Not All Who Wander Are Lost

I have two file folders in the basement. One has my name on it, the other my husband's. In them are the random things our mothers have given us--baptismal certificates, school awards, a couple of report cards and ribbons. It's kind of funny to go through those folders and see what they thought was important. My grammar school diploma is in one. To tell you the truth, I don't really even know where my master's degree is right now, but I can put my hands on my diploma from good old St. Pius X. (Don't look for it, it closed years ago.) I keep things for my daughter. I have a little basket squirreled away in the closet with her first gym shoes, a lock of her hair and the first outfit that actually fit her-- a preemie outfit with froggie feet. I don't really have anything strange yet. Something tells me that a battered stuffed wolf will someday find its way into the basket. I wonder what some of the strangest things moms have kept? What's the strangest thing y

Last year at WindyCon, I was listening to a panel on the great balancing act that is the working writer. You know, those of us with jobs, families, and the vague attempt at a life? Well, they were all talking about trying to find the time to write, and while I get that, I really do, the thing that find takes so much time is the marketing for me. I never dreamed of this when I came up with these characters and these worlds. I didn't know that I would need to find the time to research and stumble through the marketing obstacle course. That's what it feels like to me--an obstacle course. And too often I'm wandering through it blindfolded. I have a line on a couple of reviews for The Shattered Prism --Book one of the Star Circle Trilogy due out in June. I'm hoping to be able to tell people to buy the ebook by the time I'm at DukCon this summer. Here's hoping. However, I still find it so difficult to get reviews for my books. I should spend some time trying to farm

Winter's always a dreary time of year. After December, when the drama and hype of Christmas has faded and all you have to look forward to is the bitterness of January and the long, slow drag of February. There are some nice days--the pretty soft snows that cover everything like a blessing, the lovely snowy evenings when you can sit with friends and a glass of wine, or a cup of tea and a good book, a dog curled at your feet and a little girl enjoying cartoons next to you. Ice sheathed trees that look like something out a fairy forest, the sharp crack as a branch gives way. The clear hard robin's egg blue of a clear winter's afternoon. the flurry of snowball fights, a lopsided snowman with a too-big nose and the occasional argument that no, you cannot go and get your daddy's hat and scarf for the snowman. However, there are more grim days. The mornings when you have to chip the car out of the ice in the predawn bitter chill darkness. The gray slush that splashes up on e