Showing posts from October, 2011


I have an odd dilemma. Next week, I'm on vacation. No cons. No travel. No signings or readings or meetings of any kind. Of course, it's not actually a vacation . It's not like I'm hopping a plane to go lie on a beach somewhere, sip margaritas and bathe in the sun. Or even to a bed-and-breakfast on a lake where I can work on my laptop in peace and quiet. Too broke for such nonsense. And I'll still have to haul my ass out of bed at 6:30 in the freaking morning every day. I may be on vacation but the Spawn is not. There is still breakfast to be made, a bus to be caught. There is still homework to be done and errands to be run.  Still, I'm not sure what to do with myself. It's use-it-or-lose-it vacation days, and I'll still have three to burn once this little exercise in self-indulgence is over. What in heaven's name am I going to do with myself? Well, it's Nanowrimo. And I do have two freaking manuscripts vying for my attention. J'

Yosemite Memories

A few years ago, I took my son to visit my grandfather. It was the first time my boy had met my mother's father. He was a fascinating man, a naturalist who had a real affinity for growing things. He owned a nursery and created a new kind of tree, the fruitless mulberry. He took me on my first camping trip in the place he loved the most in all the world: Yosemite National Park. He loved Yosemite. It was the place he led countless troops of Boy Scouts in his decades as a Scoutmaster. An Eagle Scout himself, he lived to walk among the trees, and he married my stepgrandmother in their shadow in a small chapel within the park. But disease and age robbed him first of his active life, and then of his mind. By the time I led my small boy into his nursing-home room, he was barely conscious of us. I don't think he recognized me, or the significance of meeting his only great-grandson, all of age six. Or so I thought. Papa Ivan died not long after, finally escaping the prison his

Eternal Flame

I feel oddly like I did when Gene Roddenberry died. An imperfect genius gave us something that transformed our culture in ways we barely understand, from the mouse to the iPod. Those who continue to cling to Mac vs. PC nonsense are already making jokes, but business leaders recognize that Jobs' innovations helped user in the computer age, and the culture he helped form will continue to evolve in ways as yet unknown. Rest in peace, Mr. Jobs. P.S. My 1989 Mac SE is still operating just fine, thanks. I consider that a miracle of modern engineering.