An author's collection of thoughts and stories
Maybe I shouldn’t admit to this, but one of the reasons why I struggle so much with writing normal characters is because I feel like I’m mocking them.
My thought process goes something like, “I have heard multiple people say this sentence, so I’m going to have this normal character also say it.”
Then I feel like I delved into every single bad stereotype known to mankind.
Though it’s not my fault that so many real life people say the exact same things. Word for word.
What is up with that anyway?
For people who have been following my blog for awhile, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that I use cloth diapers on my babies. I’m definitely more on the “crunchy” side of things, but I haven’t come across that term in ages, so heck if anyone knows what I’m talking about.
Full disclosure: I supplement with disposables. While I exclusively used cloth diapers with my first three babies, I eventually found it prudent to use disposables during the periods when I can’t keep up with the laundry. I’m not superwoman.
My favorite cloth diapering method is the pocket inserts. They’re convenient, and I don’t have to worry about stabbing baby with a diaper pin (which matters when they reach the extra wiggly stage). The covers come with some really awesome patterns, which also means that I’ve been teased about putting my babies in designer diapers. Ha ha.
However, I would advise that you avoid the microfiber inserts. They are horrible. Go for the cotton ones. Avoid letting dirty diapers sit for more than a couple of days, then line dry them in the sun when you can — it helps sterilize them.
Overall, the cost of diapering a child until 3 years old is much cheaper with cloth diapers, even when you factor in the ph neutral laundry detergent and monthly washing machine cleanings, but honestly, that’s not my main motivating factor.
I mostly feel guilty about the waste.
Even in a supplementary role, the disposables add up quickly, and we have to take the garbage out more often during the periods when I use them. The idea of throwing away so many diapers a day, every day, for three years, per child, is a little too much for me to bear. That’s a lot of waste.
In 2020, it became painfully obvious that no one cares about such concepts, so it feels more important now than ever to hold to my values.
Not to mention, we’re saving a lot of money, and we don’t have to worry about diapers the next time there’s a crazy run on the stores.
“Now, Carol, MSG Hartmann is going to be a good boy and coach you through how to move the Suit. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that he plays nice,” Lambert spoke into his end of the radio, then gave Hartmann a warning scowl as he handed it over. “I mean it,” he growled. “Follow orders, and play nice.”
“Yes, sir,” Hartmann replied sulkily, then found his throat too thick to speak to Carol. He had to clear it first, then pushed the button to transmit, “The best way to explain it is that you connect your mind to the Suit, and after that walking should be as intuitive as it is with your own body. Don’t overthink it; just let it happen naturally.”
Silence answered, and Hartmann wished that Carol was more verbal. He missed the nonstop noise that usually surrounded women, that left no mystery as to what they were thinking. Dealing with Carol felt a lot like going up against a wall, with no way of knowing what he was going to find on the other side if he managed to break it down. It was frustrating. Unnerving.
Then the Suit took a step forward, and the two men jumped back as the screech of twisting metal filled the bunker. In one fell swoop, Carol had completely destroyed the ramp.
Hartmann stared as a grin crept across his face, then doubled over in laughter. Lambert cussed profusely, shouting into the radio, “God fucking dammit, Carol! Watch where you’re going!” It was satisfying to imagine her crying inside the cockpit as the captain continued ranting, “You are in a formidable piece of equipment, so do not destroy the base through stupidity and incompetence. Do you understand!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Carol’s voice sounded broken, but her mental connection with the Suit was continuing to improve. Hartmann could see that it was imitating her body language, trying to curl up and disappear, which was comical for a 12-foot mecha. There were definitely tears on her cheeks, and it was time for him to wipe them away, so to speak.
He reached over to take the radio back, and purred, “Don’t sweat it, that was only the ramp. Give your legs a stretch, and see how it feels … just remember to be mindful of your surroundings.”
Lambert crossed his arms over his chest and growled, “Get her to the airfield, then join me in the jeep.”
Hartmann was satisfied as Lambert stormed away, certain that his sour mood wasn’t over the wrecked ramp. “All right, the captain wants us outside,” he spoke into the radio. “You up for it?”
“Yes, sir,” Carol replied dutifully, so he answered playfully,
“Save that for the captain. I want you to call me … master sergeant.”
She was silent, confused by his behavior as she went through the massive double doors that had been pulled open, and Hartmann followed her outside, ordering her to jog down the length of the airfield.
He dropped his affectation as soon as he was seated next to Lambert in the jeep. Carol was adapting to the Suit much faster than he had, despite his intuitive grasp of it, and the way she moved around the airfield was too natural – to the point of becoming unnatural. Hartmann knew that he was the best damn pilot to ever climb inside the Suit, but that was all he did: pilot. Carol, on the other hand … she was inhabiting it like a second skin, especially as she was becoming more and more comfortable with moving around the airfield. It crossed his mind that, with the way she was catching on, the Suit could have been made for her.
Commander.
Hartmann had been in the military for far too long to let anything show on his face. His instructions to Carol over the radio became more mechanical and routine, but his thoughts remained perfectly hidden. He almost managed to keep them from himself, but as he stared it was undeniable that she was better at maneuvering the Suit than he was, even despite lacking the discipline that would have given her grace and efficiency.
“The Suit is following her body language more than I expected,” Lambert muttered beside Hartmann, though he was speaking more to himself. “She’ll need to be physically trained to clean up that sloppiness.”
Hartmann shrugged, muttering “Yes, sir,” when he failed to come up with an obnoxious reply. He had never watched the way he piloted the Suit from the outside, and he wondered if it responded similarly to his movements, or acted more like a robot.
Lambert continued, reluctantly saying, “You will work with her on the track this afternoon while I attend to other duties. You will be courteous, considerate, and respectful, and you will not make her cry. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Hartmann echoed. He had to stop himself from asking why the captain cared so much about the cleaning lady’s feelings in a world where tender emotions were a dangerous weakness. He already knew the answer.
Sometime later when they were back inside the bunker, Carol parked the Suit in its usual place, opened the doors, then stood hesitantly looking down at the drop to the floor. Hartmann wondered why she hadn’t kneeled in the Suit first, given that she was the one who destroyed the ramp and knew damn well that it wouldn’t be there, but Lambert stepped forward and held up his arms.
“Come on, we haven’t got all day,” he snapped, but Hartmann recognized the false gruffness of someone who had adapted to his rank to survive.
She cautiously dropped down to Lambert, and his hands closed around her waist as he lowered her to the floor. His fingertips curled in slightly, and trailed along her t-shirt as he pulled his hands away, his face too stony to be anything other than a mask. Carol was appropriately oblivious, which Hartmann found soothing; he wasn’t the only one she completely failed to notice.
“Get some lunch, then report to MSG Hartmann for physical training,” Lambert ordered. “Like it or not, we’re going to beat the civilian out of you, commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Carol replied, then turned and trotted to join some corporal that Hartmann only vaguely recognized. An assigned escort, he hoped.
Having time alone with Carol was going to give Hartmann the advantage, and if he worked his magic right, Lambert wasn’t going to stand a chance. Underneath the boring beige of her existence, he’d bet anything that Carol was still a woman, and still susceptible to his charms.
If the Suit couldn’t belong to him anymore, then he was going to claim ownership of the next best thing.
Add some crochet, and voila!
It’s a micro miniskirt!
But I’m letting my 2-year-old wear it instead.
This has been another episode of Weaving Is Fun.
As a romance author, I keep an eye on the trends for relationship/marriage advice. Most of it comes from Christian sources.
I once listened into a social audio conversation that was ostensibly about secular marriage, but the general consensus of the group was that, if you truly loved someone, you would go away so they could focus on their career. If I had a smarmy salesperson personality, I would have taken the opportunity to pitch my novels to them as romantic escapism, because that is some hardcore dedication to loneliness.
Anyway
I have a unique perspective, because while I grew up Christian, I married as a Pagan.
The overwhelming impression that I get from Christian sources is that the women are too picky when it comes to men. I guess they aren’t getting hitched because no one is good enough.
Once upon a time, during my early days of marriage, someone pulled out his Bible and read a lot of verses about the sort of wife I was supposed to be. Heck if I can remember much about it, but by the time he started reading about how I was supposed to earn extra money to help with the household finances, I knew beyond a doubt that I would have to develop a serious cocaine habit in order to have that much energy. I have never come close to being a perfect biblical wife.
Thank god I don’t believe in the Bible. (har har)
But lets go back even farther, to when I was a Christian teenager. This was when I really began to shine as a misfit, because when my church leaders advised me to date around a lot and aim to marry as close to perfect as I could, but I was more like, “Husbands are human beings, and marriage isn’t like buying a car.”
Yeah, I was bullied rather badly in church. Can’t imagine why /sarcasm.
But apparently, plenty of other women took that sort of advice to heart, and now the Christians are moaning that they aren’t getting married at all.
I think my husband is pretty great. I won’t go into slathering specifics, but he’s wickedly smart, he helps take care of me, and he plays with the kids — I can’t imagine wanting to be married to anyone else. He also doesn’t fit any of those bullet point lists that I was given in church during my teen years.
He cusses, he loves a good whisky, and he doesn’t believe in God.
Oh no!
But I fall short, too.
I go to bed with dirty dishes still in the sink. 😀
So we’re a couple of heathens who take our children to the park on Sunday instead of church. We’re happy.
Marriage isn’t shopping for a car, and you shouldn’t go out with a list of requirements, make comparisons, then pick the one with the most cup holders. Marriage is building a deep bond with another human being. A connection between souls.
And stop blaming women for being what you raised them to be.
I got some different yarns to experiment weaving with, which is turning into a huge amount of fun and I can totally quit whenever I want. #JustKiddingI’mAddicted
This one is mercerized cotton, which has been treated to have a shine.
Wait a second, and let’s backtrack.
I forgot to mention that I bought white yarn and dyed it a speckled peacock blue and hot pink. Basically, after soaking it in soda ash, I sprinkled the blue dye powder over one half of the skein, and the pink dye powder over the other, and let it set for a couple of days before washing.
On the loom, the mercerized cotton naturally wove with lots of spacious gaps between the yarn, so it almost looked like a type of netting. However, after I washed it, all of those gaps disappeared and I got a decently solid fabric:
Now I need to figure out what to do with it.
I caught a sore throat. As in the, “wake up at 5am unable to speak or swallow because of the agonizing pain” variety.
And, at 5am, my husband made me a potent cup of honey and lemon tea, which helped quite a bit. He’s told me in the past that cussing really does help numb pain, so the first thing I said after regaining my voice was an expletive. 😀
I’ve been listlessly wallowing for about three days now. It’s not strep — just very swollen and raw — so all I can do is wait it out with ibuprofen.
Which led me to browsing through the old pictures I had uploaded to my blog, when I came across the quote above.
Here is the post with my original thoughts about it.
My opinion hasn’t changed, but I figure that I can elaborate some more.
The advice to “write from experience,” doesn’t mean to tell about the time you accidentally shoplifted Road Warrior at the mall. It means to write about the broader themes that you are familiar with. Like friendship, loneliness, romance, betrayal, etc.
For example, I have six kids irl, and I write a lot about pregnancy and motherhood in my stories. None of my fiction is autobiographical, but the themes are reflective of my real world experiences.
A few years back I read an article written by a woman who began her career as a midwife before she had her first baby, and how experiencing natural childbirth firsthand changed the way she interacted with her clients. As I recall, she hadn’t expected it to be so different on the other side, and personally understanding what other women were going through helped her be a better midwife.
You can’t simply empathize with natural childbirth to know what its like; you have to experience it.
You can’t empathize your way through writing about things like love, betrayal, fear, hope, etc, and produce a story that’s relatable to people who have experienced it. You need to know what the heck you’re talking about.
And if your experiences are so limited that you can only produce one book from them, then maybe you should put down the electronic devices and go live a little.
Back in January, I got an inkle loom for weaving straps, and fell madly in love with the whole process. A month ago, I got my hands on a rigid heddle loom.
I’ve been going through my stash of acrylic yarn on practicing, experimenting, and learning, and finally decided that I was up for using my handspun on the loom. The result is pictured above.
The kids have claimed all of my earlier pieces for themselves and their toys, so only heaven knows when I’ll see those again, ha ha. I guess they make some pretty good doll blankets and shawls.
Weaving actually has a therapeutic effect because of the repetitive motions of passing the shuttle from one hand to the other, combined with the feeling of accomplishment at making something. I like to joke that maybe it will help get me out of my massive feelings of disillusionment towards humanity, but really, it’s best to be honest with ourselves and accept the fact that the disillusionment is here to stay. The past couple of years have been playing out worse than I expected, and here I thought that I was a cynic before 2020 — now I realize that I had been an optimist.
I’m pretty heavy into the “just one more pass with the shuttle,” as an hour goes by. My husband once took the loom away from me so I would actually go eat. It draws me in, and I love it so much. Weaving makes me happy in a way that knitting and crochet never did — I’m even starting to make a sizeable dent in my yarn stash.
When I don’t have a bunch of small children running around, I’m probably going to end up with one of those big shaft looms.
Now I just need to figure out what to do with all the cloth I’m making.
I’ve dun gone and murdered my foot through slovenly treadling at my spinning wheel.
Okay, so it’s mostly fine, but every now and then I get a stabbing pain if I step wrong. That would be the tendons screaming at me.
As a Millennial, no one ever impressed the importance of posture on me during my childhood. Quite the opposite, actually, since I was told that I held myself unnaturally straight, and was therefore uncomfortable to be around. In an effort to “fit in,” I taught myself to slouch.
Now that I’ve realized the reasons why people historically cared about posture, I regret doing that. Unfortunately, childhood habits like that tend to creep in the moment I stop watching. I wish that just one person has said, “Good on you,” back when sitting straight was easy, so I wouldn’t have felt like a freak for it. Could’ve saved myself from a lot of pain.
Anyway, I wasn’t paying attention to my foot on the treadle of my spinning wheel, and now after a mere year and a half of using it, the bad practice has caught up to me. I need to correct my errant ways.
Though in my defense, my learning materials never mentioned anything about peddling with your entire foot.
I had intended to post 1000-word installments of The Scions every other week, which seemed like an easy goal.
As it turns out, my life is currently a little too hectic to pull that off.
I’m not even averaging a 100 words a day.
More like, “I wrote a sentence and fixed up some word choices today.”
But that’s how it currently is. I don’t mind — it always feels like one of the largest miscommunications that I’m always struggling with is that other people don’t understand how much I love the journey. Life is too interesting for me to complain about how I don’t have the time or energy to write much these days. Besides, this is basically the reason why I don’t do deadlines.
The story is still very much on my mind, and I have no intention of abandoning it (not than anyone wants to read it anyway), it’s just coming more at a drip than a steady flow.
By Autumn Rain 