Posts
Just back from our CPA's office, where we completed our 2006 tax return. Always a pleasant experience.
The twist this year: I have to do one for my brother, too. He died suddenly last September. As a bartender, his income wasn't much (declared income, anyway). But the government still wants to know what he earned and how much he'll pay.
What's the old saying? The only things certain in life are death and taxes.
Today was a two-fer, reminding me once again of the certainty of each. And while death may be final, taxes apparently are forever.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
wishin' and hopin'
I wish my life were more settled. I hope by this time next year I'm a soon-to-be-published author, getting ready for the release of "Mama and the Murderer.''
But, like Mom used to say, wishing doesn't make it so.
Writing does, and I need to get on the stick. Sit my butt in the seat and WRITE.
There are just so many distractions .... I can find a million things I need to do, all taking me away from the one thing that I MUST do.
Arrrrrgh, Motivation. Why have you deserted me?
But, like Mom used to say, wishing doesn't make it so.
Writing does, and I need to get on the stick. Sit my butt in the seat and WRITE.
There are just so many distractions .... I can find a million things I need to do, all taking me away from the one thing that I MUST do.
Arrrrrgh, Motivation. Why have you deserted me?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Finding My Florida Cracker Roots
Yee-haw!
I'm just off the 120-mile Florida Cracker Trail ride: 200-plus horses, riders, mule wagons, and a BBQ truck in a week-long, traveling caravan across mid-Florida. You're supposed to have your own horse, but it's been 35 years since I did ... so a very kind Judge Nelson Bailey and his wife, Carol, saw to it that I shared rides along the way.
When the judge wasn't riding his Paso Fino, Domino, I was. When Domino wasn't available, I hitched on various conveyances: mule wagons; a rig pulled by the Halflinger pair of Heckel and Jekyll; and finally, Carl, a plow horse somebody found for me for the parade in Fort Pierce.
You go, Carl! You're not exactly a Thoroughbred, but we looked pretty damn fine in those final day parade pictures!
I did the ride, camping along the way, because my second mystery novel, "MAMA RIDES SHOTGUN,'' is set on the Cracker Trail. Talk about suffering for your art: It rained sideways, soaking me from winter cap to wool socks. A howling wind collapsed my tent the first night. Frost coated my toothbrush the next, when it hit 28 degrees. In Florida! I had an unexpected encounter with a bull. I slept three nights in a horse stall, and I'm still picking hay from my private parts.
And, finally, I learned that you never pee outside when your boots are downhill.
The annual ride--which just finished its 20th year--honors the early days of Florida's cattle indstury. Cross-state drives took place until the 1940s, traveling east to west. On the Gulf Coast, cattle were loaded onto ships and sent to market in Cuba. Our ride, which started near Bradenton and ended on the Atlantic side at Fort Pierce, reflects the return trips the Florida cowmen made, sans cattle.
Riding the Cracker Trail is really more my main character's thing than it is mine. (A few people looked at me funny when I explained this. "Your 'main character.' Is that like an imaginary friend?'' one rider asked me.)
There was a day when I would have embraced this sort of thing. But that was before bad knees, luxury hotels, and memory-foam mattresses. I'm a long way and a lot of years from my Daddy's Florida Cracker upbringing. He died when I was eight; we lost touch with his family and his country ways. I grew up more Surfer Girl in Fort Lauderdale than Cracker Gal in Davie, Fla. It's kind of hard to excavate your roots when they're dug into decades worth of city-dweller concrete.
Even so, I'm glad I did the ride. That's not to say I'll ever do it again.
I'm just hoping Mace Bauer, the main character in my Mama Mysteries, doesn't ever take it into her head to go work on the pipeline in Alaska.
I'm just off the 120-mile Florida Cracker Trail ride: 200-plus horses, riders, mule wagons, and a BBQ truck in a week-long, traveling caravan across mid-Florida. You're supposed to have your own horse, but it's been 35 years since I did ... so a very kind Judge Nelson Bailey and his wife, Carol, saw to it that I shared rides along the way.
When the judge wasn't riding his Paso Fino, Domino, I was. When Domino wasn't available, I hitched on various conveyances: mule wagons; a rig pulled by the Halflinger pair of Heckel and Jekyll; and finally, Carl, a plow horse somebody found for me for the parade in Fort Pierce.
You go, Carl! You're not exactly a Thoroughbred, but we looked pretty damn fine in those final day parade pictures!
I did the ride, camping along the way, because my second mystery novel, "MAMA RIDES SHOTGUN,'' is set on the Cracker Trail. Talk about suffering for your art: It rained sideways, soaking me from winter cap to wool socks. A howling wind collapsed my tent the first night. Frost coated my toothbrush the next, when it hit 28 degrees. In Florida! I had an unexpected encounter with a bull. I slept three nights in a horse stall, and I'm still picking hay from my private parts.
And, finally, I learned that you never pee outside when your boots are downhill.
The annual ride--which just finished its 20th year--honors the early days of Florida's cattle indstury. Cross-state drives took place until the 1940s, traveling east to west. On the Gulf Coast, cattle were loaded onto ships and sent to market in Cuba. Our ride, which started near Bradenton and ended on the Atlantic side at Fort Pierce, reflects the return trips the Florida cowmen made, sans cattle.
Riding the Cracker Trail is really more my main character's thing than it is mine. (A few people looked at me funny when I explained this. "Your 'main character.' Is that like an imaginary friend?'' one rider asked me.)
There was a day when I would have embraced this sort of thing. But that was before bad knees, luxury hotels, and memory-foam mattresses. I'm a long way and a lot of years from my Daddy's Florida Cracker upbringing. He died when I was eight; we lost touch with his family and his country ways. I grew up more Surfer Girl in Fort Lauderdale than Cracker Gal in Davie, Fla. It's kind of hard to excavate your roots when they're dug into decades worth of city-dweller concrete.
Even so, I'm glad I did the ride. That's not to say I'll ever do it again.
I'm just hoping Mace Bauer, the main character in my Mama Mysteries, doesn't ever take it into her head to go work on the pipeline in Alaska.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Death
A neighbor, a close friend, died this morning, just after we'd stood visiting on the street in front of our homes. I'm still reeling.
I was running late for a horseback riding session; Peter and his wife were off for a walk through the neighborhood. They invited me for dinner this weekend.
"Sounds great,'' I said, climbing in my car. "We'll catch up on Sunday, though. I've gotta run.''
As I pulled away, I remember watching the two of them in the rear-view mirror. He said something to make her laugh; she gave him a playful shove.
How cute! I thought. They're grandparents, married forever, and they're still in love.
Halfway through the walk, Peter said he didn't feel well. He returned home; his wife kept walking. She got back fifteen minutes later to find him collapsed on the floor, already dead from an apparent heart attack.
Here one moment; gone the next.
I feel so sorry for Peter's wife. But the incident also has an eerie, deja vu parallel for me. My younger brother died unexpectedly, four months ago. And just like today, the death was sudden. Shocking. The bad news came via phone.
It makes me realize how little control we have over our lives. And it makes me wonder: What twist does the universe have in store next?
I was running late for a horseback riding session; Peter and his wife were off for a walk through the neighborhood. They invited me for dinner this weekend.
"Sounds great,'' I said, climbing in my car. "We'll catch up on Sunday, though. I've gotta run.''
As I pulled away, I remember watching the two of them in the rear-view mirror. He said something to make her laugh; she gave him a playful shove.
How cute! I thought. They're grandparents, married forever, and they're still in love.
Halfway through the walk, Peter said he didn't feel well. He returned home; his wife kept walking. She got back fifteen minutes later to find him collapsed on the floor, already dead from an apparent heart attack.
Here one moment; gone the next.
I feel so sorry for Peter's wife. But the incident also has an eerie, deja vu parallel for me. My younger brother died unexpectedly, four months ago. And just like today, the death was sudden. Shocking. The bad news came via phone.
It makes me realize how little control we have over our lives. And it makes me wonder: What twist does the universe have in store next?
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sex
Just kidding on the title .... thought maybe I'd draw some readers that way.This isn't about sex; but it is about seduction.
This morning, for the first time, I picked up my last-century, pen-and-paper journal and thought to myself, "Maybe I'll check in on the blog instead.''
Ah, fickle, fickle Deborah. That siren 'net has ensnared me in its web ...
It's all about the blinking cursor, the nice, even type, no scratch-outs or torn sheets of paper. I've been keeping a journal since high school -- books and books and pages and pages of musings, left behind for future American literature students to peruse. (Sure, keep dreaming).
What will they do in the future? Find someone's old hard drive in the attic and go on a blog hunt? Somehow, it doesn't have the same romance as wiping off dust and tracing a finger across an ancient teardrop on the pages of someone's hand-written journal. (Of course if it's my journal, that spot could be fried chicken grease or a splotch of mayonnaise.)
On the other hand, I do have cool graphic dots and soothing earth tone colors on my blog ....
Quick update: found an agent I love (the waiting paid off). The contract from Midnight Ink will be signed soon (the indecision is over). "Mama and the Murderer'' will be out next year (starting a whole new crisis, when I realize I actually have to get out and MEET people to sell the book. Yikes!).
Is it too late to go back into newspapers?
This morning, for the first time, I picked up my last-century, pen-and-paper journal and thought to myself, "Maybe I'll check in on the blog instead.''
Ah, fickle, fickle Deborah. That siren 'net has ensnared me in its web ...
It's all about the blinking cursor, the nice, even type, no scratch-outs or torn sheets of paper. I've been keeping a journal since high school -- books and books and pages and pages of musings, left behind for future American literature students to peruse. (Sure, keep dreaming).
What will they do in the future? Find someone's old hard drive in the attic and go on a blog hunt? Somehow, it doesn't have the same romance as wiping off dust and tracing a finger across an ancient teardrop on the pages of someone's hand-written journal. (Of course if it's my journal, that spot could be fried chicken grease or a splotch of mayonnaise.)
On the other hand, I do have cool graphic dots and soothing earth tone colors on my blog ....
Quick update: found an agent I love (the waiting paid off). The contract from Midnight Ink will be signed soon (the indecision is over). "Mama and the Murderer'' will be out next year (starting a whole new crisis, when I realize I actually have to get out and MEET people to sell the book. Yikes!).
Is it too late to go back into newspapers?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
