Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Good morning.

Yesterday I received my copy of Dragon NaturallySpeaking. Since I am going to be doing NaNoWriMo this year, I was particularly anxious to get my hands on it. The package arrived yesterday. My husband ordered the program for us and it arrived with threes headsets and the software license that allows us to install it on five devices.

Of course, I installed immediately! How well does it work? Much better than I expected that it would. I have already used the program to do some fiction writing, to surf the web, and to write this blog entry.

Is it perfect? No. However, it does a pretty damn good job. I installed the program yesterday afternoon. I did only the absolute minimum amount of training recommended by the install program. Even so, I have already dictated thousands of words, and most of them come out correctly.

The program works with WordPress, with Microsoft Word, with Google mail, with Facebook, and even allows you to surf the web. All I need to do is tell it what I’m looking for and Internet Explorer appears with the search results.

Overall this is probably the best word recognition software I have ever used. I really didn’t expect to be this thrilled with it. I also expected to have to spend a lot of time training it. I was wrong. I’m having a lot of fun writing all kinds of different things using Dragon NaturallySpeaking.

I suppose that Dragon NaturallySpeaking stop everyone but if you’re willing to be just a little bit patient, I think you will be satisfied with the results. The application is not hard to install. And it didn’t take long to do. Within half an hour, not only have I installed the program, but my son had installed as well.

Would I recommend Dragon NaturallySpeaking to other writers? Yes I would. I’m not entirely sure that I would want use it to edit, but for writing the first draft, I love it. It isn’t as though I can’t type, but anything that saves the wear and tear on my fingers and wrists is worth doing.

If you have used Dragon NaturallySpeaking yourself, please chime in and let me know what you think of it. As far as I am concerned, the money I spent for this product was well spent. Using Dragon NaturallySpeaking has made writing fun again.

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

So, after I complained to everybody I could think to complain to, I received two phone calls. One from Aileen Gunther, and the other from John Bonacic. Both politicans went to Sloatsburg on the day I wrote the last blog post to try to get New Jersey Transit to provide some sort of transportation to people between Port Jervis and Harriman.

The first solution provided was a bus to Beacon, NY where we were to catch a train to Grand Central station. This smooth move changed my two and a half hour commute to over three hours going in and, because of the difficulty in making connections between bus and train, four hours or more coming home. In addition to the extended length of the trip, it cost more because I had to take the subway instead of the PATH train. Not fun!

After two weeks of that unpleasantness, there was an announcement that we would now have train service to Harriman, NY where we would get on buses and go to Ramsey Route 17 to get back on a train to Hoboken. This was somewhat better in that it was closer to the trip that I’m used to, but it still takes me three to three and a half hours each way and, because of having to change from train to bus to train, I can’t get any sleep while traveling. That seems like a minor complaint, but when you leave home at 5:10 AM and don’t get back until nearly 8:00 PM, it leaves you with a big sleep debt.

By the time I was getting home from work and having dinner, I wasn’t getting to bed before 11:00 PM or even later and then getting up at 4:00 AM to start it all over again. You can do that for a while, but the sleep deficit gets to you more quickly than you would expect. I ended up too sick to do any work at all for two days last week.

Now here is the silver lining part…

When I met with my boss this past Monday, she suggested that I would be better off working at home until the train troubles are resolved. This has multiple benefits:

1. I don’t have to spend so much money on travel. I can cancel my monthly ticket until the trains are repaired and, since I’ll only be going to the office once or twice a month, we can put the money in our savings account.
2. Because I don’t have to spend four to six hours or more traveling, I can make better use of that time to write, program, or just relax and watch a movie with my family.
3. Because I am home, I can get a realiable amount of sleep. I go to bed at 10:30 PM and get up at 6:30 AM.
4. Because I am less tired, I’m getting more work done during my work day.
5. Finally, because I am getting up on a realiable schedule, I am devoting the first half hour to hour of my day exercising, taking a shower, and having a good breakfast.

Will wonders never cease? By the time I have to start making the commute on a regular basis again, I will be rejuvenated, will probably have lost some weight, and will most likely not have to take so many medications for ailments like high blood pressure, diabetes, or high cholesterol.

That all sounds good, but I’ve made plans before and flopped. So I’ll just have to keep you “posted” on my progress.

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. It has been a little bit over a year since I last updated this blog. What great things have I accomplished while I was “away” doing other things? None. I am no closer to any of my goals than I was a year ago.

As far as I am concerned, 2010 was a lost year; a year of falling on my face. Why?

• I had no stories published. Everything I submitted in 2010 was rejected.
• I am still over a hundred pounds overweight.
• I failed the Microsoft ASP .NET certification exam. I use ASP .NET constantly both at work, amd yet I failed.
• I blew NaNoWriMo big time. I didn’t even write 5,000 words.

And yet…

• I did write the stories and submit them.
• I lost 41 pounds.
• I actually took the Microsoft test, something I’ve been talking about doing for more than ten years.

Baby steps, surely, but I did move forward all the same. Maybe I’ve been asking for two much.

It may seem a little late to be making New Year’s resolutions but…

My 2011 Resolutions

• Write, submit, and sell at least one story.
• Lose as much weight this year as I lost in 2010.
• Pass the .NET exam.

Three little resolutions.

Is anybody still there? I’m sure most of my readers became bored long ago and gave up, but if you are still reading, let me know what your resolutions are. Maybe we can do this thing together.

Besides, if I gave up, what would I do with myself?

I'm sorry. I just don't have a title for this one. The prompt was Jasmine, Forever. I think the prompt fits the forever part fairly well, but the Jasmine feels sort of tacked on. Here goes...

Time is a subjective. When we are happy, "time flies." In the midst of disaster, time screeches to a halt and every second seems an eternity. The rising and falling whine of the ambulance siren hurt Teri's ears. Almost seven months of hopes, dreams, plans, all dashed to pieces. She gently stroked her swollen stomach, murmuring, "Please don't die, please don't."

When she got married, the idea of having a baby seemed natural. She never questioned whether she would be able to have a baby. She knew the clock was ticking but thirty-five wasn't so old. Lots of women had babies at thirty-five, didn't they?

She got married in the summer and, by Halloween she was pregnant. Everything was perfect. She suffered no morning sickness, gained just the right amount of weight, and felt simply wonderful. Pregnancy was better than anyone had ever told her. She loved every minute of it.

Everything happened at the appointed time, just like the books said. Then the whole wonderful dream came crashing down around her head. She'd taken a nap. She was awakened by what seemed to be an overly full bladder. When she stood up, slimy liquid cascaded down her legs. She ran for the bathroom and when she pulled up her nightgown, her legs were streaked with blood.

The next hours had been completely surreal. The ride in the ambulance, the news that the baby had already died but that she'd still have to deliver it, and finally holding her dead infant in her arms. The baby weighed less than one pound. It had looked exactly like a miniature of its father. The pain in her body was minimal; the pain in her heart drowned it out completely.

"Never mind," the doctor said, "you can try again in six months."

Six months passed. All Teri could think about was having a baby. She neglected her house, she neglected her husband, and she even neglected herself. Despite her promises to "get in shape," she spent most of every day sitting on the couch, watching television, and feeding her face. Food was her only comfort.

Finally it was time to try again. She hadn't been interested in love-making for six months but now she was insatiable. Each month, when the most likely days came around, she jumped her husband as soon as he walked through the door, tearing off his clothes and dragging him into the bedroom.

Another six months went by. One morning, she woke up and knew that it had finally worked. She drove to the store on the way to work and bought a home pregnancy kit. It was positive. "I'm pregnant," she told her husband. "This time I'm going to do it right." She kissed him enthusiastically. "I'm going to take it easy and make sure that we make it all the way."

At six months they performed an operation to help the baby stay where it belonged, in her womb, until it was time for it to be born. They stitched her up, drawing her cervix tightly closed. "We'll remove the stitches once you're far enough along so the baby can survive."

"Just think," said the doctor when she reached the twenty-eighth week, "we're nearly there. After a couple more weeks the baby will be able to live on its own even if it does come early."

Teri was elated. That night she and her husband went out. They went to dinner and a movie. The film was nearly over when she felt a strange crawly sensation. A trip to the lady's room confirmed it. Quietly she returned to her husband's side and watched the rest of the movie. As the credits rolled and they made their way up the aisle, she leaned close to him and said, "I think we need to go to the hospital."

So here she was making another desperate ride. In the front of the ambulance, she heard her husband compulsively making small talk with the driver. Finally they reached the hospital and they took her to a delivery room.

The one difference between this time and the first time, the one thing that gave Teri hope, was that the baby was moving. It moved constantly. When the nurses placed a belt around her stomach to monitor the labor pains, it sounded like the baby was rearranging furniture. He hardly stayed still long enough for them to check him out with a sonogram. He did give them a good enough look so they could confirm that he was indeed a "he."

She lay in the bed for two days, leaking amniotic fluid, and listening as her baby rearranged her insides. She began to think she was going to spend the next twelve weeks lying on soggy sheets, waiting for her baby's due date. Then the pains began. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Williams, we're not going to be able to put off the birth any longer.

They called all their family and gave them the news. Then they waited. The pain washed over her in waves. Sometimes it seemed nearly unbearable but about the time she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, the baby nearly flew from her body. "It's a girl."

Once the flurry of activity had passed, she was finally able to hold her new baby daughter in her arms. Tiny, wrinkled, and bright red, she was the most beautiful thing Teri had ever seen. She kissed her gently on the forehead and said, "Good morning, Jasmine."

The prompt this week was "If it ain't broke." Here is my take...

Spring has Sprung

Time flies when you're having fun. The opposite is also true. The more miserable you feel, the more slowly time passes. Even so, it does pass. It has already been a year since my husband, Rob, died from a heart attack. When I talk about it with other people, I use the usual euphemisms. You know, "He passed away," or "He's no longer with us." With myself I used the "D" word.

I used to scoff at the stories about people who died of a broken heart after losing a spouse. Now I know different. The urge to lay down, pull the covers over my head and stay there is still strong. Some days, the only thing that gets me out of bed is the thought that I am the only person who can take care of our son, Marshall.

If it has been hard on me, it has been even tougher on Marshall. He and his father had a bond that I never could share. They loved to spend time together, wandering through the woods or tinkering in the shop Rob built out behind the house. Before Rob's death, he was a pretty good kid. He followed the rules better than most 16-year olds and got into trouble far less than any of his friends. Afterwards? The boy who used to get up at four in the morning so he could deliver the morning paper was replaced by a sullen, uncommunicative stranger who had to be dragged out of bed in order to get to school on time. The night of his father's funeral, Rob disappeared and was escorted home by one of the local police officers, Tony Callabria, a guy I knew from high school. When I answered the door, he had propped Marshall up against the post of the front porch.

"He's been drinking a bit, Amy," said Tony. "I probably should have taken him in, but I didn't want to screw up his life any more than it already is."

"Where was he?"

"Over behind the high school with a couple of other kids." He shrugged. "Guess they hadn't had as much to drink because they high-tailed it into the woods down by the river before I could catch up with 'em."

"We weren' doin--"

"Watch yourself, Marshall," I said. "You're in enough trouble already without talking back to a police officer."

I took him by the arm to escort him into the house when he leaned over the railing and threw up into the rose bushes.

Between the two of us, Tony and I managed to get him inside, clean him up and get him into bed. I would have confronted him the next morning, but I didn't have the energy and he was too hung over to hear me anyway. From that day we lived in the same house and went about our business, but we didn't really talk.

Sure, we had the kind of conversations that any people sharing a house might have. He told me when we needed toilet paper or milk and I told him when the trash needed to be taken out or the lawn needed mowing. It was all very polite. After a few weeks, I tried to talk to him but he refused to talk about his father's death or his own misbehavior. "Too soon," he said if I pushed really hard. I seldom pushed. I didn't really want to talk about it either.

My mother always said, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." I knew that our relationship was broken, but I had no idea how to go about fixing it so I pretended that nothing was wrong. I kept telling myself, "If it ain't broke--"

Last night he came home drunk again. His eyes were blood-shot and he moved with the exaggerated care of the inebriated. I was laying on the couch when he came in, where I had fallen asleep while watching the late news. He closed the door quietly, and paused only long enough to take off his shoes before he tiptoed over to the steps.

Some trick of light made him look just like his father. In my half-awake state, I thought it was Rob. I started up from the couch, dropping my book to the floor with a bang and Marshall spun around, entangling his feet in the process, and ended up sitting on the stairs. "You checking up on me?"

"Of course not, but maybe I should be because--"

"Because I'm not the little boy you love anymore, right?" He swiped his hand angrily across his eyes. Then he climbed to his feet, using the newel post at the bottom of the stairs to steady himself and stumbled across the living room to tower over me. "You don't even recognize me since Dad died, blah, blah, blah."

"It's not that. It's just that I worry--"

"Yeah, well don't worry about me. I can take care of myself," he replied. Somehow, despite his impairment, he managed to run across the room, up the stairs and, I assume, into his bedroom. The door banged behind him, louder than a cannon on the Fourth of July.

I went and stood outside his door for a long time but I couldn't bring myself to knock. Finally I went back downstairs and lay down on the couch, huddled under the afghan and cried myself to sleep.

When I dragged myself up the stairs in the morning, I wasn't sure he'd still be in his room. I got myself ready for work and then went to knock on his door. "Time to get up," I called. Although I heard vague sounds from the other side of the door, there was not answer from Marshall. Finally I knocked again. "Marshall get dressed right now or face the consequences."

So far, I hadn't actually punished Marshall for any of his transgressions. I talked a good game with threats of grounding, loss of the car, and worse, but I hadn't the heart to follow through. This time was different. It might be too late to make a change he was 17 now and nearly a man, but I had to try.

I stood outside my son's bedroom door, tapping my foot and looking at my watch. I tried to determine from the sounds emanating from the other side of the door whether he had actually gotten out of bed yet.

I tried to open the door. It was locked. Banging on the door, so hard that it hurt my fist, I shouted, "Marshall Thomas Quinn, if you do not open this door immediately, I will break it down."

As I lifted my fist to bang again, the door swung open and Marshall emerged, fully dressed. Despite his condition of the night before, he looked well-rested, happy and downright cheerful. He adjusted his backpack on his shoulders and then hugged me.

"Geez, Ma, don't burst a blood vessel. I'm ready." He set off down the hall, whistling a happy tune. At the end of the hall, he turned back. "Well? Are you ready?"

Shaking my head I followed him down the stairs and out the door. I shivered as the air hit my face. Technically it was Spring but it felt more like the depths of winter. A chill breeze tugged at my coat and whipped my hair across my face. The car was frosted over. I groaned. Would winter ever end?

I watched Marshall scrape at the thick coating of ice on the windows.

"It's nearly April and we're still buried in snow," I said to him when he got into the car. "So much for global warming."

"I like winter," Marshall said.

"Snow days, right?"

He just grinned at me.

I backed out of the driveway and started off down the street. That's when I heard the thwap, thwap, thwap of a flat tire. With fifteen minutes to drop Marshall off at the high school and then get myself to the grade school so I could be there to greet my students, I pulled over to the curb. The front tire on the driver's side was flatter than my students' singing voices.

"Pop the trunk."

Marshall changed the tire quickly, his motions confident. When he had finished, he opened the passenger's door and gestured for me to get in. Then he slid behind the wheel and we headed off.

Any resemblance between this confident young man and the child Marshall had been before his father died was gone. We would have to deal with his problems and mine but suddenly, I knew that we could manage.

The prompt this week was "A fool and his money." And this is my take.


On a cold winter’s day, the last day of the old year, the citizens of Westgate prepared to celebrate the beginning of the new year. Vendors thronged the market square while people strolled from stall to stall, trailing streams of condensed warmth behind them in the frigid air. Simon Montague, Monty to his friends, strolled through town, gazing at the goods in the stalls he passed, idly watching the people around him. The ass-end of the year was a bad time for a man who made his living by unburdening his fellow travelers, as he liked to describe it. But in a town of this size, there was more than enough people to allow him to fill his pockets.

Monty hoisted his pack higher on his should as he watched as a man set up a small table onto which he dealt several cards. Once the crowd around him had grown sufficiently, he picked up the cards, shuffled the deck, and dealt five of them in a row face down. As he flipped them over, he said to the man nearest to him, "Please pick one of these cards. No, don't touch it yet," he said quickly as the man reached out. He closed his eyes tightly, clamped one hand over them, and said, "Now show our friends here which card you chose."

The man pointed to the Queen of Hearts. The dealer opened his eyes, picked up the cards one by one, and slipped them back into the deck. Then he elaborately shuffled the cards. "Now," he said, "how much will you bet that I can tell you which card you chose?"

The man dropped a few coins on the table and several of the audience members followed suit. Monty edged around behind the man so he could watch more closely.

After a long, dramatic pause, the dealer said, "Is this your card?" He held up the ace of hearts.

"No," said the man. "My card is the--"

"Don't tell me," the main said. He dealt the cards in four rows of five. "I'll bet you double or nothing that I can tell you this time which card you picked. Is your card here?" he asked.

On receiving the man's assurance that it was, he said, "Tell me the column that it is in."

After accepting more bets, the man continued to deal the cards, each time stopping long enough to find out which column contained the man's card. The coins piled up on the table as more and more of the people in the crowd added their own wager to pile. Finally, the dealer looked the man in the eye. Tapping the Queen of Hearts, he said, "Is this your card?"

As the man gathered up the coins from the table, Monty wandered away. He admired the man's finesse with the crowd, but it doesn't do to hang around such people. His own game wasn't as obvious as that of the dealers, but essentially, they the same. "And it's time for me to set up shop," he said softly.

Near the other side of the square, the aroma of frying sausages grabbed Monty by the nose and pulled hard. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for two days. Filling his belly took precedence and he followed his nose to a booth where an old man stood next to a huge cauldron of boiling water. When a customer gave the old man an order, he grabbed a huge fork and captured one of the sausages that floated in the pot. Then he slapped it onto a huge skillet and fried it to a gold brown. He was doing a brisk business.

Monty checked his pockets but they were empty as they had been for the past two days. "Tapped out," he said with a sigh.

"What was that?" said the sausage vendor.

Monty patted his pockets again as though this time for sure there would be at least a few coins inside. "Nothing," he replied. "I was just enjoying the delightful aroma of your wares."

"Then you’d like a sausage?" The old man fished a large link out of the pot and slapped it into the pan.

"Wait, I can’t pay you for that." Turning his pockets out to show that they were empty, he said, "I’m a bit short on funds right now."

"Why, you—"

"Wait a minute, maybe we can make a trade."

"What could you possibly have that I want?" The hand with the fork hovered over the pan.

"Why, my good man, I happen to have one of the most efficacious products ever created for eradicating pixies." He slapped the bag down on the narrow counter between himself and the sausage vendor. "This little miracle will rid your home or your business of pixies once and for all."

"I've never seen a pixie."

"Ah," said Monty, "You never do until it's too late. Come on, friend, what do you say? You’d be doing yourself a favor and keeping a fellow human being alive for another day."

"Since when is that my job?"

"All right, think of your business then," said Monty. "Do you have any idea how much damage a couple of pixies can do?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Just one pixie--just one--can shut you down for weeks. You can't afford that, can you? Of course not! So you can see why this miraculous dust is so valuable."

"How much?"

Simon leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I usually charge two gold for this but I'm a bit down on my luck today, so I’ll charge you only," he paused as though to consider, and then said, "one coin if you'll throw in three sausages."

The man handed Monty a coin and then took the bag and started to open it.

"You don’t want to do that, friend," Simon said hastily. "Every time you open the bag and let in the air, it loses a little bit of its effectiveness. That’s why I only sell it by the bag."

Not to mention the fact that as soon as he opened it, the old fart would realize pixie dust was just powdered horse dung. Truth to tell, the stuff did do its job. Nobody who used it ever had to worry about pixies. Of course, no city dweller had to worry about pixies anyway because no self-respecting pixie would come within than a mile of any city.

With a sigh, the man folded down the top of the bag and deposited it under the counter. Then he fished out two more sausages and put them in the pan with the first.

"You’ve made the right choice, friend. All you have to do is sprinkle that stuff around once a month on the night of the new moon. You'll never have to worry about pixies again." As Monty walked away with the three sausages, he said, "You know, my old master was right. A fool and his money are soon parted and the fools in this place even throw it at you."

I changed my mind. Here is my story for the prompt: Birds of a Feather

"It's time to get up." A hand shook Denise's shoulder, dragging her up from sleep. She pulled the blankets over her head. Her mother was already in the next room, annoying her brother, Jay. As she drifted back down to unconsciousness, she remembered what day it was and sat up straight in bed, throwing back the covers.

"Hey, it's Sunday." She jumped to her feet. Her favorite holiday dress, deep green velvet covered in tiny poinsettia flowers, lay draped across her rocking chair. "We're going to grandma's house." She threw on the dress and took the stairs two at a time. Once downstairs, she started setting the table for breakfast.

"What are you so excited about?" Jay was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Grungy sneakers completed the outfit that Denise was sure was not what her mother had picked out for him. But Jay was sixteen years old and usually rejected anything that her mother picked.

"It's Sunday. We're going to grandma's house."

"Yeah, like I said, what are you so excited about?" He crossed the room, popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, then turned back to look at Denise. "It's like going back to the dark ages. There's nothing nearby for miles, hell, she doesn't even have a television."

"Well make the best of it." Denise's Mom was putting on her earrings as she came into the kitchen. She grabbed a cup and poured herself some coffee. "It won't kill you to be away from the boob tube for a day."

"Jeez, ma! Nobody calls it a 'boob tube' anymore." He poured himself a cup of coffee too, as though to underscore the fact that he was no longer a child. "Can't I stay home? I'm sixteen years old for crying out loud. Do I still have to go on these dumb family trips?"

"Yes. You have to go on these 'dumb family trips' as long as you live in this house."

"Forget it. I'm going out." Jay grabbed his coat and stormed out the door.

"Aren't you going after him?"

Denise's mother sighed. "No, I'm going to use—let's call it persuasion." She picked up the phone and dialed. After a short wait, she said, "Hey, Marge. I think Jay's headed your way. When he gets there inform him that he doesn't have to go with us today. Then tell him that if he doesn't, he won't use the car for two months." She smiled at Denise as she hung up. "That'll get him."

They were clearing up the breakfast dishes when the phone rang. Denise didn't have time to say hello before she heard, "You were right, Agnes, he came here."

"Sorry, Mrs. Simmons, it's Denise." She put her hand over the phone. "Hey Mom, it's Mrs. Simmons."

While she waited for her mother, Denise rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

When her mother came back to the kitchen, she was wearing her coat when she came back to the kitchen. "It's time to go."

"Isn't Jay coming back?"

"Apparently not. He'll just have to live with the consequences."

He might not have been there, but Jay was the main topic of conversation at Grandma's house. Finally Grandma summed it up with, "Well, he always did have a temper." She smiled. "Short tempers and impulsive behavior run in the family."

"What do you mean, Grandma?"

"Well, you know that my grandmother's family came from Poland. My great-grandfather was a farmer who lived near a small town outside of Warsaw.

"One fine winter's day, he went to Warsaw. I'm not sure exactly why he went there, but he dressed in his finest clothes for the trip, including a beautiful leather coat that was his pride and joy. The coat covered him down to his ankles and kept him warm, even in the coldest weather.

"After he finished his business, he decided that since the day was so fine, he would see the sights before he went home." Gram poured herself some more coffee. She took a sip and then continued, "As he wandered about the city, he came upon a small park.

"It was a really beautiful place, even in winter, with lovely evergreen plants and carved stone benches scattered along the gravel paths. You know the kind of place I mean?"

Denise nodded. "Did he go in?"

"Well, he tried to." Gram paused. "But a man standing by the gate stopped him saying, 'This place isn't for peasants.'

"Naturally great-grandfather was insulted.

'Why do you talk to me like that? You're no better than I am.'

"The guard said, 'Look at you with that long coat. It just proves that you're a peasant.'"

"But gram, what does that have to do with what Jay did?"

"Be patient, dear, I'm getting to it." She picked up the plate of cookies and gestured with it towards Denise and her mother. "Would anyone like another cookie?"

"Gram!"

"Naturally, this made great-grandfather extremely angry. He stormed off and went directly home.

"His wife saw him come striding into the yard. He tore off his coat, and tossed it onto the chopping block.

"This made her curious. She got outside just as he raised the ax and chopped a good foot off the bottom of the coat.

"'What are you doing?'

"Great-grandfather looked up as he made another swing. He said, 'If having a long coat makes me look like a peasant, than I'm not going to have a long coat.'

"So you see, Denise, being impulsive, hot tempered, and hard-headed runs in the family. Great-grandfather would rather have chopped up his prize leather coat than be considered a peasant, just as Jay would rather walk everywhere than be treated as a child."

For the next two months every time Denise saw Jay hoofing it down the street, it made her laugh as the picture of her great-great grandfather with his leather coat on the chopping block popped into her mind.

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I have finally had to come to the conclusion that I can’t do everything. I was trying to update this blog weekly, write a book, participate on Brigit’s Flame by writing a short story every week, study for Microsoft Certification, and also do my real job, the one that pays the bills. This left very little time for everyday things like, oh, sleep and spending time with my family.

I just couldn’t do it. Trying to do too many things at once caused a system crash (my system, not the computer) and I just haven’t felt like doing anything for several months. My health has been suffering and so has my psyche. The whole experience just made me feel sorry for myself and left me incapable of accomplishing much of anything. The few stories I did manage to write got me nothing more than a bunch of rejections.

Is it time for me to give up on writing? Maybe I’m just fooling myself. I thought that I write well. Most of the people who read my stories like them (except for the magazine editors, apparently) so if I haven’t figured out what I’m doing wrong by now, maybe I should just quit.

Why can’t I do that? No matter how many rejections I get, I find myself writing again. It builds up, like water pressure behind a clog in a pipe and after a while, I start getting story ideas that swoop and dive around my head like crazed birds until I sit down at the keyboard and get them out there. I can’t help myself.

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

I am a procrastinator by nature. I tend to do things at the last moment. Most of the time it works pretty well for me but sometimes…

Last weekend I was busy. We had a party for my son’s birthday and by the time I thought of the blog post, it was Friday night. I vowed that this week would be different. Yet here it is quarter to midnight and I haven’t written anything yet. Maybe this is why I haven’t had a major publishing success?

Even so, I’m too persistent (too stupid?) to quit. I keep trying.

It’s time to go back to the drawing board. I am going to throw out everything I’ve already done and begin at the beginning with a new idea, a new story, and maybe, finally, a success.

They say that one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. Maybe that is what I’ve been doing. I have about half a dozen different story ideas and I keep trying to redo them and get a bestseller out of it. Maybe I’m just getting bored with my own stories. And, if I’m bored, my readers will be as well. Time to start fresh.

So…

Tonight’s post is going to be short and sweet. I’ve got a book to write.

See you next week…

Originally published at Irene Smith. You can comment here or there.

Take a look at the following short exchange and see if you can tell me what’s wrong with it:

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” I replied.

“What is new?” said my boss, George Newbinging.

“Nothing. How was your weekend?”

“Great,” he replied. “How are the kids?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” I said.

So, what do you think? Besides being boring as hell, this little dialog does none of the jobs that dialog is supposed to do within a story. Dialogue can do any or all of the following:

• advance the plot
• tell us about the characters
• heighten the conflict
• provide information the viewpoint character might not otherwise know

I suppose I could make a case for increased tension if the employee had done something terrible, say screwed up some paperwork or lost an important order. Then the very fact that the boss doesn’t say anything about the incident could be a means to heighten the tension. Otherwise? Not so much.

While people exchange comments like the above every day in real life, they can’t afford to do the same in fiction. Dialogue in fiction must perform at least one of the functions I listed above.

Advance the Plot

Take a look at this short exchange:

“You must be my new master.” The man looked around and sighed. “What year is it?”

“Two thousand and nine,” Ken replied. He tried to get up but he couldn’t move.

“Only eight years this time,” said the man shaking his head. Then he bowed low. “I am a jinni and you are my master. What is thy first wish?”

Now Ken was glad he hadn’t run away. “How many do I get?”

“Three wishes are standard. Everybody knows that. ”

“Finally something is going my way,” said Ken.

In just a few lines we’ve managed to convey the information that Ken has found a jinni and that he is entitled to three wishes in a more entertaining way that “Ken found a jinni and it told him that he was entitled to three wishes.” The narrative version might use less words but the version with dialogue is more interesting.

Tell us About the Characters

If you are doing your job right, the characters in your stories each have their own mannerisms in speech and action. For example:

“Yo, man, how’s it hangin’?”

“Good morning, my dear fellow, how is the world treating you on this fine day?”

Obviously there are differences between these two characters’ speech patterns. The informality of the first speech (yeah, I know it sounds corny) might indicate a lower level of education or it might indicate someone who is putting on a personality that isn’t really his own. Which it is depends on the context of the story of course.

Heighten the Conflict

Dialogue is the perfect way to heighten conflict. Don’t tell us that two characters are angry at each other. Show it in the way that they speak. Instead of:

Mom was angry.

Have Mom show us herself like this:

“Matthew Denis Smith, what in the wide world do you think you are doing?”

No question that Mom is a little bit annoyed now, is there?

Provide Information

Dialogue can give us information that we might not be able to get any other way. For instance, if a story is told from the point of view of a character that was not a witness to something that needs to be presented, a character that did see the incident can tell the viewpoint character about it in a much more interesting way than, “Later I found out, blah, blah, blah.”

I find dialogue is more fun to write than narrative too. But that’s just icing on the cake, so to speak.