and I’m back

After a very relaxing couple of weeks taking the sea air in Bath–I mean, shooting empty soda cans in Texas–I’m ready to get back to Monday through Friday blogicizing.

I still haven’t finished reading Revelations! I’ve reached the point where I’m dying to know how it ends, but I’m afraid to finish too quickly, because then it’ll be over… So I allowed myself to be distracted by the book I was supposed to start after Revelations, a new thriller by an author I connected with on Facebook. Said thriller will be published in February, and I’ll post my review here!

– AK

Oekaki

Apparently, “oekaki” means “to draw a picture” in Japanese. Ages and ages ago, Oekaki was just a place I went to use a web-based graphics program to make and share mostly terrible art with complete strangers. This odd little gem represents the apogee of my success:

I’m not crazy about the face, but the feathers, the ribbons, the hand… this must have taken me hours. It seemed a shame not to share it.

– AK

A Slightly Less Sentimental Story

100% True Story: One time my cat, Fry, caught a lizard and somehow got it stuck in his collar. He just accepted it and snuggled up to take a nap, which allowed me to snap this infamous photo:

I shit you not, when I got that poor little lizard free, the sucker was still alive. I took him outside, he booked it, and they say he’s still running today.

2022 Reading Challenge

I’m writing from the past, knowing there’s not a chance in hell I’ll feel like posting on Tuesday.

As of right now, I’m 2 books shy of my 2022 reading goal of just 24 books. Adding a few short stories to my list felt like cheating at first, but I read some big old fat novels, too; so I have decided they balance out.

I have two days to finish two books: Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George and Revelations by Ronin Romero. This was all arranged so nicely by me for myself. As slowly as I read, I’m down to two genuine page-turners in two different genres. And I’ve got all weekend.

I wanted to include a beautiful comic by Nathan W. Pyle, but I didn’t want to steal anything, so here’s a link to it instead:

https://nathanwpyle.threadless.com/designs/lost-in-a-good-book-3

Now if you’ll excuse me…

– AK

Me-day

I’ll eventually regret sharing something so personal; but since I’ll be on the road Monday en route to my childhood stomping grounds, and because “All My Exes Live in Texas,” it’s on my mind. No one reads this blog anyway, right?

I left my first husband because he was physically abusive, which is the necessary starting point for the real story: how I met my current husband.

I moved to another state and got an apartment and a job and some friends, and with the job came spending money I’d never had before. For several years I’d been vaguely interested in Krav Maga, and once I’d taken on the title of Estranged Wife, my interest increased dramatically. I’d seen enough episodes of ‘Forensic Files’ to know one likely outcome of my separation. I decided spend my walking-around money on learning how to kick ass.

Despite several acts of bravery in my life, I’m not a brave person. Deciding to learn Krav Maga was one thing; the thought of walking into a dojo filled with (I assumed) a couple dozen grunting, sweaty, meaty dudes punching each other filled me with dread. I picked a dojo, parked outside five minutes before the start of the next class, and tried to assess the situation.

Unfortunately, the dojo I’d picked sat behind a wall of glass facing the street. The sun was setting, and the windows had turned to mirrors that reflected my sorry ass parked across the street, immobilized with terror. I had no idea what or who was behind the door. Would I disrupt a class in progress? Would I be faced with ridicule for attempting to insert myself into this new world? Would I find a locked door and become the object of impersonal scorn to the people inside watching me wrestle with the door?

My mom got me out of the car and across the street. She wasn’t with me and had no idea what I was up to, but as I gripped my steering wheel and ginned myself up, I remembered the story. Decades ago, she’d driven to a local community college and sat paralyzed in the parking lot, trying to work up the courage to go inside and ask about degree programs. She never went inside.

I did go inside, and upon yanking open the door with way too much gusto, I saw two people: the instructor, and one female student. Thinking I’d interrupted a private lesson, I started to back out; but the instructor waved me in and made me feel welcome. He taught me what to do if someone grabs a fistful of my shirt, and after one class I was hooked.

My current husband wasn’t there that night, but he was a mainstay in every other class I attended. Tall, dark, and handsome. Smart and funny and a dog-lover. Devastatingly skilled at Krav Maga, frequent teacher’s assistant and, when I was lucky, patient and instructive sparring partner.

Obviously, if I hadn’t gone inside, I never would have met him. If I hadn’t been so scared of my first husband, I wouldn’t have moved to a new state, and I don’t think I’d ever have gotten around to learning Krav Maga. So even though it’s macabre and way, way too personal, I have to say I feel very fortunate to have survived an abusive relationship.

– AK

Astrology, Again

As a Sagittarius, I of course don’t believe in astrology. Nevertheless, I find it a reliable and often hilarious source of inspiration. The same can be said of personality type descriptors like Myers-Briggs, DiSC, and the Enneagram; but those are analytical, long-winded, and boring. Astrology is fun and sexy, especially when I read things like this (in no less a scholarly journal than Cosmopolitan):

“When a Taurus and a Leo walk into the room, one thing’s for sure: The sex appeal just went up a few notches.”

“While both signs have a stubborn streak, one unshakeable thing [they] have in common in their loyalty.”

“Leo’s flair for the dramatics is often tempered by Taurus’ down-to-earth energy and approach to life, and Taurus can be encouraged out of their comfort zone thanks to Leo’s zest for life and desire for adventure.”

“Their biggest hurdles they face may involve finances, communication, and bouts of possessiveness. Taurus loves to indulge from time to time, but can also keep a tight grip on their wallet. Leo’s indulgent streak comes out to play more often.”

“Both of these signs enjoy being in charge, so power dynamics can be a fun theme for this duo to play around with and explore.”

I know, I know, these deliberately generalized statements, seasoned with just enough specificity to fool the willing, could and do apply to almost every living person at one time or another. That’s the no-fun, Sagittarius way of thinking!

If you haven’t guessed, Jim is a Leo and Anna is a Taurus. I eat this stuff up not just out of self-indulgence because it makes them feel more real, but because it reminds me to work a little harder to keep them from flattening out and losing that third dimension that makes characters readable and lovable. At least, I hope they’re readable and lovable; I certainly adore them.

Hopefully, I can stay off the astrology-themed IG accounts long enough to get some writing done this weekend. But if I can’t, you might as well waste some time, too. My current favorite is zodiacboyfriend. He’s just so adorable.

– AK

The Creek Behind My House

WARNING: Sentimental Nonsense Ahead.
Those with weak stomachs are advised against proceeding.

Some Texas neighborhoods have alleys behind rows of houses, and in some the yard behind you butts right up against a shared back fence. In the house where I grew up, a deep, wide concrete ditch – which I now know is called an arroyo but which we, for God only knew what reason, called a creek – separated our meandering row of homes from those behind it.

Situated on a corner lot, our home also had the dubious pleasure of overlooking the yawning, black maw of a tunnel that opened at the end of the arroyo, tunneled under the street, and went… I never cared to find out where. My brother told me homeless people had a city down there.

Occasionally this ditch became a raging river of storm water, but the rest of the time a tiny trickle of moisture followed the deepest part of the ditch to empty into a real creek in an older part of the neighborhood.

I met a girl in church one Sunday when my fellow fourth-graders and I had to share a classroom with the fifth graders. She commented on my long nails, and I might have complimented her beautiful, curly red hair. That was the entirety of the interaction.

Weeks later, I followed my brother along the ditch to his friend’s house at the other end. As my brother climbed over their chain-link fence to meet his buddy, the kid’s little sister wandered out of the house toward us. Imagine our mutual surprise when we recognized the fourth grader with the long nails and the fifth grader with the beautiful red hair.

That was well over 20 years ago, and though we moved away and grew up, we became and remain so close that I call her my sister. That creek was the main artery of our budding friendship, and it’s imprinted itself onto my brain with some very strange consequences for my dreams.

Sometimes I dream the creek is overflowing with storm water right up to the level of our back fence, a good 25 feet of water tearing away at our backyard until the swimming pool becomes part of the river.

Sometimes I’m navigating a labyrinth of shortcuts through and around strangers’ back yards, just like she and I did while we worked out the best and fastest ways to get from her house to mine and all our friends’ houses in between.

The best dreams are also the worst, because they fill me with such painful longing that waking up is almost a relief. The creek behind my house isn’t a creek at all: When I venture back there, I find instead a real river winding through a Narnia-esque forest overflowing with mystery, adventure, and danger.

The only dangerous thing we ever found in the creek was a soft-shelled turtle. It was the size of a large house cat and was not very friendly.

– AK

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Everyone knows writing a book is hard, even if they’ve never done it. It’s so inherently daunting a task to self-impose that some people never bother to start, and a lot of people can’t seem to finish.

This week I re-read A Great Deliverance by Elizabeth George. Obviously I liked it enough the first time around to feverishly hunt down every subsequent book and cart all of them with me through multiple moves, but I was still surprised by how deliciously, terrifyingly absorbing it is. It’s deeply intimidating to a brand new author to read something so good. It was an act of pure hubris to close the book and open my word processor to keep hacking away at my own ridiculous story.

So I took the advice of another author and looked up A Great Deliverance on Goodreads. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t 4.04/5 stars! Amazon shows 4.4/5. Not bad. But 3.79/5 on LibraryThing, and on the Bookbag, 3.5/5. Granted I’d never heard of those last two before I started looking for more ratings, but those are some dismal numbers.

How can anyone say of this engrossing, sexy, seminal work of art that, “sometimes the first outing is not the best whilst an author is establishing characters but I am really not sure I can bear to try another unless the author has been given a sound talking-to and promised to reform” (to quote one miserable jackass on Goodreads)?

It’s fucking depressing, of course, that something so good can be found faulty by the army of joyless, soulless robo-readers out there; but it’s also perversely encouraging. If even Elizabeth George can be misunderstood and maligned, then there’s no point in worrying about what people have to say… about anything.

So I’m carrying on with the next book, Payment in Blood, trying and failing not to internalize the Brit-speak, and choosing to take comfort from the fact that I’ll probably never be so good; but even if I could equal or surpass her, I could still be accused of “useless, mind-numbingly boring navel-gazing,” the “fascinating character development of a basket of sock puppets” (okay that’s hilarious), or being fit only for “the ‘donate’ box for our local charity shop.”

I added my own five-star rating and went back about my business.

– AK