Notes from the Red Bird House

I started a new story the other day. And honestly, the worries I'm having are probably why I'm planning to write historical fiction in the future. My current story is set in the (relatively) present day in Austin, Texas. As with my other stories, there's tennis and at least one lesbian protagonist. Write what you know, right? It'll give your writing a ring of authenticity, right? Well, I know tennis, lesbians, and Austin. Can't get any more authentic than that. Let me just get it out there. After all it's the purpose of this blog. I have a few concerns. Oh, I'm good with the story and my ability to tell it. Those are usually my biggest worries when I start a new story. Am I worthy? Can I get it down on paper in a coherent fashion? Check and check. I also have the plot and main characters nailed down. Check. Check. So, what's my problem? Reality. Yes, reality. Let me backtrack. About ten years ago when I was blogging a lot and had a pretty goo...

There's a point when sanity stops being easy. Done right everyone will be fooled. They won't see the unraveling, won't even guess. It won't make it any better. Ok, maybe slightly better. Nothing worse than seeing people see the unraveling. Trust me on that one. It'll change a friendship. They say it won't. But it will. It will.   I structure my life a certain way. I haven't always but after teetering on a crumbling precipice a few years back, I don't have a choice. If I want to stay on this side of...well, if I want to stay on this side. Let's just go with that.   My goal is always to 'win today'. Not next month or even next week. One day. Today. Truly, it's all that matters. And once I win today, I can move on to tomorrow. Winning isn't always easy. Even with the most rigorous vigilance, things happen. Elbows get hurt and jobs change. In an instant, two of the three things that ensure sanity can abruptly di...

I'm odd. I think it goes without saying. I've never fit the standard textbook definition of "normal" and, you know, it's seldom bothered me. Oh, I'm not weird or strange. I mean not so much that people recoil from me or are embarrassed to be seen with me. I'm odd...like a square peg with rounded corners that almost ( almost ) fits into the round hole. I'm accepted not because I'm like everyone else; I'm accepted because I'm different. Odd, if you will. I'm not like anyone anyone will ever meet. Luckily, I've met a lot of people who like that sort of thing. I used to think that I was a truly square square peg. Don't get me wrong, I was ok with it. I was ok with never fitting in, being so different as to not be universally accepted. Because I was accepted enough. Usually by others who were a bit squared-off themselves. And that was ok, too. But just ok. I want to get it out there early that I have never willfully changed mysel...

I'm an introvert. For those who've met me, this is often hard to believe. I speak even before I'm spoken to. I use complete sentences. I don't run when I see people.  I have a high social IQ (and incidentally a high emotional IQ as well). I can speak to anyone and find something to talk about. I'm seldom at a loss for words. I have spectacular intuition and I'm good at reading people. I can be witty, sarcastic, and down-right fun to be around. Makes me an extrovert, right? Wrong.  I'm a textbook introvert. People drain me. I crave solitude. Too much distraction leaves me untethered mentally. I dislike being the center of attention. I prefer small groups over large ones (at a party, I'm usually the one petting the dog in a quiet corner) I have a small number of close friends. See? I'm an introvert.  Here comes the shocker.  I'm a fake. A pretender. An actor. I've gotten really good at the imitation game. I know wha...

She counted stars. One. Two. Three. And so on. Sometimes she feared that she over-counted. How was one to know one from another? She supposed she'd best go on faith. And, really, what would be the harm in counting a particular star or other twice? Or even three times? She reassured herself that it was the counting that mattered, not the accuracy of the count. Regardless, who was there to check her work? No one. Absolutely no one. It was impossible to know how many stars were in any given night sky and she had no time for anyone who presupposed that knowledge. Exactitude was boring and unnecessary. At least when it came to stars. Gas tanks and bank accounts. They needed exactitude. There was room for error in a night sky. She thought maybe that's why she liked to count stars so much. Maybe it was. Of course, maybe it wasn't. Sometimes it was better not to ask. She knew this. Yes, she knew this.