Scarlet Letters

Home, slightly sunburned and exhausted from an awesome ArsonFest! This was our fourth (?) ArsonFest, joining my dear friend Mitzi and her friends and family to celebrate Independence Day with shootin', barbecue and watching things go boom in the sky, just like the founders intended. It is always a great honor for me to be included in this annual tradition, and I honestly can't imagine what the Fourth would be like without it. Shooting was great, and as always we were happy that those who actually own guns let us Illinoisans shoot as well. Ian turned out to be quite good with the 9mm pistol and a .22 rifle. I brought a batch of chocolate chip cookies as our barter for admission to the range. A brief panic ensued when a sizable squall hit in the late afternoon, and we scrambled to tack down the rainfly on our rental tent. We had put up the tent at 1 a.m. without any familiarity with the tent's design, so I think it was a testament to our (read: Mitzi's) brilliance t...

Sitting on a rooftop in a cool breeze that tastes of early summer. Watching a glorious sunset begin to settle behind the city skyline. Deep breaths of fresh air between photo bursts of the sunset, all shades of deep orange and rust-red and softly glowing rays breaking through cottony scattered clouds. But no words. Notebook and laptop silent before me. If I cannot write here, where can I? The words won't come. Ideas, images... But no words.  So I force them, and of course they are awful. Cliches that fall on the ear with the thud of anvils like "glorious sunset." How did I do this in my previous life? I can't remember. The words just came. Sometimes they hid, sometimes they were rough. But never this rough, and never for so long. I was going to write about the beast in the storm. The creature that rode into a small town on the screaming energy of a tornado, and the things it did in the night between the thunderclaps. He's a nasty beast, and he wants to be written....

I'm not sure how I became management. The division of labor in our house is thus: I cook the food. Man washes the dishes. Boy dries and puts away. This is perfectly equitable, though there is the occasional sigh and grouse when dinner is over and I vanish back into my office while they go clean the kitchen. Today there was additional grousing, because I had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies for my Relay for Life team. They're fine with cookies; not so fine when I tell them they can't eat them. MAN: Why do you like to torture us? ME: Because it's fun. MAN: You could have baked two batches of cookies, one for the Relay team and one for us! ME: I am going to bake two batches of cookies, and they're both for Relay! BOY: We should go on strike! ME: You have no cause! Back to work! Then I went into the bathroom. When I came out, I was faced with this: If you can't read them, the signs say, "ON STRIKE. NO COOKIES NO WORK." They beg...

ME: Tonight is KFC. I am not cooking. Kitchen is closed, I am on strike. HIM: You can't go on strike. ME: Can too. Mother's Day. HIM: You are not part of the union. You are management. ME: I am not! HIM: Management is not part of the union contract, woman. ME: Don't call me woman! HIM: Only union members can go on strike. ME: I do not recall signing a union contract, sir. HIM: You did. You just don't remember. ME: I would remember. HIM: I distracted you. ME: Uh huh.

Once a month, I get this one day. A weekday when I don't have to work, because I'm working during the weekend. It's a day where I have no work and Boy is at school and I can do whatever I want. I used to make sure to do something fun on That Day, either going hiking up on the bluffs or to the Botanical Gardens, a massage, photography excursion or retail therapy or just some quality coffeehouse time... something fun, a mental health day. Yeah. That doesn't happen anymore. • Awaken to phone call from new client whose stuff I'll be selling online on consignment. This is my latest part-time gig, trying to raise money for Ze Wedding. I've been doing it for charity for quite some time; now I'm also doing it for money. Because if we don't find a way to raise more money soon, we have to postpone our wedding. Do not want. • Receive email that someone wants to buy our old washer. Immediately assist Jimmy with removal of our back door, so we will be able to...

I AM ANGRY.  I am the Relay for Life team captain for St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, and I do this because each and every one of us has known someone with cancer. Some of our team members have even fought the battle themselves. When you sit down and think about it, is there anyone who DOESN'T know a cancer survivor, or has lost someone to this disease? I AM ANGRY.  I watch as this disease carries off brilliant artists, actors, musicians and writers without pause. I see grieving families and I know that none of it has to happen. When my team began walking, one of us was a cancer survivor. Eight years later nearly half of us are survivors. What does that tell us about the pervasiveness of this disease? Some time ago, I lost a dear friend after ten years of battle against the cancer that invaded her, and she was my age. She deserved more life than she got. It isn't right, or fair. I miss her, and I wish she had more time with us. And I AM ANGRY. Canc...

...I beg you all to stop it. • The Sandy Hook principal's photo is not being re-used in Boston. She really died at Sandy Hook and you're looking at photo manipulation. • The young man bent over the woman's body in Boston was not mourning his dead fiancee. They were strangers and he was comforting the victim. • There was no little girl running in honor of Sandy Hook killed in the blast; the Boston Marathon does not allow children to run. • Race organizers are not donating money for retweets; that was some cretin's idea of a prank. • The Facebook page in memory of the bombing was not created in advance of the blasts. • The so-called "fake" victim who lost his legs in Afghanistan is not the same person as the man seen wheeled to an ambulance with severe leg trauma. They are two different men, and both have lost their legs, and neither of them is "fake." • They didn't shut down the cell network; there is no cell "kill switch."...

SCENE: Eville Writers write-in. Jimmy is, as usual, struggling with Microsoft Word. JIMMY: *frowns at laptop* ME: What's wrong? JIMMY: Can you help me get my thing back up? ME: ... OTHER WRITERS: ... ME: *snorfle* OTHER WRITERS: *knowing glances* ME: *cover mouth with hands* JIMMY: *looks at me* Oh.... hush. You know what I mean. ME: Rarely. *smirk* JIMMY: The... thing. With the fonts. ME: The formatting palette. Look under "View." JIMMY: Thank you. *taptaptap* ME: *smirk* JIMMY: (under his breath) Devil woman. What I should have said: "Honey, I can help you, but we want to be allowed back here someday..."

In order to understand this, you should know that our kitchen has a portable dishwasher that has a short. If you hook it up, it will shock you. We do not use it, though it makes for nice countertop space until we can afford a new cabinet. You should also know that we have a great division of labor in the house. I cook the food. Man washes the dishes. Boy dries and puts them away. Rinse, repeat. ME: Okay, time for dishes! BOY: *deepsigh* ME: Oh please. BOY: We should use the dishwasher. ME: No way. It'll kill you dead. BOY: It'd be worth it! ME: What, to die? BOY: Yes! ME: *eyeroll* MAN: It doesn't work anyway. I tried. ME: Are you kidding? MAN: When we first moved in! ME: Thank God. Because the electrician was so horrified by that thing he wanted to get rid of it just so we wouldn't sue him if we used it and we died. BOY: I hate the dishes. ME: Besides, we have a dishwasher. And he's cute. *wolf whistle* MAN: *eyeroll* BOY: Let's get a new one....

I give you a new commandment: that you love one another, as I have loved you. By this the world shall know that you are my disciples, that you have love for one another. Yeah, brace yourself. It's church talk. Tonight was the beginning of the three-night observance leading up to Easter. Not everyone knows (or chooses to know) that Easter is not a day, it is a season. There are three nights of preparation leading up to Easter Sunday, and then forty days of celebration thereafter. Hey, that's a lot of chocolate. Tonight was my favorite service of the entire year: Maundy Thursday. And for the first time in many years, I missed it. Alas, work. I tried to wiggle out of it, tried to switch places with my fellow reporters, but that isn't always possible. I missed the foot-washing for the first time, I think, since I was in college. Maundy Thursday is the service that remembers the Last Supper. Everyone knows how the night ended, with betrayal and terror and people running...

Apparently, in my bleary stumble to get to my morning exercise class this morning, I forgot something. No, not my swimsuit. Not the towel or even the comb. I realized as I was combing my hair after class that there weren't enough clothes in my gym bag.  My water aerobics class means getting out of bed two hours earlier than standard. You'd think I would be able to remember this and go to bed before 1 a.m. the night before, but that would require practical application of intelligence. I get up, go to class, then shower and change for work at the YMCA before my shift starts. Apparently, while blearily stumbling about the house this morning, I neglected to put a shirt in the gym bag. This poses something of a problem, as the Edwardsville Police Department and staff of the YMCA do not appreciate women wandering about in public without a shirt on. There were helpful suggestions. I could wrap the towel around my shoulders like a cape, but that only solves half the problem...

BOY: Home from Scouts and YOU NEED TO STICH THAT PATCH ON!!! ME: Wash your uniform and leave it on my chair, Your Majesty. And learn to spell "stitch." BOY: Ok but you need to do it tonight. I need it by next week. ME: Need by next week /= tonight. BOY: Yep. ME: You might have missed that I am at a police standoff and on my fourth hour of overtime. Also that I haven't beaten you with sticks yet. Mind your manners and say PLEASE. BOY: Please. ME: Taken under advisement. Use shampoo when you shower. BOY: Ok but pleeeeeaaaasssee do it tonight. ME: Not happening. Tomorrow possible if you leave it on the chair. And if you are nice to me. BOY: Ok. MAN: We need milk. Or a cow. ME: I love that you both are texting me simultaneously with stuff you need me to do. It's not like I'm busy or anything. MAN: Sorry love. ME: S'ok. I'll get a blog out of it. MAN: Of course you will. I am a lowly wigglily worm … ME: Oh shut up. And learn to spell "wiggly."

ME: Heh. I was just emailing SPJ about the regional conference and they were emailing me about my photo and a summary of my speech. JIMMY: Hm. ME: I told them I needed to get specifics to line up my volunteers for the book fair. JIMMY: Hm. ME: And by volunteers I mean... JIMMY: ... oh. ME: I love you? JIMMY: Sure you do. ME: Hey! I do too! JIMMY: Suuure, you're real fond of my arms, for carrying books. ME: Well, it is one of your finer characteristics. But you know what else you do real well? JIMMY: What. ME: Standing at the booth all day convincing people to buy books for charity. JIMMY: Uh huh. ME: I love you. Yet he's still marrying me.

I dreamed that I was set up by an unnamed informant as a drug dealer. No kidding. I dreamed that there was this big investigation at work, and then I was interrogated by corporate executives (because that's totally how drug investigations work). Apparently some woman had called up the police, confessed to multiple felony drug offenses and named me as her supplier/enforcer/kingpin. My lavish lifestyle must have tipped them off, eh? I told them the most sinister thing I do is sell books. Suuure, it's books you sell out of your trunk at coffee houses, they said. Uh, yeah, I replied, feeling the noose tighten. But it was the next part that was really hilarious. The entire staff of the newsroom filed into a conference room for an intervention. I kid you not. They were all very kind about my "problem." It was weird - I felt defensive and embarrassed as hell even though I knew I was set up. The more strongly I protested, the more guilty it made me sound. If I reall...

I am donating a signed copy of Nocturne to a fundraiser for a local family whose home caught fire. Their dog was killed, and the family is living in a hotel for three months while repairs are made. The fundraiser is being organized by my friend, Pam Moss. Pam and I tried all week to meet up so I could give her the book. Life happened. We failed. The fundraiser is this weekend, so time was running short. I told Pam I would be at the Sacred Grounds coffeehouse on Main Street all Friday evening, as is my general habit. She said she would come by the coffeehouse and get the book. I even remembered to dig out a copy of Nocturne from the warehouse section of the Tower before leaving. That's how organized I am this week, folks. Why, I might eventually be able to finish the profit-loss statements for Literary Underworld before the first quarter is over, but let's not get crazy. I didn't sign the book right away, figuring I'd ask Pam what she wanted me to put when she ...

My little post the other day about Random House and SFWA is the second most-read post ever on this blog.* Unfortunately, it looks like a lot of folks took the wrong message from it. There's a lot of "screw SFWA" coming out of the Random House discussion here and on Facebook. I need to be clear: I think SFWA and HWA are fine institutions, and probably the only major organizations attempting to stand up for the rights of writers. John Scalzi et al are making a lot of noise about these egregious contract terms, and we need to cheer them on. If we quietly ignore it when one press screws the authors, suddenly it will show up as boilerplate in all contracts. Just take a look at how it's going with cons. My criticisms of SFWA were solely in the realm of practicality: by refusing membership to those who don't receive advances, they are hurting themselves, not the publishers. Scalzi addressed this issue head-on today, in which he detailed his reasons for insisting ...

HIM: Hey, somebody updated your Wikipedia page. ME: Oh good Christ. *runs to Wikipedia* HIM: Yeah. Now it includes that you're engaged to author Jimmy Gillentine. ME: Huh. HIM: And that you're on the vestry for an Episcopal church. ME: My spies are everywhere. *reads*  HIM: Too bad it doesn't link to my website. ME: Can't do that. Wikipedia is not supposed to be advertising. You can only put up a link to your page on your own Wikipedia page. HIM: I don't have a Wikipedia page. ME: Hey, I didn't create my own. Somebody put me on there. HIM: I am too lowly to have a Wikipedia page. ME: Oh whatever. HIM: I am so honored to be on your Wikipedia page! You are the famous author Elizabeth Donald! I am so lucky that you can love a lowly worm like me! ME: Oh for the love of God, shut up. HIM: *smooch* ME: Lowly worm? HIM: Worm!

It's a strange new world for us in the publishing biz, and apparently there is no depth to which Certain People will not sink to screw us. Call me naive, but I was clinging to the hope that New York was this bastion of professionalism in which publishers act according to the rules they themselves set. Those who have wrangled with New York just fell out of their chairs, rolling on the floor in hysterical laughter before they click on to someone who isn't so goddamn stupid. Or, y'know, they can go read this piece by John Scalzi , brilliant author/blogger and outgoing president of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, as he tears apart an allegedly professional contract offered by Random House imprint Hydra to new ebook authors. Go ahead. I'll wait. Oh sweet fluffy Jesus - I am no lawyer and other than a handful of contracts in my filing cabinet, I have no real expertise in contract law. But that is by far the most disgusting example of screw the author ...

It once took me six months to buy oven mitts. I am not, by nature, an indecisive person. But I am a researcher. Before committing to anything, I research extensively to make sure I'm making a good choice: the highest quality for the lowest price within the limits of my budget. I plan, I make lists... to look at my house (and my car) you would not think of me as a type A personality, and according to the tests I found on the internet, I'm not. Experts wrote those, man! But in this one area, I definitely meet the criteria. In college, I had this neat pair of cow-splotch oven mitts. They (and my cow-splotch canister set and kitchen towel) were a housewarming gift from my grandmother for my first apartment. Those mitts carried countless pans of cookies through college apartments, my first home as a married woman, the birth of my son and the throes of my divorce. They finally burned through to my fingers in my post-divorce apartment. I had known I needed new mitts, mind you. B...

Tomorrow I have to go into court and argue a case before a judge. This is slightly outside my job description. I can't recall a time when I've been so nervous. Getting engaged was less terrifying. Watch me stride on stage and sing a song. Mugged three times, didn't have time to be scared (and won all three fights). Even the Meanest Judge in All the Land wasn't as frightening as this, because at least I didn't know I was going into the lion's den until I got there. Some folks have asked what the lawsuit is about. This is my attempt to answer that question, and maybe you'll know why I'm nervous. Some time ago, Jimmy's doctor sent him for an X-ray to the lab next door. We thought it was part of his doctor's office; they have labs in most locations. Turns out it was operated by [Hospital Redacted], which then billed us for $238. Jimmy's insurance, which was worth about as much as the stick of gum you don't get in a pack of baseball ca...