Adios 2019

Following the creaky tradition I had while writing PBW , I thought I'd take a look back at 2019.

Okay, so all the bad stuff first. I had surgery to repair a jaw I didn't realize was broken, lost eight teeth, slipped three discs in my neck and had to give up sewing and quilting for a month while working on straightening out my spine. My guy got (treatable) skin cancer. All that was the personal worst.

I had not planned to move my blogging back to Blogger, but Tumblr started censoring my G-rated posts about quilting as inappropriate/adult content. Meanwhile, every pornographer taking X-rated shots kept showing up, and some of them followed me. Euw. Then people on Tumblr figured out who I was and started asking me for money. I finally decided I'd better move. Best decision I made all year.

I decided to keep this version of Valerean secret, so it could be just for trusted friends. I don't want to be a public figure anymore. So far that's worked, and I'll keep blogging here until it doesn't. I might have to password the blog if outsiders stumble across it, but I'm trying to avoid that. Hopefully everyone has forgotten about me. :)

My health wasn't great this year, but I managed to keep my diabetes under control by diet alone, transitioned to being vegan to help my poor clogged arteries, and discovered lots of ways to enjoy vegan cuisine. Maria sent me a vegan cookbook that has been a real blessing. My partner, who is also vegan, has shared product recs and tips on how to manage a plant-based diet. My guy has been 100% supportive, and since this man is a true meat and potatoes lover that's amazing.

I wrote without a vacation in 2019. The only novel I can tell you about is Twenty-One, the project that helped me win NaNoWriMo this year, which you can watch me finish writing by clicking the link up there (I haven't gotten much done this month, so work on it will continue on into 2020.) Suffice to say this year was great for my productivity.

Good things now: while Mr. Oliver decided to show up in the middle of a hurricane, I'm really happy he came into the world. Having a grandson has changed a lot for me. I've got new reasons to maintain a healthier lifestyle and (finally) a baby to make quilts for in the years ahead. Also, he's freaking adorable.

Becoming a father has also changed a lot for my son Mike, too, and I'm proud of how hard he's working to take care of his new family. Over the last year I've grown close to Oliver's mom, who is a wonderful mother and a genuinely sweet, caring woman.

Nothing can really describe what it's like to hold this little boy in my arms. I'm so grateful to be part of his life.

Our daughter Katherine will be graduating college soon with her bachelor's degree, and then she's probably going to head off to grad school.

Kat has been completely focused on college for years now, and it's paid off. She's become an accomplished scholar and scientist, winning lots of awards and recognition for her work. This girl spends her spare time doing things like resequencing DNA in a lab, and finding ways to protect the aquatic environment by identifying invasive species through water samples (don't ask me to explain. We'll need slides and a microscope.) She's grown into an amazing woman, and I know she will succeed at whatever she decides to do with that brilliant brain of hers.

Some people think it's bittersweet to see your child achieve what you never could, but this is what I wanted for her: a great education, and a chance at a better life than her father and I had. She's headed that way. It will be tough to see her relocate to begin a new chapter in her life, possibly on the other side of the country, but I couldn't be prouder. Plus I'll be sending her plane tickets to come home whenever possible, so the separation won't be permanent.

With quilting I think I was fairly productive for most of the year. In August I finally finished the recycled linen quilt up there at the top of the post, my first spontaneous/improvisational slow-stitched big project. After a year of trying that felt like a major accomplishment. Back in January on my Tumblr blog I also mentioned that I was doing a secret art project. Here are pics of the two quilts I made for that:

Katherine's quilt, which I finished in March.

Oliver's quilt, which I finished the day before he was born in September.

I think you all know the secret, but just in case I didn't mention it: Both quilts are in patterns I have never tried to make, and the fabrics for both quilts were picked out by other people. Also, they're entirely hand quilted. My daughter chose the fabrics for hers, and Jenn at Quilted Thimble Cottage selected the fabrics for Oliver's. I did let myself pick out two complimentary fabrics for each one for the backing and some of the patchwork, but only after they made their choices.

My goal with the project was to step outside my comfort zone, which I definitely did. It was nerve-wracking, especially with the pattern for Oliver's quilt. More than once I questioned my sanity. But it was a chance to stop being such a control freak and do something very different with my quilting, and I loved the results. I also learned that allowing other people to be part of my creative process will not kill me. :)

I had planned to make one or two more for the project, but the doctor said no more quilting in October, and then I decided to do NaNoWriMo in November. So we'll call it a small secret art project.

I need more work on my mouth and jaw in 2020, which will likely happen after we finish getting my guy's skin cancer treated. I'm feeling my age, and the ongoing health issues are daily problems, but I'm not letting that stop me from doing what I want. I look for reasons and chances to be happy and creative every day; that's what 2019 taught me.

That's it for this year's look back. What do you want to remember about 2019? Let me know in comments.

Wishing My Girl

Happy 25th Birthday, Katherine.

The Little Things of Inspiration

A couple of weeks ago I got this slip from a fortune cookie in our Chinese take-out order. Aside from obviously illustrating that the author of said fortune is probably not a native English speaker, it made a little lightbulb go off in my head. Eventually the sentiment made its way into Chapter Twelve of Twenty-One.

Why? Don't know. Just did. That's how inspiration works.

This pic captures one of the most important moments in my creative and spiritual life. Six years after it did, from memory only, it inspired this:

Not all inspiration is funny or pretty. I don't have a picture of one of these, but the DOT in Florida will by request erect a memorial marker on or near a spot where a motorist died in a car accident (I think they can only do it on public land.) These markers are white circles inscribed "Drive Safely, In Memory" followed by the deceased's name.

Unfortunately I live quite close to a couple of very dangerous roads, so they're all over the place here. It was seeing one put up not a half-mile from my house that actually inspired the idea that became Ghost Writer.

Anyway, the point is that inspiration is all around you, and often in the most humble or unexpected forms. All you have to do is keep your imagination open to the universe, and it will toss plenty your way.

And the Winner Is . . .

Sorry to be so late posting this. Life. Anyway, I put the four story ideas that Theo and Maria voted for in a hat -- okay, a little bowl -- and had my guy draw the winning idea. Which is (drum roll, please):

#8: Haunted House Style, the sequel to Ghost Writer.

That'll be the first story I work on in 2020. I will also add to the queue the other three ideas you liked, and tackle those after HHS is finished.

Thanks for helping me get started on doing my own thing again. :)

Crazy Play

Last night the insomnia kicked in again. I'm taking a little break from quilting, so I got out the watercolors my friend Maria sent me. I had a couple of plain but nice craft boxes I wanted to recycle into prettier gift boxes, and crazy quilting on my mind:

Some hours later:

I'll put up the results of the idea vote later today. Theo, you're the only one who has voted so far (and I know everyone is busy with the holidays, so no problem.) Looks like you might get one of your wishes. :)

Idea Vote

It's my favorite day of the year! Ha. Today I'd like to know which of the twelve ideas of Christmas you'd like me to write first in 2020. I plan to get to all of these ideas eventually, btw, so however the vote turns out your pick will likely make it to the page.

To review the choices one more time, here they are (and click on them if you want to read the original idea post for each one):

1. Falling, featuring Kyan and Melanie from Twilight Fall.

2. Chrysalis, the love story between Éliane Selvais and Richard Tremayne from the original Darkyn series.

3. The Inheritance, a haunted house story.

4. Castling, an epic fantasy novel based on chess.

5. The Moonrise paranormal romance trilogy featuring Ethan and Nathan Jemmet, Valori Trovatella and the residents of Frenchman's Pass from Frostfire.

6. Her Majesty's Deathmage, the third novel in the Disenchanted & Company steampunk AH series.

7. Executive Pleasures a non-traditional steamy menage/office romance.

8. Haunted House Style, the sequel to Ghost Writer.

9. Possession, a paranormal story about a reluctant exorcist.

10. Taken by Night, a near-future SF novel about shape-shifters.

11. The third Youngbloods YA vampire novel.

12. Black and White, a dystopian story.

Let me know your choice in comments. In the event there is no clear majority (after all, only five people know about this blog) I'll put all the suggestions in a hat and let my guy pick one.

Wishing You

Merry Christmas from Valerean.

Image by InspiredImages from Pixabay

Zero-Waste Quilting

For the last 12 months I've been saving every single scrap of fabric and thread leftover from my quilting in one place. Because I'm cheap I try not to waste any fabric, but trimming inevitably creates scraps. As is my habit I used many of the scraps I generate for other projects this year. The real purpose was to discover how much textile waste I personally produce in one year that I didn't reuse. Here is the result for 2019, sorted into bags by size and type:

I'd say it's about three pounds of scraps. I can still reuse everything except these two bags:

The bag on the left is thread and fabric snips from my thread catcher, and the bag on the right are fabric pieces too thin to reuse for sewing. It's much less than I thought; maybe about eight ounces of waste in total. I could use these scraps as stuffing for a pin cushion, or material for a mixed-media art project, or even embellishments for my journal pages, so there's still a chance I can put them to work.

Is it possible to be a quilter and have zero waste? I think it depends on how creative you are with your leftover and scrap materials. Planning and purchasing the right amount of fabric for a project is definitely the first line of defense, and I'm already trying to do that. For 2020 I want to see if I can also be more mindful of the textile waste I create. I can certainly get into the habit of making quilt blocks from leftover fabric, and maybe by the end of the year have enough to make a sampler quilt.

Waste thread is more difficult to manage -- often my snips are less than a few inches in length -- but I've seen artists sandwich snips and threads between layers of tulle and top-stitch them into very pretty panels, so that's one possibility. I'll do more research and see what inspires me.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #12

Black and White

Judging by the wheel ruts the caravan came through while I was working in the darkhouse, and dumped the body where I’d see it soon as I came out. Tinkas sold any healthy stray they caught alive, and burned the ones they found diseased or dead, so it had to be a cripple or a screamer. They also knew I took in both.

Lindy came hobbling down the steps while I stood over it. “Wha’s tha, Dae?”

“Tinkas left it.” I handed her the basket of tubers I’d dug up for dinner. “Tell Les scrub these good. I’ll be out back a while.”

They’d swaddled it like a child, but when I hoisted it over my shoulder it unfolded into bigger and heavier. Smelled scorched something awful, like they’d tried to burn it then gave up halfway along. It didn’t twitch or make a sound, but I could feel its chest moving.

I carried it out back to my fixing shed, where I had all what I needed for mending hurts. Wasn’t much, but I had wood and straps to splint breaks, gut and needles to stitch gashes and yallo salve to cure festering. Some couldn’t be mended, and for them I kept sleepweed and heartstop.

Once I put it on my table I went around and dropped the shadecloths. The dark scared stiff everyone but me, so I didn’t have to waste sleepweed on a thrasher. I used my blade to cut through the knotted swaddling and pulled it back from the chest. It was a man in black clothes, and that gave me true pause.

Couldn’t be.

I put aside my dagger and reached for my shears, snipping my way through the bundle covering the head. Bone-colored hair spilled out first, lots of it, and fell away from a white face with black brows.

I held onto my shears and picked up my blade. The oldun who’d taken me in had told me plenty about the snowfolk, but I’d never seen one even from a distance. The Tinkas sometimes traded with them; always at edge dawn, when they couldn’t cross over.

His eyes went from closed to open, and I saw two starbursts of blue before his inner lids snapped down. His lips cracked as he muttered something and tried to move his arms.

I spoke every lingo in the zone – with my strays, I had to – and tried Tinka on him first. “You hurting where, iceman?”

“Free me.”

No, I wasn’t going to do that, no matter how pretty he sounded. “Where?”

A slit of blue showed on the bottom edge of his inlids. “Walkers.”

I felt his lower limbs with my hands, but instead of breaks the ridges and bulges of iron grazed my palms. “Shackles?” He nodded. “What for?”

“Ambush. Traitors.” His arms twitched. “Free me.”

*

A 2011 story with the working title of Black and White was another of those shiny ideas I wrote down to get it out of my head. It had a fairly neat premise for a dystopian tale, and probably would have become a novella. Black and White is Idea #12.

So that's all I've pulled from the archives. I have a few more partial books, a couple dozen unfinished short stories, and too many unsold pitches to even count, but these twelve are my favorites. In the realm of things I'd like to write before I die, I'd say finishing a dozen unfinished ideas is a reasonable goal, too. Stop in after Christmas to vote for which one you think I should tackle first in 2020.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #11

Another one of those I-never-got-to-finish series was the Youngbloods, my only YA books. I had a trilogy planned, but they only offered me a two-book contract. After multiple problems with the editors, some pretty serious, we decided to part ways after book two. I now own the rights to both books, so I could repackage them and sell them myself, but there wouldn't be much point without a third book to finish the trilogy.

The third Youngbloods book is Idea #11.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #10

From the Taken by Night synopsis:

Former top fashion designer Ara Chenault’s life was destroyed when she was changed by the Morxa, and went from creating couture to becoming a merciless, monstrous killer. Ara finally strikes a bargain with the Morxa who invaded her: in exchange for control Ara must free other mortals from Morxa possession, kill those who can’t be saved, and take revenge on an ancient, evil immortal who changed Ara’s morxa from human to monster.

By day Ara now runs a garment factory in the fashion district; by night she hunts the morxa-possessed with her team of powerful Fury: Glory Patten, who never wanted her unearthly Sirenian beauty and seductive powers; ex-Marine Arturo Chavez, who each night morphs into the centaur Ceron, and who hates everything but Ara; and Kim Smith, whose Chimaeran morxa allows her to shape-shift, and who often can’t resist creating mischief and mayhem, too.

The other Fury don’t know how Ara was changed, or by whom, but she refuses to discuss it. Ara believes she can’t share her burdens with her friends and still be their leader. Thea Wise, Ara’s only human friend, has done enough by financing the factory. Ara’s loneliness seems unbearable, but while both Chavez and Ceron both want to become Ara’s lovers, they don’t know how dangerous she is.

*

I wrote Taken by Night for NaNoWriMo in 2012 and knocked out 50K of the book in a decidedly rough draft. There's probably about 30K left to write on it. It's one of the most unusual novels I've ever attempted, so I'd like to get it wrapped up and see if I can pull off what I had planned. Taken by Night is Idea #10.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #9

Possession

The priest had told me that I could do this because God had chosen me. Sometimes I blamed the Other Guy.

Third floor, Father Joe had told me. First room to the left of the landing.

The inside of the house looked like old people smell, but it was a beauty. I’d worked as an architect before the accident, so I could appreciate the old craftsmanship that went into these places.

When I wasn’t doing my new gig.

Some yuppies had moved in to start renovating the place, which was when the situation turned sour. The living do tend to stir up shit. A red scarf dangled from the banister; I stepped over one then a second black ankle boot. The former residents had left behind their scents, too – cherry pipe tobacco and a real sugary, girly flower perfume.

“Bet she bitches at him about the pipe.” I felt a lot colder; the temperature seemed to drop with every step I took. I’d done a couple dozen of these houses already, but this one felt major. “When she’s not spending three hours in the bathroom.”

My voice sounded braver than I felt.

By the time I reached the third floor, my face felt stiff and my nose and ears were numb. First room to the left of the landing had a pale pink door with a white bulb-shaped knob. Someone had hand painted rosebuds on the wood, back when people actually cared about stuff like that.

“Shit.” It was so cold now it hurt to breathe in, but there was something behind the cold. “It’s a kid. He could have told me that.”

The priest wasn’t big on details. He was usually too busy praying and shaking holy water on my head. Kids were bad, but at least it wasn’t a baby. Babies were the worst.

“Okay.” I put my hand on the cold porcelain knob and pushed the door open. The hinges squeaked like stoned mice. “Showtime.”

What I saw inside wouldn’t have made sense to anyone else. There were two rooms in the same space. One was dark and cobwebby and cluttered with old junk; the other was bright and clean and filled with toys. Images from each overlapped, but the ugly room looked more solid.

The ugly room was also real, and empty. The pretty one wasn’t.

In the prettier, brighter room, a young girl sat on the floor in front of a huge dollhouse. She wore a funny white dress and big green satin bows in her hair. Cute little thing.

Please don’t be what I think you are.

She looked at me and grinned. “Hello.”

“Hey, sweetie.” I forced a smile back at her. So far, so good. “What’s your name?”

“Agnes.” She got up from the floor and shook out her skirt, which was puffed out almost like a tutu by all the petticoats she wore beneath it. “Have you come to play with me?”

“No. I’m the cleaning lady.” That was the simplest explanation. “It’s time for you to leave here, Agnes.” I always tried to be nice to the kids – they really didn’t deserve this crap.

She gave me a what are you, stupid? look. “But I live here.”

She was arguing. It was never good when they argued. Or easy.

“Not anymore.” The sweat above my upper lip turned to little beads of ice. “Don’t you want to see your Mama and Papa?” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, and I bet they really miss you.”

“They don’t miss me. They didn’t even like me.” She covered her mouth and coughed. “I’m too sick all the time. See?” She showed me her hand, and the clots of blood staining it.

So she had a grudge. Hell, I would have too, if I’d had some crappy lung disease.

“I’m sorry, honey.” And I was, even as I took the holy water and the cross I’d had blessed from my jacket pocket. “But you can’t stay here anymore.”

*

Circa 2010, Possession is another of my old unfinished stories. I remember setting it aside because I wasn't sure how I wanted to handle the religious angle (and now I'm glad I did; I'd already ticked off a lot of Catholics with some aspects of Darkyn.) Possession is Idea #9.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #8

Chapter One

Olivia

Is this recorder on? Good. I am stating for the record that I did not kill Angus McShea. I never met the man, never heard of him before his murder, and never saw him after he escaped custody in Boston. Of course I saw the news broadcasts about his body being found on Julian Caine’s front doorstep. All that blood made it look like he’d painted his deck to match a red ‘Vette. But the body had already been removed.

For your information I’ve never murdered anyone. I’ve been tempted to, but I always figured no one was worth going to the electric chair. Not even my ex-husband, whose continued presence on the same planet with me may be worse than me being electrocuted.

You should know, however, that as soon as she gets out of prison I’m going to kill Emma Jones. She’d a dead woman walking, right now. No, you know, first I’m going to burn the novel we’ve been writing together, because she’s made it impossible for me to finish. Also, destroying it will make our new editor cry.

What? Speak up, young man. Mumblers are the bane of my existence. You can talk louder, I can’t listen closer. That would require me to sit in your lap.

Why make her cry? Because I can’t stand our new editor. Have you ever met one of those women who exercise so much they should twang when they walk? Like they’re made of rubber bands, yes. And she’s also vegan. A rabid vegan. A rabid militant exercise harpy of a vegan. She tried to shame me the minute she found out I eat chicken. Not red meat, not veal, but chicken. Just in case you’re wondering, I also eat fish, shrimp and the occasional sea scallop when they’re on sale (I can’t spend $13.99 a pound on the little shellfish ring dings. They’re not that tasty.)

Anyway, I think all vegans should be sent to Mars so they can survive on hydroponically grown algae or whatever while I can have my fried chicken in peace here on Earth. My mother taught me how to make it, and she was from Maryland. Men worshipped her for her chicken. The governor of Maryland proposed to her because of it. She dumped him and married a penniless car mechanic who got bone cancer about a minute after she got pregnant with me.

Yes, well, Mama wasn’t good at picking men, either.

I can make fried chicken almost as well as she did. Why do you think the dogs love me so much? It’s not because of my sparkling personality. Back to Emma – I mean it, she’s history. Once our manuscript has started a nice blaze I’m going to toss her into the fire pit. Or maybe I’ll borrow my neighbor’s mechanical spit and roast her over the flames. He’s done an entire goat on that. Emma is skinny, so it shouldn’t take long. I can feed whatever doesn’t scorch to my Shelties.

No, that evil harpy’s flesh would probably poison my dogs.

Do you know why writers should never be friends? We’re self-absorbed book-loving jackasses, that’s why. I love books more than people, almost more than my dogs. And yes, I love writing books even more. More than people or my dogs. More than food or air or that really good chocolate from the little French place downtown. I never want to leave my house. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d starve or run out of new books to read, I probably never would.

I could grow my own food, but go without the latest Sarah Addison Allen novel? I’d rather be roasted alive.

Now I admit, Emma I’ve tolerated, and only because she can write a decent chapter without dangling modifiers over a pit of unparalleled constructions. She talks too much, and she definitely panics too easily, but she brings me toner cartridges and those heavy-ass boxes of printer paper when they’re on sale. For a writer, that’s like champagne and diamonds. All I have to do in return is make her tea and shortbread, give her some pithy advice I’ve already told her in another form five hundred times, and she’s happy. The blessings of the simple-minded. She also uses the proper words for sex. I cannot deal with women who pretend the word fuck doesn’t exist.

What advice do I give her? None of your fucking business.

*

I got about 6.1K finished of Haunted House Style, the sequel to Ghost Writer, back in 2017 before I had to bail on NaNoWriMo. Although I usually avoid writing characters who are writers, I do love Olivia and Emma. Since the story is told from both of their POVs it would be a delight to write. Haunted House Style is Idea #8.

The Last Project

Finished the quilted tote for the baby's car seat quilt, which is the last official quilted project for 2019. I think it's cute, especially with the bunny print. I might tinker on some ideas after Christmas, but I really have to get some day-job work and Twenty-One finished.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #7

Executive Pleasures

“Rumor has it the big boss is flying in tomorrow from Paris,” Sally Lane said as she added too much sugar to her coffee. “Have you heard why?”

“No, but it’s his company.” Jessica Hart finished stacking four coffee containers in a carrying tray. “He’s allowed.”

Outside the towering skyscraper office snow began to fall, adding to the drifts already blanketing Chicago in white. Frost edged every window in crystal, while the wind off the lake playfully buffeted the heavily-bundled pedestrians. In a month it would be Christmas, which Jessica would be spending it alone – again. Maybe this year she’d use her vacation to go on a cruise somewhere warm, where she could sun herself by a pool and drink things out of coconuts and pineapples. She might even have a fling, if she could find a guy who wouldn’t expect her to do sexual cartwheels.

Jessica imagined honestly introducing herself to a potential lover: Hi, I’m Jess. I’ve had exactly three lukewarm relationships, and my last boyfriend Bradley cheated on me with anyone he could get naked. Oh, and I’m kind of in love with my boss, who treats me like I’m invisible. So, want to come back to my cabin and let me bore you to tears?

“Earth to Jessica.” Sally saved a plump hand in front of her nose. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about that jerk Brad again. He did you a favor, sweetie.”

She forced a smile. “I’m not, really. So why do you think Mr. Duchane is coming over from Europe?”

“He can’t be tired of Paris. My boss thinks he’s delivering a bunch of pink slips, which should make my work day interesting.” The petite redhead tasted her brew and grimaced. “Why do I get coffee every morning? I hate coffee.”

“It’s the price you pay to gossip with me.” Jessica checked the slim gold watch on her wrist. “I’ve got to get upstairs. See you at lunch.”

“Text me if you see any actual pink slips, will you?” Sally called after her. “I’d like to know in advance if I have to update my resume.”

Jessica took the elevator to the executive offices where she worked, and delivered the coffee orders for two vice-presidents and the director of marketing before bringing the last to her own boss in Accounting.

“Thanks, Jess,” Connor Perry said without looking up from the spreadsheet he was studying. He’d already rolled up his sleeves of his white shirt, which along with his broad shoulders and muscular build made him seem like a brawler pretending to be an executive. He sat back and dragged a hand through his dark hair, frustration plain in his bright blue eyes. “How are you this morning?”

Jessica wondered how he’d react if she told him the truth: lonely, lustful, and secretly longing to straddle his lap and kiss his hard mouth until he groaned and ripped off her clothes. “I’m fine.”

“Great, then would you get Neil Ackerman from Sales on the line for me, please?” Connor gave the spreadsheet an annoyed look. “His budget requests are going to bankrupt the company.”

“Yes, sir.” Jess walked out to the reception office and placed the call, forwarding it to Connor before she began her own morning routine. Since she was the only secretary on the floor she handled the calls, correspondence and filing for all four executives, along with the financial reports and documents she prepared for Connor.

Her job at Duchane Consolidated kept her busy, but after five years Jessica could practically do it in her sleep. She’d considered going back to school to finish her accounting degree, but she didn’t need that for work. Nor was she inclined to start her own business. She liked working for Connor Perry, who was a hard-working, decent man who always treated her with respect. Sometimes she wished he wouldn’t – he was also the handsomest man in the building, and she’d had a crush on him since her first day – but she kept those feelings concealed. The last thing she needed to do was get involved with someone at work.

Just as Jessica was halfway through typing Connor’s letters a big, burly man strode into her office. As head of the Sales Department Neil Ackerman usually tried to be charming to everyone, especially women, but this morning anger reddened his broad face.

“I need to see him,” he told her, jabbing a finger at Connor’s office door. “Now.”

“Just a moment.” Jessica reached for the phone, but Neil stalked past her desk and went in without waiting for permission. “Mr. Ackerman, please.” She got up and followed him in.

“You can’t hang up on me now,” the salesman told Connor, who stood up and came around his desk. “Listen to me, damn it. We need the money so we can expand our client base.”

“Every department but yours has cut their overhead.” Unlike Ackerman, Connor sounded calm. “You can’t ask for more when everyone else is making do with less.”

Jessica could sense the anger seething under her boss’s bland expression. “Mr. Ackerman, why don’t I schedule a meeting for you and Mr. Perry, so you can discuss this in more detail?”

“Sales brings in the cash that runs this place,” Ackerman insisted, ignoring her entirely. “You have to spend a little to make a lot more.”

“By partying in Vegas with hookers, like you and your guys did last year?” Connor shook his head. “Not happening, Neil.”

The salesman lowered his head, like a bull getting ready to charge. “You spying on my department, you sneaky bastard?”

Connor smiled a little. “I didn’t have to. Your staff likes to brag. Now go back to your office, and redo your budget requests. These cuts have to be made.”

“We’ll justify the expenses with the new accounts we bring in.” Ackerman’s voice rose to a shout. “What the hell do you want from me, Perry? Blood?” Jessica stepped forward just as the salesman threw out his arms in a theatrical gesture. She tried to dodge his hand, which slammed into her shoulder and sent her staggering. Just as she started to fall strong arms caught her and steadied her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Connor demanded.

“Sorry, babe. Next time, stay out of my way.” His gaze shifted to the man holding her. “We’ll see what Duchane has to say about this, you tight-fisted asshole.” He stormed out of the office.

*

Executive Pleasures came from an idea I had last year to do a non-traditional menage/office romance in novel length. I haven't written contemporary romance for a long time, so I wrote the first 2K of the story to see if I could fall back into the rhythm. It's a very steamy idea, but I liked the characters a lot.

Executive Pleasures is Idea #7.

Image by Michael Gaida.

Update on Cole

Our pup Cole is doing very well after his surgery. The vet had to extract two teeth and drain the abcess, which is now almost gone. He's on four different meds, but the infection is under control and he's not showing any sign that he's in pain (but we're giving him Tramadol just in case he's being brave.) No collar of doom this time, thank heavens. Last night he ate for the first time since he got home, so that's all the Christmas present I need.

I can't seem to sleep or stop quilting (definitely due to nerves) so I took an orphan block I bought from Jen at KnJ Studio and bordered it with a cute bunny print to make the front of a gift bag for Oliver's car seat quilt.

I quilted the patchwork with three colors of holographic Sulky, and tonight I plan to finish the bag.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #6

Her Majesty's Deathmage, the third novel in the Disenchanted & Company series, bit the dust when I lost my job with NY. For a time I toyed around with the idea of writing and self-publishing it. My pal Maria Zannini was kind enough to do some artwork for me. Ultimately the demands of going freelance shelved the whole project.

Her Majesty's Deathmage is Idea #6.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #5

The Moonrise Trilogy

From Novel #1 Synopsis:

No one in the outside world knows that the residents of Frenchman’s Pass, a remote Colorado mountain town, are Ahnclann, immortal wolf-like beasts who take human form in daylight. Town sheriff Ethan Jemmet wants to keep it that way, too. Although a quirk of genetics has kept Ethan forever locked in a human body, he knows only too well the dangers of exposing the town’s secrets. In human form the Ahnclann are almost as vulnerable as any mortal, but as beasts they are unparalleled hunter-killers.

The only human Ethan trusts is his lover, Valori Trovatella, whose erotic effect on him is as strong as her unwavering loyalty and affection. Ethan wants Lori as his mate, but she’s still a stranger to his people, who distrust her. Colleen Clayton, an Ahnclann female who has always wanted Ethan, stirs up trouble by claiming that Lori is only interested in selling out the pack to the human world. Ethan’s unruly twin brother Nathan only makes matters worse when he proposes they try to change her into Ahnclann.

*

The Moonrise paranormal romance trilogy was another pitch of mine that NY passed on. It spins off the story from Frostfire and features the secondary characters of Ethan and Nathan Jemmet, Valori Trovatella and the residents of Frenchman's Pass. It's also a kinda-sorta menage romance. I outlined three full-length novels but never got a chance to write them. I'd probably write all three because, well, trilogy. :)

The Moonrise Trilogy is Idea #5.

Car Seat Quilt Done

My insomnia is raging again, so I spent my up-all-night hours finishing the car seat quilt for Oliver. I think it came out cute.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #4

Castling

S.L. Viehl

Kaset bolted the door and leaned back against it, refusing to look at her. “You can stop pretending now.”

Thienne didn’t answer him. A glance revealed she really was asleep.

Do not disturb her.

He’d do more than that, someday. But for now it was enough to walk to her, stand over her, and stare at her as much as he pleased. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Beautiful and golden and delicate as an ice crystal.

Deceitful and treacherous and as deadly as an elemental.

A strange sound left her, and he backed away a few steps until she did it again. She was snoring. Was she drunk? Thienne certainly had a fondness for wine. But she’d never indulge it in front of her mother. No, she saved it for those occasions when he had to wait upon her. Kaset turned abruptly and tripped over a chamber rod someone had left on the floor. He fell against the table, causing a bottle of wine near the edge on the other side tipped over. Before he could regain his balance and grab it, it fell to the floor and shattered.

Thienne sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What?”

Kas faced the Sciona. “My Lady, you . . . ” he trailed off when he saw the state of her gown, the odd bumps in her bodice, and the way she sat, slouched down on her chair, her legs comfortably spread. “Forgive me for waking you.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She looked around, then at him. “Can I have more to eat?”

Why was she asking him? Perhaps she thought it would interfere with his treatment. He suspected she had her monthly time; it always turned her moody and lethargic. “By all means.”

“Great.” She leaned over and took something from the table behind her. “Want some?”

“No, I thank you, I have already dined.” He paced up and down the length of the room. “I regret disturbing you, it was a clumsy accident. The sovereign bid me stay with you.” Braced for the explosion, he glanced her way.

She wasn’t having a tantrum. She didn’t appear even mildly upset. In fact, she wasn’t paying any attention to him at all. Her focus was on a single bloodrose in her hand. More interesting was what she was doing with it.

“My Lady, eating that flower will not aid your digestion.”

“Huh?” Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice, and she stopped chewing on the petal she’d just bitten off the bloom. She held the flower away and stared at it, then him. “I can’t eat this thing?”

Was the little twit trying to poison herself? He went to her and tugged the flower from her hand, taking care not to touch her. “I would not recommend it, my Lady.”

“Oh. Right.” She spat the remains of the petal into her palm, studied it for a moment, then wiped it off onto her skirt. “Didn’t taste like it smelled anyway.” She grabbed a handful of blanched, spiced roots and began breaking off chunks and tossing them in her mouth.

Kas blinked. “Are you feeling well, my Lady?”

“Yeah. I’m well.” She spoke through the mouthful of food she was chewing as she gazed up at him. “You’re Kaset. The . . . body something. Bodymage.” She appeared pleased with herself, as if she’d solved a difficult riddle. Then she tore the end from a braided length of bread and started gnawing on the crust.

Silently he lifted his sensitive hands, and probed the tenor of her soul mount, but felt no evidence it was being ridden. What he did feel stunned him. He’d probed Thienne many times before. He knew her mount almost as well as his own.

The body was Thienne’s. The soul . . . had changed.

Whatever had ‘mounted her must be dire indeed. Perhaps one of the minor elementals. He cursed himself for leaving his casting snare on the other side of the Hold, then went down on one knee beside her. To know more, he would need to touch her.

“Your leave, my Lady?”

She used her teeth to pull black grapes from a garnish vine draped around a platter. “Laslenne said I have to stay here.”

The way she spoke – her voice was Thienne’s, but her intonation was different. Sharper. Shorter. As if she was nearly clipping off the end sounds of each word. As if she had never sung a single note in her life.

Thienne, whose incomparable soprano had been so pure and sweet that a handful of notes had been known to make the most battle-hardened defender weep like an infant.

He held out his hand and kept his voice gentle and non-threatening. “I ask your leave to touch you.”

“Why?” She got to her feet, knocking the chair over as she retreated. “I didn’t cut out my ring. It’s not my fault. Don’t.”

He got to his feet. Whatever rode her was terrified of him. A perverse kind of pleasure spread through him. If it was afraid, it could be recast to do his bidding.

“Peace with you, Sciona. I won’t hurt you. You have lost a ring?”

She went around the table, putting it between them. “No, nummox. Someone cut it out of me.”

“You’ve been stabbed?” He looked for blood, but only saw dark patches of grease. A dire and slovenly ‘mount rode her. Thienne would be furious when she was restored. “Who dared to use a blade on you?”

“I don’t know.” She touched the back of her head.

She’d been stabbed there? “Allow me to see to your injury, my Lady. Give me your leave.”

“I’m not cut – oh, fine. Have a look. Touch whatever you want.”

Touch whatever you want. Whatever was riding her may have seriously debauched her mind. Carefully he moved around her, and placed his hand just above the crown of her head. A flick of his fingertips caused her hair to part neatly down the back of her head, revealing pink scalp. He found no wound, not even a bump.

“There is no injury, my Lady.”

“I know.” She picked up the small vase that had held the bloodrose. A few moments later she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Deuce, that’s so good. Can I have more?”

He stood, staring stupidly at the vase. She’d drank from it. She’d drained it. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*

Based on my lifelong love of chess, and a short story I wrote back in the 90's, Castling is an old unfinished book. I have about 40K of the book written. When I included an excerpt from Castling in one of my free e-books everyone clamored for more. Assuming I could pick up where I left off in 2005, this one would probably weigh in at 100K by the time I finished it.

Castling is Idea #4.

Image by Pexels.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #3

The Inheritance

“Lunch.” I handed my co-worker, Lucy, a wrapped sandwich. At her hurt look, I added, “It’s an all-veggie pita with no-fat dressing.”

“I love you. If you weren’t a girl, I’d have your babies.” She stopped to rip paper and take a huge bite before taste-bliss made her lashes droop. “Oh, God. Maybe we could adopt.”

Lucy had been dieting since high school; I knew because we’d been best friends since the first day of freshman year. I never kept any secrets from her, either, which was making it tough to decide what to tell her about my luncheon appointment.

“So?” She took a bottle of protein water from her bag. “What happened at the bank?”

“Nothing much.” I sat down in the client chair next to her desk and eyed the scuff mark on one side of my right shoe. “Anyone call?”

In mid-chug, Lucy nodded and passed me a small stack of message slips. Because she was the world’s finest receptionist, they were all neatly and beautifully written, and because I was the head of Accounts Receivable, I’d have to call them back.

“You look like someone just kicked your dog,” she told me after she swallowed. “What’s nothing much?”

“It’s just a family thing.” I sorted through the slips, shuffling them according to accounts and making some predictions about what they wanted to tell me. “No money, no money, probably filing Chapter Eleven, no money . . .” I came to one from the bank officer I’d just seen. “Oh.”

“He needs you to mail him a copy of your birth certificate.” Lucy balled up the empty sandwich wrapper, expertly tossing it into the garbage can in the corner of her cubicle before she gave me the eye. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to spread a rumor about you having the hots for Dale Bilmer in Collections?”

“Dale Bilmer is sixty-two.”

She nodded. “And still single. And looks upon you with lust simmering in his pacemaker while he adjusts his toupee.”

I wanted to laugh, but I was too depressed. “I’ve inherited something.”

Lucy leaned close. “Something like what?”

“An English castle.”

“A what?” Lucy whooped, jumped up and dragged me to my feet before she danced me around. “You’re rich, you’re rich, you’re rich!”

I let her spin me a few more times before I stopped her. “I’m not rich.”

“Oh, sure.” She laughed. “You’re so poor you own a castle in England. The true definition of poverty.”

“It’s not in England.” I eased out of her arms. “It’s in California.”

“Huh?” Now she looked perplexed. “What’s it doing there?”

“Someone moved it there.” I sat back down and gestured for her to do the same. “It’s in the mountains in the north part of the state.” I hesitated before I added, “I inherited a couple of mountains, too.”

My best friend grinned. “In California? Girl, trust me, you’re rich now. You’re so rich that you could—”

“I have to live there,” I told her, shutting her up instantly. “I mean, if I want the land and the money and stuff, I have to move to California and live in the house.”

“For how long?”

“A year.”

* The Inheritance was one of those sparkly-shiny new ideas that popped into my head back in 2015, and I wrote this mostly to weed it out of my thoughts (and the above is all I wrote for it.) Because I love haunted house stories I've never forgotten it, and have always wanted to go back and see what happens to my as-yet-unnamed main character when she moves into the castle.

The Inheritance is Idea #3.

Image by Anthony Chmarny on Pixabay

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #2

September 29, 1991

Provence, France

The last person Lia expected to see waiting in her dorm room frowned as he studied the neat rows of paperbacks she kept in her bookcase. “Why are you reading novels?”

She placed her bag on the chair by the door, straightened, and linked her hands in front of her to disguise the way they were shaking. “I like them, Monsieur.”

He turned his back on her and circled the room, inspecting the rest of her belongings. She didn’t have much; it only took another minute. The only thing he touched was the unfinished shawl in her wool basket, his long, elegant fingers resting on the crocheted loops as he stared through her tiny window. No wrinkles marred the back of his Savile Row jacket or spoiled the knife-edge creases of his trousers. The smooth-shaven dome of his head and the paleness of his skin made Lia think of a lightbulb that had gone dark.

She could not ask him why he had come to the school; like all the other potentials she had been taught to speak only when spoken to. But his silence dragged at her, heavy and ominous, tugging her thoughts toward a dark sea of possibilities: He has come to tell me that I have failed. That I have disgraced my name. That I must go home.

“The mentores claim you are their finest student,” he said, as if he heard her thoughts. “You have earned the highest marks possible. Did you cheat?”

“No.” Some of the stiffness left her shoulders. “I enjoy my studies.”

He slid the window open, letting in the frigid September air, and then returned to the bookcase. She stood and watched as he made several trips, removing her paperbacks, carrying them over and tossing them out. When the shelves had been emptied, he turned and looked at her for the first time. “You will not need such things.”

Lia’s heart poured out a thousand questions, and each became locked in her throat as she stared at him. She did not have to ask anything, for there was but one answer to them all. Only one reason he had come to take her. One motive for ending her schooling so abruptly. One purpose for which she would now live, far from this place, bound in service for the rest of her life.

Maman was dead.

Lia had a few soft, blurry memories of her mother: her gentle hands, the sweetness of her voice. She had always smelled of lavender. She had tried to visit when Lia was small, but she could never stay more than a few hours. Gradually those brief reunions had grown rare, and then had stopped. Lia never cried -- Maman had told her Selvais women kept their feelings safe inside their hearts -- but now the tears swelled, hot and humiliating, bulging over the white-gold of her lashes.

He slammed the window shut and headed for the door. “We leave in thirty minutes. Pack your things.”

“How did she die?” Lia dared to ask. When he tried to walk past her, she stepped into his path. “Tell me.”

“He murdered her, of course.” Her father looked down at her, his blue eyes as cold as hers were wet. “Just as he will someday kill you.”

* Chrysalis, the love story between Éliane Selvais and Richard Tremayne from the original Darkyn series, is Idea #2.

The Twelve Ideas of Christmas

As I mentioned back in October I have a lot of unfinished work in my archives, as well as plenty of as-yet-to-be-written books in my head. I'm planning to finish Twenty-One this month if possible. For 2020 I'd also like to write more of my own ideas in my spare time. The big question is, where do I start?

After a five year hiatus there is a huge pile in the archives, so for the next twelve days I'm going to post my favorite ideas for you all to have a look. After Christmas I'd like to get your vote for what I should write first.

To kick things off, today we have:

One of the Darkyn stories I never had the chance to write was Falling, featuring Kyan and Melanie from Twilight Fall. They were the first outline I pitched for Lords of the Darkyn. Melanie was multiracial, and neither sweet nor wholesome. Kyan was Asian. Both of them played antagonists in the first series. Those are the reasons NY passed on a book for them.

I've always thought that was a hugely stupid decision. Some of my best Darkyn characters, like Lucan, started out as antagonists. I've never understood Big Publishing's aversion to other-than-white protagonists, but now I don't have to please them.

At the end of Twilight Fall Liling helps heal both characters before Kyan carries Melanie off into the sunset. The story I would write would be what happened next for them.

Falling is Idea #1.

My Christmas Luck Holds

Over the last week Cole's face started swelling on the left side, with the bulge going up and down. We went to the vet this morning to see what was causing it. I was pretty sure it was an infection (cancer isn't that fast). Sure enough he has an abcessed tooth, possibly two, so antibiotics now and surgery to pull the tooth/teeth and drain the abcess next week. Then he'll probably have to wear the collar of doom until New Year's so he doesn't scratch at his face.

See what I mean about my rotten luck during the holidays? At least it's fixable, so I'll consider that a gift from Santa.

Added: The day after my car battery died we found out we have to rebuild the transmission on our pickup truck, leaving us with one very old vehicle to use until the 20th. On the 19th my guy also has his next round of skin cancer surgery. Dear Santa, please stop with the bad luck now, that's all I want for Christmas, thank you.

Not So Little Project #2 Done

To the left here is a little water-colored muslin test piece I batted and backed to use for my first attempt at free-motion quilting, so I could see if I could manage it for Not So Little Project #2.

To quilt in free motion you have to drop the feed dogs on your sewing machine, and move the fabric manually. I did that for about 5 minutes before my wrists said "Okay, we're done with this." I finished the rest by spinning the piece with the feed dogs up.

Frankly I suck at machine quilting, but I really stink at free-motion machine quilting. It looks so easy in all those videos, but the reality is you have to manipulate three layers of fabric and batting with only the pressure of your hands and wrists. Mine are simply not up to the task.

Also, moving a quilt as you're sewing and keeping the stitches even and a uniform length should be an Olympic sport. God, I had no idea it was that hard to do. When I think of all the dense free-motion quilted pieces I've seen at shows now it blows my mind. How the heck do they do that kind of work?

Honestly, I'm going to take back everything bad I've ever said about machine quilters. I bow to you, oh Hercules-wristed makers.

Anyway, as you can see I machine-quilted the bargello practice quilt, aka Not So Little Project #2, with my walking foot in straight grid lines, which is all I really know how to do. I finished it much faster (took me a week versus a month or two by hand for this size quilt.) The results aren't horrible, but eh. I need a lot more practice if I'm going to quilt all my work in the future on the machine, which is where I'm heading with the arthritis invading my neck and continuing to erode my hands.

Here's the back, where you can see my quilting lines get a bit wonky (helpful hint on machine quilting: do not use your patchwork as a quilting guide if your seams are off like mine):

I suppose I could invest in a long-arm sewing machine, but they're hugely expensive -- a used floor model will run $5K -- and big. I'd need a whole room to set it up properly. They also seem to be very complicated to operate, and if you use the wrong thread or needle they tend to go wonky. I follow another quilter on Tumblr who bought her first long-arm last year. While she's a pro she's been having all kinds of problems with it. I can't justify the expense when I quilt only for myself and to make gifts.

Then there's my personal preference, which keeps nagging at the back of my mind. I simply don't like the way machine-quilted pieces look compared to hand-quilted pieces. I know, it's a little ridiculous, but there you go. I think I'd rather keep hand-quilting for as long as I can and just limit the number of projects I do every year. I'll make less, and go slower, but I'll be happier with the final results.

I think I have just enough time to do one more little project by hand before Christmas. If all goes well, I'll make these log cabin blocks I bought from Jen at KnJ Studio into a car seat quilt for Oliver:

Happy 70th

The love of my life turns 70 today. Happy Birthday to my guy. :)

The Christmas Trick

The other day my guy made the mistake of asking me why I'm not a fan of Christmas. I was busy, and I forgot engage the holidays filter first, so I told him. Thanks to my Christmas trick even he's never realized how many miserable holidays I've had.

During the December when I was eight months pregnant with Katherine I got food poisoning -- the projectile vomiting kind -- after attending a family dinner party at my sister-in-law's house. I spent most of that Christmas on the floor in the bathroom alternately worshipping the porcelain goddess and being scared I'd go into labor too soon.

On another Christmas Eve I fell down a flight of stairs while carrying presents for the kids down to my car. If I hadn't landed on the presents I probably would have broken my neck. The presents actually survived, but I broke my foot and three ribs.

The Albino Robin Hood book cover mess happened during 2008's holiday season. Online I pretended to be a good sport and joke about it, but while that was happening I also lost our dog Buddy to cancer two days before Christmas.

Even when nothing hugely awful happens during the holidays I still have bad luck. Yesterday my car battery died, for example. I'm also limping because I now have arthritis in the foot with the old break.

Honestly, I'd like to skip the holidays entirely, leave the decorations in the attic, have no celebrations whatsoever, tell everyone to stay away, and be left alone to write or read or sew or do something I actually enjoy. That's my idea of a magical Christmas: no Christmas whatsoever. But while it would be wonderful and relaxing for me, everyone else would be miserable.

So here's the trick part: To cope with the yearly torment I've always tried to see Christmas as being about others rather than me (because in my case, it really is.) Every year I focus on making other people happy. It's not my holiday, it's my chance to show how much I appreciate the people in my life. I love my guy, whose birthday is two weeks before Christmas, and I want him to be happy. Same thing with our kids. Now that we have a grandson I have even more to be thankful for in my life.

Christmas, as wonderful or as miserable as it gets, is never going to be about me. It's about them. But for me I do one thing: I always make sure to give myself one nice gift for Christmas. That is my thank-you to myself for getting through it. And then comes my favorite day of the year: December 26th. Aka 365 days before I have to deal with it again. I absolutely LOVE December 26th.

What sort of tricks do you use to get through the holidays? Let me know in comments.

Side Effect

For a long time now -- five years, to be exact -- I've been a writing contractor. After Publishing kicked me to the curb I went freelance and picked up basically any ghost writing job I could get. I was lucky; one of my first clients turned out to be a long-term gig with steady work that paid the bills. I dabbled in other writing work by becoming a copy writer, short serial writer and working for overseas publishers both as a ghost and under my own byline. Then I met my partner, and we went into business together full-time. I was able to stop freelancing and focus on one job.

Giving up everything I wanted to write in order to have a regular income wasn't a problem. The challenges I faced as a freelancer and ghost writer kept me interested and engaged in my work. I also made sure to only take jobs that had some appeal for me, because there is nothing worse for a writer than working on something you dislike. I think I did well, considering, and I'm happy with the decisions I've made. They're putting my kid through college without her having to take out student loans which, let's face it, is every parent's dream.

That said, there was a price for staying employed. While I often contributed my opinions when asked for them, I didn't make the decisions any more. Just like at any job I was told what to do, and often how to do it. You really have to check your ego at the door to handle contracted writing work. My focus shifted from being creative and writing basically what I wanted to dealing with assignments and producing quality work as quickly as possible. I tend to thrive under pressure, but at times it became pretty daunting.

When you go off the grid as I have, the people in your writing life quickly lose interest in you. I basically lost all but three of my writer friends. That startled me, really, because I'm still working as a pro writer. I guess the only attraction I had for them was because I worked for NY and/or I was writing Paperback Writer. So much for my sparkling personality.

Now I'm approaching another one of those of the crossroads in my writing life, which I think was sparked by doing NaNoWriMo this year. Until this past month I haven't done any significant work on my own writing since I went freelance. I actually forgot how much I love my own universes, and writing what I want. I had so much fun, and it's been a long time since I felt that way. That side effect of working on Twenty-One has given me a lot to think about in the months ahead.

I'm not going to quit my job -- my kid is still in college -- but by next summer the financial need for me to work will be over, and I'll be at a point when I can make a change if I want to. Ideally I'd like to keep working with my partner and try something on the side that will allow me to write what I want part-time. There are definitely more options now with digital self-publishing.

Anyway, 2020 should be very interesting. Stayed tuned to find out how you can be involved in what I do next year, too -- beginning December 13th I'm going to count down twelve ideas that I think I should write, and then we'll have a vote to see which one I tackle first.

Christmas No-Nos

As the holidays approach us with all the subtlety of a sledge to the head, here are

Ten Things I Do Not Want For Christmas

Alexa or Anything Alexa Related: I use VRS all day to work. Trust me, the last thing I want to do is talk to more devices.

Bath Products: I've arrived at that age when getting in and out of the tub is actually a little dangerous. Also, I have an entire drawer filled with the stuff that I haven't used from all the Christmases past.

Booze of Any Kind: I haven't had a drink in thirty years, and people still try to give me alcohol during the holidays. If I can't find a responsible drinker to pass it along to, all that overpriced wine is going to deodorize my sink in January.

Crocs: Quite possibly the most unattractive shoes ever created, Crocs are also what I see just about everyone in Wal-Mart wearing while they're buying barrels of lard, sacks of those cheese puff balls, and cases of no-name beer. So not really where I want to go with my fashion choices. Also, plastic shoes make my feet sweat.

Depressing Books: I already have the holidays to crush my spirit and throttle my soul, thanks.

Kits of Any Kind: When you get older people start trying to give you new hobbies via craft or cooking kits. I tried diamond painting this year, and it wasn't worth all the effort involved. So please, no more new kits of stuff I have to put together, especially the kind that involve tiny bits of plastic and tweezers.

Meditation Stuff: I should never have told people I meditate every day. What I should have mentioned is that I don't need any technology to help me do it. The actual point is to get away from technology.

NetFlix: Like the smart phones everyone in the family but me has this. As far as I can tell they use it to watch YouTube videos most of the time. Which I can do for free on my computer, yes?

Quackery: Another recent development in my life is everyone wanting to give me supplements or some other natural but highly questionable treatment or cure for my diabetes. While I appreciate the concern and proffered hope, there is no cure for my disease. I control my diabetes with a proper diet and close monitoring by my doctor, which is what everyone should do.

Writing How-Tos: At this stage of the game for me, kind of an insult.

What don't you want for Christmas? Vent away in comments.

The Quilting Year

What a year of quilting looks like in finished projects:

It was an okay year for quilting. I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped, but I'm happy with what I accomplished. Hopefully before the end of the year I can add one more.

Added 12/13:

Added 12/19: the last two quilted projects for this year.