Parting Shot Copyright

 I just reread my last blog. (Wow! 8 months ago! Sorry about that.) Some of my questions have been answered and some have not. It's hard to believe we're descending into a similar situation as the delta variant spreads. (No matter what I said in December, I'm tired of wearing a mask.)

I still want to stay out of the political arena, but it boggles my mind that some people think they can tell health departments, school districts and government entities that they can't create rules to keep everyone safe. Banning mask mandates seems like the height of arrogance to me; it's more important to show you're right (or more stubborn) than to protect other people?? I don't get that at all.

One of the results of the pandemic is that a lot of offices in Washington, D.C., closed. That includes the Copyright Office. Oops. And guess who filed for copyright protection last August? Yep, that would be me. (So THAT's why you shouldn't publish during a pandemic!) I've learned my lesson a little late, it seems.

The big problem is that they closed the warehouse where they keep the physical copies of submitted works. They sort of filed everything in that warehouse in order received, but no one could touch it until recently. If you remember the gigantic warehouse at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," that's probably what it looked like while all those works piled up. (I guess I wasn't the only one who didn't realize what a problem it would be.)

I knew there would be a delay, but here we are, a year later, and my case is still open. I even submitted the file electronically last month in the hopes that it would help my case. The Copyright Office acknowledged that they received it ... and then nothing.

They do say on their site that they're processing claims from October 2020, which is after my submission date of August 2020, so I'm hopeful that I'll hear something soon. There's no precedent for this, though, so I have no idea.

I guess one of these days I'll get a nice little surprise when my copyright registration appears in the mail without warning! That will be nice.

Meanwhile, I hope we can all get a handle on the delta variant and once again start to feel safe again. We're all in it together, so we all have to do what we can to keep each other safe.

P.S. If you expect me to comment on the Cubs' fire sale, it's still too soon and I just can't. Sorry.

What a Year

 Amazingly enough, it looks like we're about to make it through 2020. Sadly, a lot of people didn't, so I must mention them as a matter of respect. I'm very sorry to their families and friends in what has been such a difficult year.

Right now, we're just starting to hear about the new vaccine and it's starting to be administered to health-care workers in this country. I'm so glad those heroes will now be protected! It is unimaginable to me what their year has been like and I'm glad to see an end in sight for their hard work and anguish.

Now we're faced with the possible end of the pandemic. We've had to get used to it for about nine months and now we'll have to get used to life without it. I know the part about "life without the pandemic" will be easy, but what about the rest of it? I find myself a little concerned about what has changed permanently. How many bricks-and-mortar stores will never come back? Will we be able to sit down in a restaurant? Is it true what I've read, that theatres are a thing of the past? (I doubt it, but I don't know.) Will there be a DH in the NL? What else will be different that I haven't even considered?

I'm silly enough that I'll partially miss wearing a mask sometimes. It sure keeps my face warm on these cold mornings, but more than that, it gives me a barrier against the world. Remember: I'm an introvert. Sometimes I want to retreat, and the mask makes it easier to do that in some situations. Besides, if I want to make a face but don't want anyone to see it, the mask helps!

I think sometimes about last year and how ignorant I was. I had no idea that such a thing as a global epidemic was possible in these modern times. It's yet another example of Mother Nature, or whatever/whoever you believe, giving us a reminder that we aren't omnipotent or omniscient. We've made great strides as a species, but we're still vulnerable.

I learned a lot about human nature, too. Man, I had no idea that such large groups of people could be so stubborn. I don't want to open up a great debate (which I wouldn't anyway because no one reads this blog), but I was sad to see how many people refused to wear a mask. Obviously, there were those with legitimate health reasons, but I mean the other people. You know who you are. It's not a symbol of oppression; it's a symbol of concern for your fellow human! I see that you have none. Enough said.

And in the middle of this, I published a novel. You might think I'm crazy. You might be right. My thinking was this: I wanted to get it done, no matter when it was. And I did realize that more people were reading, so I thought maybe my novel would have a better chance. That didn't happen (I think I've sold four), but at least I gave it the opportunity.

My fantasy is that one of these days, someone will read one of them and actually like it. Maybe even love it. Then they'll discover that it's a series and read the whole thing. And still like it! And then they'll post a good review somewhere. And then they'll tell their friends. And then a lot of people will read these novels that mean so much to me, and they'll meet my characters, whom I happen to like quite a bit. That would be fun. I've always thought it would be amazing to see a few people debating some small aspect of one of the novels. Or something like that. (I dream small.)

Anyway, I'm mostly just rambling here. It's been such a crazy year and I feel hard-pressed to say anything about it that doesn't sound ridiculous. I keep thinking that I could never write anything as "out-there" as this year has been, so what's worth writing about? I'm sure I'll come up with something someday, perhaps once the oddity of 2020 has started to fade in my memory.

I hope your year has been all right and your friends/family are safe. Here's looking forward to 2021.

Take care.

Descent

A few weeks ago, I went to Wilderness Park, where I walked a familiar path until it led me to a strip pit, surrounded by steep slopes and dense trees.

There were trails here that I’d never explored, mostly because they weren’t labeled and seemed little more than wildlife trails, narrow and not clearly defined. I’d debated whether I should take one, but there no signs to forbid it and I was in a mood for something different.

The path I chose was steep at first, as if to test me. I clambered up the slope and found myself on a narrow ridge, alongside the same strip pit, a dark spot on that cloudy day.

I pressed on, fighting off tree branches that tried to tear at my face, my hat, my jacket. The path had obviously not been traversed by a tall person recently, so I had to push my way through. I kept going, bending the branches aside, peering ahead to see where the path would take me. I wasn’t sure where I was or where I was going, but I consoled myself with the thought that I need only turn around to find my way back.

After a while, I stopped, faced with a dilemma. The path continued straight ahead of me, but there was another one breaking off to my left. I pondered. If I kept going straight, I would have the same easy solution to find my way back, but I might see something interesting. (It was January, though. There wouldn’t be much.) The other path was a risk, but it did seem to meander back in the general direction of the more familiar part of the park. It had already been over twenty minutes since I’d left the original strip pit, and it would be a walk of about ten or so minutes from there to my car. On such a gray and chilly day, I decided to go back.

The path on the left had several steep descents, testing me again. I had to take care not to twist an ankle on a jutting tree root or wobbly rock, all while still fending off the grasping tree branches. A few times I questioned whether I was still on an actual trail, but there was just enough there for me to believe in it.

After I half-slid down another slope, I found myself in a ravine. For a moment, I stood there and considered the fact that I didn’t think I’d ever been in a ravine before. It seemed odd and exciting, as if I’d found myself in a Bradbury story. As one would expect, it was shady and quiet, a dull brown bowl of dead leaves and slumbering trees.

Once the novelty wore off, I realized that I couldn’t see the path anymore. This caused some concern, but not fear. I knew I’d gone far enough to be close to my destination. It was simply a matter of finding a way to it.

I stepped out farther into the ravine. There were no visible trails. As I looked up the incline on the opposite side, though, I thought something about it seemed familiar. I recalled a trail that leads beside a ravine and I wondered if that might be it. Even if it wasn’t, the higher ground would give me a better vantage point to see where I was.

Getting up was not easy. The leaves wanted to slide underfoot and the ground was just damp enough to offer little purchase. More than once I had to grab at a tree trunk to halt my backward slide back into the ravine. I clambered and grasped, determined to reach the top … and I finally made it.

I stood there, panting and disheveled but smiling. I was on the trail I’d hoped to find and it led straight back to my starting point. I looked down into the ravine, which didn’t seem so forbidding from this height. It was quiet and unbothered by humanity, biding its time until spring would bring it back to life.

     Then I turned away and walked back toward my regular life.

Reconnecting

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I made my usual trek up to Nebraska to spend time with my family, which makes this one of my favorite holidays. I love my family and I'm always glad when I get to reconnect with them.

During this time, I was able to ask someone who grew up on a farm about how corn grows. At first I was afraid to look dumb, but then I asked the question anyway ... and I got a useful answer. This might not seem important to you, but it was huge for me: the reason I asked about corn is that I'm trying to write a scene involving some characters running around in a cornfield.

That's right: I'm writing a scene! After over a year, I'm starting to reconnect with my characters. There was a dog named Nick in the National Dog Show and I immediately thought of my pilot. I'm starting to think about asking Reg's advice again. I'm trying to look at problems through Lamont's eyes.

What a relief. There were times I thought this would never happen again. It doesn't mean that I'm going to sit down and write my whole fifth novel next week, but now I really am beginning to believe there's a good chance it will get finished.

To those of you who write, I know you've probably gone through writer's block before. Maybe you're going through it now. Believe me, I know how scary it is when you think you're never going to write anything more than an email again ... but I'm here to tell you this: you will get past it! Just keep trying, just keep hoping, just keep writing (even if the result is awful). Remember what it is about your characters or story that excited you in the first place.

I have to laugh at the timing. I'm ready to get to work again, just as I'm getting hit with holiday decorating, gift-planning, baking, parties, etc. But I don't mind. Writing is a gift and I'm going to take some time to unwrap it again.

Have a magical holiday season.

Perspective

First of all, I want to apologize for not posting in August. I think that's the first month I've missed!

I held off for most of August because I thought I was going to have a great post. I thought I was all set to describe with full enthusiasm the total solar eclipse that I'd witnessed.

As so many things in life go, it didn't quite work out that way.

I'd planned ahead. I had the day off from work. I had the official solar eclipse glasses. I had selected my route and I even had a companion for the journey to St. Joseph, Missouri. That was going to be one of the top spots to see the eclipse, so that's where I was going. Never mind that the forecast said it would probably rain.

We drove up there and passed through a very heavy downpour around Kansas City, but it didn't last long and we managed to avoid the crowds to find an ideal spot in the parking lot of an abandoned grocery store. It was partly cloudy, but we could still see the moon starting to cover a little bit of the sun. I'll admit that it was a pretty amazing sight.

Then it clouded over. Then it rained. We couldn't see the sun at all anymore.

As I despaired, my companion reminded me that we would still experience totality: the darkness, not the actual sight of the moon covering the sun. I tried to take some comfort in that, and it was pretty cool when the sky got darker. The temperature fell and everything looked eerie. The horizon turned sunset colors of pink and orange. Those two minutes were unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

Then the sun came back out and it was still cloudy. Not only that, traffic was so bad that it took us an extra two hours to get home, after sitting motionless several times in bumper-to-bumper vehicles. Meanwhile, we listened to people on the radio tell us how incredible it was to see the corona.

It took a few days for me to be able to consider the trip without bitterness. It didn't seem fair that so many people got to see the full eclipse and I didn't. It stung when other people gushed about how spectacular it was.

But when I think about it, it was my fault. Weather forecasters aren't perfect, but when they say it's going to be cloudy, all the wishful thinking in the world won't clear the sky. I was stubborn: I had a St. Joseph eclipse T-shirt, so I was going to St. Joseph! Next time I'll listen to the forecasters and try to be more flexible.

I have less than seven years to think about that while I'm planning for the next one.

Me in aforementioned T-shirt August 2017

The Quest Continues

I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m a birder and I’ve been keeping a list since 2003. I finally got to 200 birds last year, which was a real milestone for me. So what’s next?

I’ve got the quantity, so I’m going for the quality. Not that the birds already on my list aren’t great! I’ve seen some remarkable birds … but there are still those that aren’t yet on my list. The elusive ones. The maddening ones.

Then there’s the Big One (although it’s small), the bird so amazing that it’s hard to believe it’s real.

The painted bunting.

Click here to see info about Painted Buntings

I look once again in the bird book and shake my head. Not only do I wonder how such a colorful bird can exist, but I wonder how it’s possible I haven’t seen one yet.

It’s not for lack of trying. I’ve searched in areas where they’re supposed to be found. I’ve quizzed my fellow birders. Last year, based on a tip, I found a good place to look, but I was too early in the season. This year I tried again, almost a month later.

Some of you might be asking why I’m doing this, why it matters.

To answer that, let me tell you about last weekend.

The weather was fantastic and I took a well-known highway north of Pittsburg, where I missed my turn (that sign was pretty small!) and had to turn around. Then the paved road turned to gravel, which didn’t make my Toyota very happy. I kept going, though, until I reached the small town of Mulberry, Kansas. I couldn’t remember where I’d gone last year, so I ended up driving around various roads, trying to find a good spot with thickets that might be inviting to a little feathered work of art.

That was the first half hour or so.

Finally I drove along a rural road that looked familiar. Ahead of me I could see a hazy shape in the middle of the road and another perched atop a telephone pole, so I pulled over to use the binoculars. The one in the road was a good-sized turkey and the one on the pole was a kestrel, so I took that as a good sign and parked the car. I walked back along the road and around a corner, where I came upon a chirping field. Actually, it was a field full of chirping birds. I must have tried for ten minutes, but not a single one of those birds showed itself. I’m pretty sure they were dickcissels, which usually perch in plain view, but these were determined to evade me.

So there I stood, staring at a field of birds, none of which I could see, and wondering why I was even there.

Then I heard it.

There was an odd squawk, followed by three little sounds that are hard to describe. I can tell you that I’d never heard that before. It came again: squawk, squawk, followed by almost bell-like sounds, a real contrast. That was intriguing, so I turned my back on the field (if you birds don’t want to be seen, so be it!) and studied the trees on the other side of the road.

Then I remembered a hard rule of birding: it’s easier to bird by sight than by sound. In other words, you can hear the birds (like those in the field) but you might not see them, especially when the trees have all of their leaves. It’s better to watch for movement and then you’ve got something.

I had nothing, except for the sound … which had stopped.

I told myself to walk away because I would never see it in all those leaves. I told myself that it had probably flown away anyway.

But I stayed. And I heard it again. Then I took three steps to my left … and there it was.

It was sitting out on a bare branch in plain sight and singing so I’d know it was the one.

I stared through the binoculars, making little mental notes, although I had already guessed what it was.

Nope. It wasn’t a painted bunting. But it was still pretty cool: a yellow-breasted chat. That was good enough to be #203 on my list!

After that, I drove around some more. I found a beautiful spot with running water (one of my favorite sounds in nature), trees and a preening Eastern Phoebe that let me get a good look at him. I walked along that road to the sound of a calling red-shouldered hawk.

And that’s what it’s all about, I guess. Birding takes me out of my own little world and shows me another one. It lets me meditate on nature, discover the unexpected, feel a sense of accomplishment when I spot and identify a bird. Even when I don’t see anything new, I still see something worth seeing.

And someday I’m going to see that painted bunting.

Transition

Tomorrow is the First Day of Spring.

That phrase means many things to me. It means sunlight, warmth, birds, flowers, baseball, hope. It means I can think about travel and birding and long walks in the park. It means I won't huddle inside, shivering in the darkness even when the furnace is running.

Later, there will be bugs, loud motorcycles, people not wearing enough clothing ... But I won't think about that now.

Phlox in our front yard March 2017

For now, I'll look at the flowers that survived the sudden frost this past week and I'll smile. Winter has been vanquished once again ... at least temporarily.

I wouldn't have it any other way. What I mean is this: I wouldn't enjoy spring if I hadn't had to struggle through winter first. It's only months of neutral colors and chilly temperatures that can make this season so special.

Grape hyacinth in our front yard March 2017

If there were hyacinth blooming all year long, would I even notice them after a while? Probably not. If there were mockingbirds here all the time, would I cherish the first time I hear that unique series of songs and calls coming from atop a telephone pole? Nope. If I had to mow the grass all year long, would the sight of green in the yard make me happy? Certainly not.

I salute winter for making me appreciate spring. I can still recall snuggling under a pile of covers, happy to be safe and warm, dreaming of long days and a time when I could put hats, gloves and coats into storage. I'm grateful that winter gives way for a while, allowing us to take a deep breath of fresh air without making our lungs hurt.

Flowers in our back yard March 2017

I might even miss winter eventually. But not now.

Happy Spring!

Closet Spaceship Part 19

I was looking for Reggie when Tim Caswell spotted me in the corridor of Penumbra.

“Hey,” he said.

I winced, hoping he’d forgotten our last talk. “Hi.”

He laughed. “Caught you.”

“I was actually looking for Reg …”

“Is it important?” he asked.

“What?” I said. “Uh, well, no, I guess not. Not really.”

Sometimes I have to stop to admire how articulate I can be. This was not one of those times.

“Good,” Tim said. “Then it can wait.”

He beckoned and led me into the radio station, where we sat down in some chairs a few meters away from the microphone.

I fidgeted a little, wishing I could hear the song that was playing throughout the ship so I could lose myself in the words or the instruments, but he’d turned down the volume so it was inaudible. I looked at the blinking lights on the control panel, the crumpled candy wrapper on the floor next to the wastebasket, a scuff mark on the floor that looked like a bent cactus.

In short, I did almost everything but ask him what I wanted to ask.

Tim might not spend a lot of time around people, but he’s not dumb.

“You want me to find Reg for you?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I can’t ask him any more than I can ask you.”

“Ask us what?”

“What’s going to happen?” I slouched down in my chair. “Don’t answer that.”

“Happen where?” Tim asked.

“In my novel. In my life. In the U.S. Everywhere.”

When I saw the puzzled look on his face, I added, “Sorry. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“I can’t tell you anything,” Tim said, “but maybe I could walk out of here and leave the database unlocked.”

I shook my head. “I’m trying not to get you fired.”

“Okay, so what set this off?”

“A lot of stuff. Amazingly enough, having the Cubs win the World Series didn’t solve the world’s problems. Or mine, although it made them a little less obvious for a while there.”

Tim started to say something, but then he shut up.

“No,” I said. “You can’t say whether they did it again. Why am I even having this conversation?”

“So you won’t have to tell me about the cubicle?”

I laughed, which felt good.

“If I did walk out of here,” Tim asked, “would you look?”

“No,” I said without hesitation. I’ve always had a fear of knowing the future, because if it’s not good, I can’t do a thing about it. If I don’t know, I can still hope for the best. “Would you?”

He thought about it for a while. “No, I guess not. But I do know this: you’re not going to tell me about working in a cubicle.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said. “You’re better off not knowing.”

“It’s funny,” Tim said. “I’m not a big fan of secrets, but we can both keep ours: don’t ever tell me and we’ll be even.”

“It’s a deal,” I said.

I can hope for the best, but will I?

I’ll try.