way too many strange dogs, and I can’t be bothered to fuss about them. What were our new rules again? The parts about downing and staying?”

The CGC Test: "I learned this yesterday." (Staying while the handler walks 20' away and back.)

And then he goes out and gets his CGC, which only two days before you would have said was as likely as hitting the NY Times Bestseller list.

(pause for thought.)

So yes, we seek embarrassment! And we get embarrassment! But sometimes we get little miracles, too.

"See my heel-sit!"

My favorite. The leash looks funky only because it's swinging, and it's swinging because this is a REALLY enthusiastic "come to front from heel." Good puppy!

GOOD PUPPY!

…Monday

Once upon a time, I was young.

Just about to hit my teens, in fact, and discovering–via the magic of reruns–the world of Classic Trek. Star Trek, The Original Series. TOS.

Totally groovy.

And boy, did I watch that show. I watched it, made copious notes about it, created character & episode guides, role-played it, dove upon the first David Gerrold and James Blish books with a scary glee, and blithely ordered The Making of Star Trek from a bookstore across the city, having no reference points and no idea that a closer bookstore could have ordered it.  The Maternal Unit was Not Pleased.

(Hey, I’d called everywhere looking for that book…that was just the first store where they offhandedly said, “Oh, we can order that for you if you’d like…” What did I know from special ordering at age 12?)

Oh yeah, I had the episodes memorized. You betcha I could tell which one was which from the first moments of the show. You betcha that even at that age, I was in awe over City on the Edge of Forever–and snorting over the line, “Brain and brain, what is brain?” (Alas, those were formative years…I still mutter that to myself on challenging days…)

I was also a Kirk girl. Oh, so bold and noble and heroic! So dashing and commanding and full of ideals! (Even if they did dress him in that greeny-gold that looks good on no one.) Yup, I fell for that hook, line, and sinker. And as I moved on from that–enjoying the various movies and the various series, if never with quite the same fervor (but well enough to have all the episodes of TNG on tape and leap at the chance to write a book for the tie-in line!), the Kirk thing stayed with me. Sort of a default.

But this interesting thing has happened. This year, I picked up one of the earlier Trek DVD sets. Not one of the really fancy remastered oooh special effects sets, but it definitely has all the scenes with all their little pieces (which the reruns most definitely did not!). I use DVDs to keep my brain occupied as I exercise on the elliptical, so of course this purchase was totally righteous.

Totally.

And here’s what I’m noticing: It’s a better show than I thought it would be. There’s been much ado and sneering about the better special effects, the better tech, etc, of later Trek franchises, but all the clunky stuff pretty much falls into the background when you’re caught up in the story. And yeah, you have to know the time in which it was set, to better appreciate some of the inadvertent sexism.  But the same can be said for many classic accomplishments.

And– *wince* –those poor red shirts…

Here’s the other thing I’ve discovered: I’m no longer a Kirk girl. I’m a Spock girl now.

Back away, Kirk-lovers, I’m not dissing the Captain! Still all the things he was before. But what I didn’t notice, at that young age, was what stood beside him. The fact that Spock, for all his supposed lack of emotion, feels more deeply, with more nuance, than any man who finds himself free to emote at will. The fact that Leonard Nimoy, in order to convey the conflicting layers of his character, turned in a series of wonderful performances.

It’s his face I find myself watching, when I have to choose.

So yes, I was a Kirk girl, and now I am a Spock girl, watching with awareness and a certain fascination at how much time changes perspective–as well the actions and behavior, fictional or not, that touch us.

It’s too bad about that brain thing, though.

…Monday

What fun to start the week with babbling good news. I think next week I’ll MAKE UP some good new so I can do it again!

This week, though, I don’t have to. I’m delighted to announce that I’ll be writing three more Nocturnes, and two of the online Nocturne Bites along the way.

The Nocturnes are the ones I’ve gotten the most requests for so far…remember Maks, the straightforward bodyguard who’s played a role in all three of the Sentinels books so far? Maks takes the tiger as his other form; he’s a quiet guy with an unusual background. Not quite tame, for all his reliability–and with reason. The first Sentinels book is Tiger Bound, and that’s where I get to play with Maks’ story. Oh, gleeful, evil, rubbing of hands together!

Ruger is the character who first started getting the requests–right from the start. Was I ever going to write a book for him? Well, in fact…yes! Ruger is the healer who also spends time as a Kodiak bear, and who (in Lion Heart), took the brunt of an Atrum Core ambush. In the wake of that, he’s still looking for himself. Could be he just needs a little help, hmm?

But before I dive into those two books, I’ll be writing a second Demon Blade book. You haven’t seen that first one yet–it’s been waiting for scheduling, and to some extent waiting for this cycle of decisions to come around, to see if we’d be working it as a series or as a one-off. Well, guess what! I get to do a series!

And then there’s a Demon Blade Bite and a Sentinels Bite.

And there’s ME.

VERY HAPPY!

Getting to write books I love, knowing my schedule is planned for these next months, hummm hummm humm! The muse wins!

BLOG PARTEEEE!

…Monday

“Doranna LIKES Julie Czerneda!

“Doranna LIKES Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America!”

And, on a particular day, “Doranna LIKES Doranna Durgin!”

Yes, it’s the wonderful world of FaceBook.

Actually, I enjoy FaceBook. I’ve met people there and reconnected with people there, and of course I have the Fan Page there (thus the oddball third example, and YES, I would love to see you there!). And there are still FaceBook functions that mystify and defy me, but…well, that happens. Heh.

But I really, really don’t LIKE being forced into the role of a giggling fourth grader, passing virtual notes across the aisles.

“Doranna subscribes to Doranna Durgin.”

Okay, it’s  a little multiple personality-ish. Hmm.  Yes.

But the meaning is obvious. And not one that people will feel compelled to razz me about, because yes! Hello! I want to be able to see my Fan Page posts on my regular FB page!

“Doranna SUBSCRIBES TO Julie Czerneda!

Okay. Maybe it still needs some work. But I’ll take it!

FaceBook, are you listening? Dignity, please?