tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57245019634364762092024-03-14T09:06:23.344+01:00From the House of Colewriter at heart, eager student of the world, lover of all things with a story. the rest, still working on.
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.comBlogger192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-2904841401192108802013-03-22T17:07:00.000+01:002013-03-22T17:07:18.359+01:00Dan Wells might be the coolest author ever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGRv4fE8cV6v03VSHGUYgq1U9srgUstNRLoJewohtiHRVFw_uRMV_Q21M7J8CCaxRocnIFJIVZCdt85DKL1TqSAJfXsVc33hAInbwRe87nNLbwP_MOara65aH-r2tbY3Xdx1pA1h42YmC/s1600/BkClub5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGRv4fE8cV6v03VSHGUYgq1U9srgUstNRLoJewohtiHRVFw_uRMV_Q21M7J8CCaxRocnIFJIVZCdt85DKL1TqSAJfXsVc33hAInbwRe87nNLbwP_MOara65aH-r2tbY3Xdx1pA1h42YmC/s320/BkClub5.jpg" width="320" /></a>If you decide you're going to host book club one month, and you decide to read, say, the debut novel from a few years back, <i>I Am Not a Serial Killer</i>, by <a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/" target="_blank">Dan Wells</a>...</div>
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and you cook and serve <i>slightly</i> undercooked chicken parmesan, but make up for almost poisoning your guests by ending the meal with a delicious and bloody-looking red velvet cake for dessert,</div>
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and if you've asked him very nicely and he's in town, Dan Wells just might come to your book club and tell you not only all kinds of backstory and secrets behind the book you just read, but also behind his other seven novels. (It's fascinating to learn how one idea leads to one book that requires certain research, which leads to another book idea, and so on. My ambition to become a successful author just got ramped up a bit.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaIX83c-JeQQVxomxvi7Rl1VnZOlDZ_KdIS5q_Ncgu7Fd0oCxY2Lbk4hfzFrWNwS_fO8VWnNXgKqkJDDZExlMcoAEyzXR1g-pAZrJqqzPUttDdyGcKAPRg1AV27WJyI2fr4L6wTHS2IFP/s1600/BkClub3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaIX83c-JeQQVxomxvi7Rl1VnZOlDZ_KdIS5q_Ncgu7Fd0oCxY2Lbk4hfzFrWNwS_fO8VWnNXgKqkJDDZExlMcoAEyzXR1g-pAZrJqqzPUttDdyGcKAPRg1AV27WJyI2fr4L6wTHS2IFP/s320/BkClub3.jpg" width="320" /></a>And then he might hang out and chat like a normal person about TV shows he likes and sign your books and even sell you a couple more of the newest ones while your dog sleeps on the back of the couch behind him. And he won't even make you feel bad about that whole almost-poisoning thing.</div>
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Mr. Wells might even ask about what <i>you're</i> working on if he knows you're a writer, and share tidbits from his own writing process and keep everyone well entertained, whilst educating the room about why sociopaths truly are concerned with social expectations and why the chemicals in a mortuary's embalming room make it resemble a snow cone shop.</div>
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So if you do these things, and it turns out Dan does show up at your house one Thursday evening in March, you should feed and water him, try very hard not to kill him, keep your dog from licking him to death, and let the discussion flow from the book at hand to all the new ones you now must read, as well as all the great series on right now and how there's never enough time to absorb all the stories you'd like. (You should also talk a little shop with him if you're a writer so you can steal his knowledge.)</div>
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And then you should take a picture to prove you're not making it all up. </div>
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<i><a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/titles/ianask.html" target="_blank">I Am Not a Serial Killer</a></i> is the first of the John Wayne Cleaver trilogy, Dan's first published series, followed by <i><a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/titles/mr_monster.html" target="_blank">Mr. Monster</a></i> and <i><a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/titles/i-dont-want-to-kill-you.html" target="_blank">I Don't Want To Kill You</a></i>. In the first book, we meet John who is a teenaged sociopath fighting against his natural instinct to do terrible things, but finds himself facing a monster outside himself when bodies begin turning up in his small town. Had I not been rushing to get the house cleaned up before this get-together, I'd have started the second book already. <i>Mr. Monster</i> is next for me!</div>
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The book Dan is holding above is the second in his <i><a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/titles/partials.html" target="_blank">Partials</a></i> trilogy, called <i><a href="http://www.thedanwells.com/titles/fragments.html" target="_blank">Fragments</a></i>. Click on any of these titles to visit their synopses on Dan's website. Apparently Dan got through another two chapters of the final installment in this series the very day he came for a visit, so soon, kids :)</div>
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If you fail to follow these steps exactly, I cannot guarantee Mr. Wells will make it to your book club, but who knows? If you read it, <i>maybe</i> he will come :)</div>
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*********************** </div>
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Thank you, Dan, for spending an evening among other book lovers, and for being kind to Murphy when he had a hard time understanding why you didn't want to be bathed. </div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-85212779800076300212013-02-25T14:54:00.000+01:002013-02-25T14:54:42.126+01:00GoneFriday night my writer's group held a small and casual reading at a coffee shop in downtown Stuttgart. I read the opening chapter of the novel I began writing in November, and I think it was received well. Though I did have to consciously keep myself from flinching at some of the coarse language included in my piece, I surprised myself at how calm I remained during the entire event. (One fellow group member is a priest and sat right up front. For some reason, I associate religious leaders with milder language?) I didn't burn up and turn bright red, I didn't stutter, I didn't even fidget constantly with my face and hair. I'm not sure what got into me, but somehow I managed to not only host the evening, announcing the welcomes and the thank yous, but managed the rhythm of the night without getting dizzy or anything. It was strange, and I liked it.<br />
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You see, I'm not a natural leader and I've never been comfortable in front of a crowd, and I'm <i>certainly</i> not one to step up and take control in such situations...which is why this is all so strange to me. Part of my high comfort level is no doubt tied to the fact that I'm familiar with this group of people, and they've all been extremely supportive in my new leadership role. To be honest, if I were challenged I might crumble into a nervous pile on the floor, but luckily I've got people who I consider natural leaders backing me up. So this is good for me, this step away from that which is typical, this new challenge. But I digress.<br />
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With some gentle prompting, I've decided to share my first chapter here. Usually I'm against censorship, but I do feel the need to censor some of the language since I've got nieces and nephews and this is so very public. (Plus, I still choose to live under the delusion that my parents aren't aware that I know such language. Make fun if you must, but I'll always be part-Good Girl.)<br />
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Please keep in mind that this is still in draft form and will hopefully improve in the revision process. I'm interested in what your thoughts are after reading it. Would you want to read on?<br />
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CHAPTER ONE: GONE</div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">It wasn’t the impact
reverberating up my arms that broke through the rage roaring in my ears, but
the wet crack that sounded out beyond the skin and muscle that wrapped around
his torso. When he fell to the floor at my feet there was another snap behind
the thump, and before I could take my next ragged breath I found my sneakered
foot embedded in his ribs. He wasn’t crying, but growling at me through the
pain, and that was when I realized I was the one standing above him this time,
his bat hanging by my side like an extra limb. I watched him curling in on
himself, cursing me between gasps from what I hoped was a punctured lung.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“What’s that, Daniel?” It was
the first time I’d spoken since my brother walked in the front door and met his
own bat across the ribs. I knew it wasn’t smart to kneel closer to hear him; he
had twenty years of testosterone and muscle on his side. Instead I popped the
top of his bent knees with the bat and asked again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“You’re ******* dead!” he
screamed clearly this time, and I smiled because he didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">When he moved as if to get
up, I widened my stance over him and took a hard swing, the bat smashing into
his left arm. He let out a primitive wail and after another hit, didn’t try to
get up again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I thought about our father’s
eyes watching me incapacitated from his bed a couple of hours earlier, and the
feeling it brought bloomed in my chest warm and calm. Something happened that
changed me. Keeping my eyes on my writhing brother, still gasping from the
living room floor, I crossed the room and sat in our father’s chair, the
well-worn, brown leather recliner that reigned over our house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“No, you see I’m not the one
who’s dead,” I argued gently, the roar having died down in my ears and my pulse
easing back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Daniel managed to lift his
head enough to turn toward me, the hate in his eyes making room for a hint of
fear. “What the **** are you talking about?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I
smiled again; I looked forward to telling him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Earlier that evening, I’d
walked into my father’s room with his dinner, meatloaf and mashed potatoes,
having no idea this was the last meal I’d cook for him. When he found out the
cancer spread from his lung to his lymphatic system, the prognosis looked grim
enough for him to refuse further treatment. My father told people he wanted to
die in comfort, but in the back of my mind I believed he was punishing me for
his illness. After all, regardless of how quickly his health declined, it was I
who acted as his nurse for the last couple of months, feeding and bathing him,
helping him to the toilet chair beside the bed and cleaning it after each use.
When he first got sick, I was terrified of him dying because I was scared of
being left alone. I once believed that a house full of angry hands was better
than an empty one. By the time I served his last plate of meatloaf, however, I
was warming up to the idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Since my mom took off for
good I struggled with the fear of being abandoned by everyone I knew. Granted,
it wasn’t much different after she left since she was hardly around anyway, but
at least I knew I had a mother somewhere. The day she left was so anticlimactic
it seemed both inevitable and unbelievable, like we were nothing but a passing
mistake in her life, easy baggage to cast off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I was sixteen and had passed
my Driver’s Ed class, which I practiced telling her all the way home on the
bus. I didn’t worry when she wasn’t home, though it dampened my excitement some
knowing the next time I saw her she’d probably either be too high or too
exhausted to care about my news. I watched TV for a while and then started
dinner as usual. When my father got home from work he was more irritable than
normal but I knew better than to mention it. We sat around the table, me, Dad,
and Daniel and nobody asked where Mom was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“How’d
baseball go today?” our father asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Sucked. O’Riley don’t know ****. He’s putting Jackson in to start on Saturday,” Daniel grumbled through
his mouthful of spaghetti. “Dumbass.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Daniel was a senior that year
and pitched on our high school baseball team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“If you practiced more, maybe
he’d put you in,” our father replied, ripping a bite from his garlic bread
without moving his critical gaze from my brother, who I knew felt it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I passed my final Driver’s
Ed exam today,” I volunteered. I’d been holding my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">My father and Daniel both
looked at me for four seconds exactly, and then continued eating without
comment. Even though I was used to this, my heart still fell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I’ve been saving up
babysitting money for a used car so I don’t have to ride the bus to school
anymore,” I added. “And also so when I get a real job-“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Nothing
wrong with the bus, Sarah,” said my father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I
know, I was just-“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I know what you were <i>just</i>, but I’m telling you not to go
letting yourself believe you’re better than anybody else just because you know
the difference between the gas pedal and the brakes.” He took another bite of
spaghetti, his eyes drilling into mine to hold me in place. “Next thing I know,
you’ll be parading yourself around like your ***** of a mother, and I don’t
need another good-for-nothing woman to deal with.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I bit my lower lip to keep
from speaking because I didn’t know what I hated more, that he called my mother
a ***** or that he thought I’d wind up just as strung out and weak as she was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“You got something to say?”
Daniel piped up, a satisfied smile stretched across his greasy face. He’d
always thought he was something special being the son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I
shook my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Do you?” our father asked,
his hand wrapping around the handle of his fork on the table, a gesture I knew
well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“No,
sir,” was all I could say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Speaking of your mother, she
won’t be coming home this time.” He said it so casually, so carelessly as if
he’d just told us it’d be raining on Saturday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Whatever,”
Daniel spat. “Who the hell cares.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Where
is she?” I asked, forgetting myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I knew the instant the words
escaped my mouth that I should’ve kept quiet. His eyes flared and his fist
clenched. When he spoke, the word came clearly and slowly. “Gone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">My knees trembled under the
table, my hands suddenly freezing. It would just be me now taking the blows. At
least with my mom around from time to time there was someone to share them
with. As much as I hated her for not taking me and running, I still needed her
around. I focused on breathing and held back the tears for fear of further
ridicule. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“She finally up and left us
altogether, stupid *****, and you should be grateful. You might have a chance
of becoming useful now.” I could smell his garlic breath and thought I might
throw up right into my plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">We finished eating in silence
and after I was done washing up, I threw up in the dishwater instead. We didn’t
talk about her again after that. I knew I no longer had a mother after that,
too. Happy Sweet Sixteen. She chose to leave us; it would’ve been easier to
take if she’d died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">As I stood beside my father’s
bed watching him pick at the dinner I cooked for him, images of my mother’s
swollen and bruised face flashed through my mind. It’d been two years since she
left and I’d taken on her share of things as was expected, but seeing my father
in such a weakened state began to give rise to something new within me. It
began with a flutter in my stomach that slowly reached into my chest. Foreign
at first, I slowly realized this feeling must be hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Where’s
Daniel?” he asked, his voice gruff and impatient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Work,”
I answered simply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">His sigh rushed out in more
of a huff, and he stuck his finger into the blob of mashed potatoes.
“God******, they’ve gone cold.” His weakening body did nothing to soften his temperament.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I
started to reply, but the back of his hand knocked the words right out of my
mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I don’t want to hear it you
dumb ****. Is it too much to ask for hot food? Don’t I deserve a decent meal
for taking care of you all your damn life?” Despite his complaints, he kept
eating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I pressed my fingers to the
side of my mouth, tonguing the inside part that was now bleeding, while my
father grumbled and cursed his way through his dinner. I was expected to wait
so I could take the tray away the second he was done. Patience wasn’t something
he practiced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“What
the hell are you staring at?” he asked, his fork poised in front of his mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I
hadn’t realized I was looking at him. “I’m not staring,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Don’t you argue with me,” he
began, but stopped suddenly when a sharp breath in stuck in his throat. His
eyes popped wide and his hands went frantic grabbing at his bed sheets,
knocking over his iced tea, then tugging at the front of his shirt, ripping at
his collar. It wasn’t until he grabbed his own throat that I understood what
was happening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">At first I jumped back,
startled by the burst of movement, but as I listened to the sound of air trying
to fight its way around the clog in his throat, my mind began to buzz. It’d be
so easy to let this happen; I was in the kitchen washing up and didn’t hear
him. It was an accident. Though my thoughts sped through my head, I moved
slowly and with purpose, first taking the tray from his lap and placing it on
the floor. He was balking against his own body when I climbed onto the bed,
straddling him and watching the panic take hold of his weathered face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Shhh,” I soothed, taking his
hands and pushing them palm down at his sides. “It’s going to be okay.” I
scooted up his body and pressed my knees into the backs of his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I’d just turned eighteen and
graduation was only a couple months away. With him gone I could walk away from
this place if I wanted and no one could stop me. I could achieve what my mother
was too weak to: freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">He watched me with wild eyes,
still trying to force the mashed potatoes from his windpipe, but didn’t
struggle against me until I leaned forward into his face, resting my weight on
both arms that were now resting hard against his. Inches from my father’s face,
I watched him fight to breathe and it thrilled me. All he could do was kick his
legs beneath my weight and try to squirm out from under me, but it was all
wasted effort. The cancer had greatly weakened his body, but not his mind, and
he knew exactly what was happening. My veins coursed with adrenaline while his
depleted of oxygen, and when he finally stilled, I felt something else I’d
never felt before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Power.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">After I replaced the food
tray to his lap and repositioned his arms, there was no question what had to
happen next. Daniel would be home from practice soon. My mind flooded with
memories of all the pain inflicted on me at the hands of my big brother, the
one who was supposed to protect me instead of joining in. The rising feeling of
hope stirred deep within me and started to spin into a hot wind that grew with
each passing minute, fueled by the anger I carried, my own kind of cancer. The
longer I waited with Daniel’s wooden bat across my lap in the dark of the
living room, the stronger that wind grew, spinning up through my body and into
my head, until my rage was a hurricane screaming in my ears behind the thumping
of my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">And
now here he was, glaring up at me in pieces on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“I
said, what the **** are you talking about?” His voice cracked. I wondered if
he’d figured it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">I
leaned forward in our father’s chair and tilted my head at Daniel as I said the
word, “Gone,” soft and sweet like I was speaking to a child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Daniel started screaming in
rage or sadness, I didn’t know which, and I stood and raised the bat again. He
was too loud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“No!
Please!” he yelped when he saw me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Shut your mouth, Daniel, or
this bat’s going to get very bloody.” I had no idea where this calmness came
from. All I knew was that this was over; I was done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“What did you do?” he asked,
his voice strained. He was sobbing like a pathetic little baby; he sounded like
our mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“It’s
over, Daniel, do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying?” My hatred
made me strong for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">He
shook his head, but I didn’t know if it was at me or the terror of the
situation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">Suddenly I was on him,
sitting on his chest, my right knee crushing the broken arm at his side. He
cried out but stopped and stared up at me, waiting. With the bat shoved
crossways deep into his throat, I leaned in to say what I’d never had the
courage to say before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">“Never ******* touch me again.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">*****************************</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 11.5pt;">© </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2012 </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lindsey Cole, all rights reserved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-40645985337396150092013-02-20T16:59:00.001+01:002013-02-20T16:59:43.322+01:00Still Kicking, I SwearWow...has it really been nearly a month since I posted? That can't be right.<br />
<br />
I've been writing, I swear, just nothing that's made it here.<br />
<br />
I started writing a post about linguistic misunderstandings and the ridiculosity of certain literal translations, but then I got distracted... but what was funny was going to then turn into something really deep and thought-provoking, too.<br />
<br />
Then I was going to jump in on one of these writing prompts I've been seeing on some of my favorite blogs (<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hi Natalie and Erica!</span>), but then the fact that I've not been putting enough time in on the novel kept me from starting anything completely new. I've only got so much creative juice and if I spend it all trying to write something worthy of a contest, I've got nothing left for the bigger project I <i>should</i> be working on.<br />
<br />
Even so, I then wrote half a post about the crazy parade I attended a couple weeks ago to include pictures of Smurfs on horses, cherry red Porsches, and mischievous witches with Winter curses, but it needed a lot more work before I could post it and the guilt of ignoring the novel shamed me away from finishing it.<br />
<br />
So I've been working here and there on that novel, trimming and tightening the opening chapter specifically to read this Friday at a public reading my writer's group is holding. Plus other people need feedback on their pieces, and as the current leader of the group, that's something I want to do in the hopes of spurring more feedback-swapping among members. Then there's all that other life stuff I can't get away from, like walking Murphy and making time for the gym, the endless laundry and dishes to be washed, and attempting to maintain a semi-clutter-free living space so outsiders aren't afraid when they walk through the front door.<br />
<br />
This isn't a blog post, I'm aware, but I feel like I have to put something up as evidence that I have <i>not</i>, in fact, fallen off the face of the earth, and that I do miss blogging. I'm just having a hard time juggling at the moment, but I'll find my way back.<br />
<br />
So please keep popping by. I promise I'll give you something to read soon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the meantime, here's a creepy mob of witches to hold you over.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(I love you...don't leave me.)</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-24138897398228448642013-01-29T22:20:00.001+01:002013-01-30T16:21:48.084+01:00My Life Line in Media<div>
so far, that is. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was feeling nostalgic. These are TV shows, movies, musicals, songs, artists and books I've loved over the course of my life thus far. This is when I encountered them, not necessarily when they were released. And though this list is in no way exhaustive, these were the ones that came to mind when I took a mental stroll back over my life. These color my childhood, first heart break, part of my engagement when we were apart, the wedding, moving to Italy, then to Germany, and many, many moments in between. I understand if you must judge me for a couple of these, but there they are anyway.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Smurfs</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She-Ra</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My Little Pony</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Care Bears</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pound Puppies</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Popples</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The Greatest Love of All"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Neverending Story</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Stand By Me<br />
Teen Witch<br />
Teen Wolf</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Straight up" & "Opposites Attract"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Could've Been"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Hold On"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ferris Bueller's Day Off</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Raiders of the Lost Ark</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Back to the Future<br />
Goonies</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The Sign"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Ice Ice Baby"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Buddy Holly"<br />
Sandlot<br />
"The Sweater Song"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Tonight Tonight"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"When I Come Around"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I Will Always Love You"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My Pal Trigger</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Lottery</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Toasters<br />
"You Oughta Know"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A Tale of Two Cities</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Empire Records</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Crotch Rockets</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The House of Spirits</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Blink 182</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Head Over Feet"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Don't Speak"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Beloved</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Truly, Madly, Deeply"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Can't Hardly Wait</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Alien: The Resurrection</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Time of Your Life"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Fortunate Fool"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Bluest Eye</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Napster</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ani DiFranco</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bastard Out of Carolina</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Liz Phair</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A Widow For One Year</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
American Idol</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The World According to Garp</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Skater Boy"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Big Fish</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Elf</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Toxic"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The Reason"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Here Without You"<br />
"I Will Love You"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div>
"Left Outside Alone"</div>
<div>
Laura Pausini</div>
<div>
Rent</div>
<div>
"Hey There, Delilah"</div>
<div>
Corinne Bailey Rae</div>
<div>
Once</div>
<div>
Avenue Q</div>
<div>
"Sex on Fire"</div>
<div>
Mando Diao</div>
<div>
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle</div>
<div>
Avatar</div>
<div>
"Love Song"</div>
<div>
Inception</div>
<div>
Rise Against</div>
<div>
"Animal"<br />
"Fidelity"<br />
Kate Nash</div>
<div>
"Jar of Hearts"</div>
<div>
Ingrid Michaelson</div>
<div>
Amanda Palmer</div>
<div>
Life of Pi<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A thousand points to whomever can name the bands that go with all the songs. I'm certain I've forgotten some favorites, but I think most of them are here. And I know I sometimes listed a song and sometimes a band, but there are reasons for it all, mysterious reasons you'll never know, mwahahahahaha!!!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
...mostly because they're boring details that only matter to the person they happened to. You know, me.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What are your favorites of all time?<br />
<br />
*** UPDATE ***<br />
I cannot believe I forgot Buffy, movie and series, and The New Kids on the Block, my first concert ever. And all 80s music all over the high school and college years. And The Beach Boys during childhood. I'll be back in five minutes to add more. </div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-59901576173268786392013-01-22T11:31:00.004+01:002013-01-22T11:31:58.317+01:00Your Memory is a LiarI'm the youngest in a family of three kids with a significant age gap separating me from both my brother and sister. Back in the 80s, while my sister was watching MTV and refusing to clean her room to the point that our dad took her door off its hinges, I was watching the Smurfs. While my brother was crashing cars and setting fires in the mangroves down the street from our house, I was playing with My Little Pony and Barbie. (To be fair, he only set <i>one</i> fire and it was a total accident that got out of hand.) Being the baby, I got a lot of crap from my older siblings (still do) about being spoiled and doing things for attention, which I whole-heartedly deny. Not about being spoiled. We were all spoiled and they know it, but the thing about getting attention? No. Sure, I enjoyed being the center of attention from time to time within the confines of our house among family, but I would never make things up to achieve it. (<a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2012/09/her-name-was-skunky.html" target="_blank">Skunky</a> doesn't count as a lie - imaginary friends are off the table.)<br />
<br />
I've always had vivid dreams and the overwhelming desire to tell people about them (forgive me), so my family members have spent years hearing about them in all their nonsensical glory. To this day, if someone doesn't quite believe what I'm saying they'll say, "<i>Maybe it was a dream," </i>which has always had the power to irk me. It's true that my dreams have been known to trick me into thinking something that didn't actually happen did, and the men in my life have been subjected to the repercussions in real life of something they did in my dreams, but it's not (all) my fault. I can't help that what happens in my dream affects me so strongly, and usually whatever they did in my dream was something they <i>really would</i> do in real life, so maybe they should just be nicer.<br />
<br />
My point? Sometimes we lie and we really don't mean to. It happens all the time.<br />
<br />
In the middle of writing a different blog post, in fact, the one preceding this, I found myself reminiscing about singing in my childhood years, which led to memories of my mother singing when I was a kid, which then led all kinds of interesting tidbits I've kept safely tucked away in the recesses of my brain. When I ran into a snag, wherein my memory didn't exactly align with what Google said about a group of which my mom used to be a part, I called her to help straighten me and my memories out. We've just hung up and my stomach hurts a little from all the laughing - those phone calls are the best.<br />
<br />
First, let me share <i>my</i> memories about my mom's singing career when I was a child:<br />
<br />
My mom was a rock star. When I was young, let's say single digit years but over 4, my mom was a member of Sweet Adelines, an a cappella singing group who performed for real life audiences on the church circuit. They traveled around and put on shows, so sometimes she was out of town on tour (like the time I busted my head open on the door latch plate and was awarded one stitch at the emergency room for all the agony). They wore shiny blue costumes with sequins and there was a great, big, tall, muscular man with red hair and a mustache who traveled with them as part of the act, performing lifts in the dance numbers they did on stage to accompany the songs they sang. I pictured the women running across the stage into the red-headed man's great big arms and being lifted into the air, their poodle-like skirts flying.<br />
<br />
When I asked my mom about this time in her life, laughter ensued. There were moments no one could actually speak real words because of it.<br />
<br />
My <i>mom's</i> memories about the same time:<br />
<br />
My mom has always loved to sing. When I was young, let's say between 5 and 7, my mom was a member of the local chapter of Sweet Adelines, <i>an all women</i> a cappella group who sang from time to time in the area, <i>having no religious affiliation </i>(thought they did practice at a local Methodist church). She doesn't remember any over night trips with the group, but they did compete and WIN at the regional competition one year. They wore shiny blue, satiny costumes with sequins and the group of women was so big (about 50) they filled a set of bleachers on the stage to sing. There was no man with red hair and a mustache, though now my dad is starting to wonder. There were also no poodle skirts. Or dancing. She said the closest they came to dancing was a little swaying, but that was it.<br />
<br />
To my credit, my mom was also a part of a singing ensemble at our church that had both women <i>and men</i> around the same time in my life, so I'm thinking this is where the man with red hair and mustache came from, as well as the church connection. Either way, comparing memories can be kind of hilarious and I encourage you to try it.<br />
<br />
And I really did split my head open on the door latch enough to warrant a single stitch, we all remember that, and my mom <i>was</i> out of town, though nobody can remember where she was.<br />
<br />
One of these days I'm going to figure out who that man with the red hair and mustache is.<br />
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-51040852743833216492013-01-17T10:46:00.003+01:002013-01-17T10:46:57.380+01:00Save the Empire!If you've never seen <i>Empire Records</i> (1995), most of this post may be lost on you. And I can't even apologize for this, as it's your fault you haven't seen this masterpiece of teenaged angst and rebellious love of music over capitalism. It may not be your fault - perhaps you didn't know - but now that you do there's no excuse and I expect you to get your hands on a copy immediately, but only if you were ever a teenager. The rest of you are off the hook.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinndHPmU7_KqjfnhiNFfLgYIs-jFKYY8jOZtMYQVhnz2uwBb2jrucKEunGVC9q41DVtJOczHIYUvnCejGHzxgHshWU61p3kt6jCf-I7H_k8BDluFT6vm8A1FiMz4KuLPDOOMXTRnuJeY71/s1600/empirerecords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinndHPmU7_KqjfnhiNFfLgYIs-jFKYY8jOZtMYQVhnz2uwBb2jrucKEunGVC9q41DVtJOczHIYUvnCejGHzxgHshWU61p3kt6jCf-I7H_k8BDluFT6vm8A1FiMz4KuLPDOOMXTRnuJeY71/s320/empirerecords.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.luckylegendary.com</td></tr>
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Let's back up a little.<br />
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I have always loved to sing. I can remember my mother sitting at the piano smiling while I matched with my voice the notes she played. *She was even a member of Sweet Adelines, a traveling singing group that made the church circuit - I thought she was a rock star. I grew up listening to her sing her way through the house and I've always done the same. I was the little girl in children's choir who got the solo at the Christmas concert at church, and if chorus was an option at school, I was in.<br />
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Enter adolescence and the flush of hormones that turn every kid on their head and I quickly grew too self-conscious to let anyone hear me sing anymore. In church I'd grown up with these people and there was a sense of safety when I stood on the stage and sang my little heart out. In school, however, I never auditioned for the solo because I didn't want to stand out, preferring to hide in the small sea of elementary voices that surrounded me. When my elementary years ran out, middle school didn't offer any opportunities to sing, and when I entered high school I was too shy to seek them out. But isn't this one of the very reasons we love movies so much? To not only buy into the story, but imagine ourselves within the realm of another reality for a couple hours?<br />
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I was 14 years old when <i>Empire Records </i>came out. My best friend and I rented <i>the tape</i> and watched it at least four times over the course of one weekend. (Keep in mind that this was in the day of rewinding the movie when you were done, so clearly this movie spoke to us in special ways for us to rewind it several times just to watch it again. I can't even imagine rewinding anything these days, who has the time?) As with all Generation X teen flicks, we saw ourselves in the characters and felt their plight to the depths of our tortured, teenaged souls. Damn the man!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXCG9eq7mhyphenhyphenzNGzcYQojeCnbSAg_ADKF2tHzptk21vseyhqLAkmZKjFxXd-M_HISOWnAvaGPxskuxMNaIXqM-iaKq9w5Fgu9gn-0ltS9yv5lGJOiuWN1KosW7Y-nZgG4R9u2utwKnqZCa/s1600/empire-records-deb-shaves-her-hair-704x304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXCG9eq7mhyphenhyphenzNGzcYQojeCnbSAg_ADKF2tHzptk21vseyhqLAkmZKjFxXd-M_HISOWnAvaGPxskuxMNaIXqM-iaKq9w5Fgu9gn-0ltS9yv5lGJOiuWN1KosW7Y-nZgG4R9u2utwKnqZCa/s320/empire-records-deb-shaves-her-hair-704x304.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://summerscreen.org/this-week-at-summerscreen-empire-records</span></td></tr>
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I saw myself in Debra, the angry and depressed girl with suicidal tendencies who shaves her head in a fit of frustration. I envied her courage to say what she thought and confront anyone who questioned her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_NrSVJ_FUj-wIh4obiqTE3kA44EgCbDbMgkEiU07a-4ZbFRvAAA-BS-I2n_Ly42oGXzbtQnta8cTax7X9nm6BkN4AlEYIsMZis_x_HgqJHTYHDDPCcCWGy80XUDS7bfqP_mocehalCQY/s1600/empireAJcorey.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_NrSVJ_FUj-wIh4obiqTE3kA44EgCbDbMgkEiU07a-4ZbFRvAAA-BS-I2n_Ly42oGXzbtQnta8cTax7X9nm6BkN4AlEYIsMZis_x_HgqJHTYHDDPCcCWGy80XUDS7bfqP_mocehalCQY/s200/empireAJcorey.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://fashiongrunge.com</span></td></tr>
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I wanted to be Corey, so oblivious to her pouty-lipped beauty but cool at the same time, while the sweet, slightly insecure, and properly grungy-hot A.J. fumbles after her in an attempt to reveal his love for her by 1:37pm. (You have to respect a boy with goals.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12EOGz_hOBhmDc5n0MkRtjawt3kMBamwVZFLa2KHfnY9HxnORslfBz4-c69c0-5bBhTmCqJL2zHvH_GgwfDpd_T9vXTc8un691k-aGMR6N-h3r5OSeWPq8POm7hBu6Kyqb7zpJUBMX4d3/s1600/empire-records-sugar-high.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12EOGz_hOBhmDc5n0MkRtjawt3kMBamwVZFLa2KHfnY9HxnORslfBz4-c69c0-5bBhTmCqJL2zHvH_GgwfDpd_T9vXTc8un691k-aGMR6N-h3r5OSeWPq8POm7hBu6Kyqb7zpJUBMX4d3/s320/empire-records-sugar-high.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://jurassicgriffin.blogspot.de</span></td></tr>
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But the one who really got me by the end was Gina. Gina is the record store slut, if you will, the sexy little wild thing who does what she wants and cares not what you think. (I didn't relate to this part, but secretly wished that I could.) But in the end, we find out that Gina does have insecurities like the rest of us (what!) and not only does she envy Corey's bright future in college, she's always wanted to <i>sing in a band but is too afraid</i>!<br />
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This was the moment I - and probably most other viewers - fell in love with Gina, not only because it's a relief to see the girl who seems to have it all under control really doesn't, but also because she overcomes her fears about singing in front of people and stands on that marquee and belts out lyrics to 'Sugar High' while the band plays around her at the finale scene where the people rise up to save the independent record store that is Empire Records! It's glorious and since 1995, any time I listen to the Empire Records Soundtrack and <i>that</i> song comes on, I sing Gina's parts loud and proud, pretending for a moment that I have the courage to sing from atop a lit marquee, too.<br />
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As long as no one else is home.<br />
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I still love to sing whenever I can, whether I'm in the car, in the shower, at my desk with iTunes blasting or making up silly songs to describe what I'm doing. Singing the words to a song that you connect with does something beautifully cathartic, and sometimes when I really need to tap into a certain emotion, whether to deal with something personal or get into the right headspace for writing a certain scene, all I need to do is play the right song and the room fills.<br />
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This train of thought was brought on by a recent post by a favorite blogger of mine, <a href="http://thecatladysings.com/2013/01/14/i-would-make-a-horrible-spy/" target="_blank">in which she discusses her fantasy job that she knows she'd suck at</a>. <a href="http://thecatladysings.com/" target="_blank">The Cat Lady</a> closes the post posing the question to her readers, <span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">What is your secret fantasy career that you know you’d be awful at?</span> Well, Natalie, let me tell you...<br />
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Being aware that a career in singing would be a terrible move doesn't mean that I'm failing to believe in myself, I'm just realistic. I can carry a tune, and I admit that I have the ability to sing certain songs pretty well, but I lack the proper pipes and guts to pursue anything outside of my house. And it isn't that I'm not going after a dream, because I may fantasize about singing in a band like Gina, but my true dream is to be a successful writer. Singing is something I'll always do, but writing is something that defines me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYa8e0Stz-bnX6y7rW02xhoIqlHx8pyOvTStEsI41X720KKM6FvEEBmLaCxg8oJXQPBGcCZ9wAj7nljo0O4zPvvQ9f7AS0KI-nxVsI92M7UTYUddMqdun2dGU2zjclNAUnzaYHNHMp6pVY/s1600/empire-records-sign-300x187.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYa8e0Stz-bnX6y7rW02xhoIqlHx8pyOvTStEsI41X720KKM6FvEEBmLaCxg8oJXQPBGcCZ9wAj7nljo0O4zPvvQ9f7AS0KI-nxVsI92M7UTYUddMqdun2dGU2zjclNAUnzaYHNHMp6pVY/s400/empire-records-sign-300x187.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.mamapop.com/2010/07/empire-records-perfect.html</span></td></tr>
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I think it's healthy to hold onto slightly unrealistic fantasies to keep our hearts hopeful and imaginations limber, just as long as we don't lose touch with reality and in turn, lose ourselves to the pursuit of a shattered dream waiting to happen. Some people find out what was once slightly unrealistic is really their true calling in life, but for the rest of us, it's fun to pretend between moments of stupid adult responsibility and what is sometimes a dull reality. </div>
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Because wouldn't it be great if we could all end our days dancing in triumph on the rooftop of an independent record store behind the glorious neon glow of its sign? </div>
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Yeah, I think so, too.</div>
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*See the next post, Your Memory is a Liar, for the correction to this slightly fudged memory.<br />
<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-24086413887670289522013-01-11T13:23:00.000+01:002013-01-11T14:46:38.631+01:00GratefulIn case you didn't know, I am the easiest person to shop for in the entire universe. I may require a lot emotionally, but Chris has it so easy - I've always been a cheap date and easy to please.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4D1pksRI5ybFTLwwVNQrnCO5iae5ckvVjPVky-LKANv2EqP0IqQcE6cM0lBDh-0Fu0LkKQKz6oDB9CdjJplBq2-NTy7CC1wpq76_sIi0qgauwfCZ1BPNalRagyk7wdAq_XCTm5vBbMUwg/s1600/MoreChristmas44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4D1pksRI5ybFTLwwVNQrnCO5iae5ckvVjPVky-LKANv2EqP0IqQcE6cM0lBDh-0Fu0LkKQKz6oDB9CdjJplBq2-NTy7CC1wpq76_sIi0qgauwfCZ1BPNalRagyk7wdAq_XCTm5vBbMUwg/s320/MoreChristmas44.jpg" width="320" /></a>Why, you ask? Because I'm a nerd and I love books and anything related to writing and socks, lots and lots of wonderful socks. I reject plain socks and refuse to wear (or own) white socks (except the kind you wear to the gym because who wants to waste good socks there?). I like 'em striped, argyle, or my favorite kind, silly.<br />
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The most amazing pair of socks I've ever received lay here among ones from both Mom and Chris. You'll notice they're not just argyle, they're argyle with mustaches.<br />
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What? I know. Amazing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEico8VQwW3YHto04g8LmrOORqIuGlO3-R8DCgUEdNjofdJF5jzD6-6qNTl_Il7yt5Ulj1tmVBzlGBEV4NTPwZHy8kSWEvRJHeCwy3MPI9c8R9M2chxicm8DwhBZeGMrKF4f3ZEFUqHAmX94/s1600/MoreChristmas51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEico8VQwW3YHto04g8LmrOORqIuGlO3-R8DCgUEdNjofdJF5jzD6-6qNTl_Il7yt5Ulj1tmVBzlGBEV4NTPwZHy8kSWEvRJHeCwy3MPI9c8R9M2chxicm8DwhBZeGMrKF4f3ZEFUqHAmX94/s320/MoreChristmas51.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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After socks comes books, the kind you read for fun sent to you from your good friend at Random House who knows your taste, and the kind you write in,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYlq82IJzRdykl1DDKp9XF1r-zsYuzmxzx6lSWP-ahd2fZ1aaL7bFTzBnrJCv-oHkjSbdzz6aA5p1UpabpxKm6qGz6epUutrwSW0UHcmZQhjYXbhIPdQLtZNVq2EiaVv9P5HBwDRrIKtg/s1600/MoreChristmas49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYlq82IJzRdykl1DDKp9XF1r-zsYuzmxzx6lSWP-ahd2fZ1aaL7bFTzBnrJCv-oHkjSbdzz6aA5p1UpabpxKm6qGz6epUutrwSW0UHcmZQhjYXbhIPdQLtZNVq2EiaVv9P5HBwDRrIKtg/s320/MoreChristmas49.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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the kind you read so you can make amazing gelato and ice cream in your new ice cream maker,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYM-H7-sZKea3PROmvGvNIEC_23LGyCeTt9qlBZ-S58A9Ue5n97e1NPfmIwUxT0180D3YElA_Km27lBlE4L9xfuTmhxOeYNfj9RDw9n-2QMgnonpAu4cqESaW_kPBlA09nl1HrrUMwev6S/s1600/MoreChristmas48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYM-H7-sZKea3PROmvGvNIEC_23LGyCeTt9qlBZ-S58A9Ue5n97e1NPfmIwUxT0180D3YElA_Km27lBlE4L9xfuTmhxOeYNfj9RDw9n-2QMgnonpAu4cqESaW_kPBlA09nl1HrrUMwev6S/s320/MoreChristmas48.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b00Oj3jycp6q52H55wqys4i0a7HuhE_1XLsJa5wVCkvakD3byVHbEgfXXVmGBGJogDtSfN2TP7G5YWtThq9nQ1qypuryw3iVUS_qZSFoSoCepUt40m165D7fzjzzF1V_TwMuZG8EEurw/s1600/MoreChristmas46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b00Oj3jycp6q52H55wqys4i0a7HuhE_1XLsJa5wVCkvakD3byVHbEgfXXVmGBGJogDtSfN2TP7G5YWtThq9nQ1qypuryw3iVUS_qZSFoSoCepUt40m165D7fzjzzF1V_TwMuZG8EEurw/s320/MoreChristmas46.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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the kind you read to help get yourself published so you can tell people you're an actual author,<br />
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and the kind you hide things in.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">After the nerdy stuff comes the wine-related stuff...which is always appreciated.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzQXeu5aGtSAFtIvy2B8lzXvSCob0KU5UlHTRRNMiz4NgzIW8GVHZCzPBNRM2VMwNX6FMYeaVkc577cQpR9hDgmdgDUO96pon5PZP-JxkYOu3VdEhXzr_zS_J75dZt4fBBppVvEzK1hCo/s1600/MoreChristmas47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAzQXeu5aGtSAFtIvy2B8lzXvSCob0KU5UlHTRRNMiz4NgzIW8GVHZCzPBNRM2VMwNX6FMYeaVkc577cQpR9hDgmdgDUO96pon5PZP-JxkYOu3VdEhXzr_zS_J75dZt4fBBppVvEzK1hCo/s320/MoreChristmas47.jpg" width="214" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJ3ppxAFUX8-JbM2B45OvS-nSLfikLJvb9f720qLyV_YxZftD1o26c9ndmivZktbS9gsuueDKFeGjuSA-OI2VJnMLQ-YHq6vDt9nwWCP3QUz4PXYYkDKGN0F6FS7eagfDL5eyMC34VWMe/s1600/MoreChristmas50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJ3ppxAFUX8-JbM2B45OvS-nSLfikLJvb9f720qLyV_YxZftD1o26c9ndmivZktbS9gsuueDKFeGjuSA-OI2VJnMLQ-YHq6vDt9nwWCP3QUz4PXYYkDKGN0F6FS7eagfDL5eyMC34VWMe/s320/MoreChristmas50.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
Need to chill your wine to the ideal temp?<br />
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Need a redneck wine glass in which to enjoy said perfectly chilled pinot grigio at the block party?<br />
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And because the interwebs are constantly overflowing with cat paraphernalia, it's my duty to add a little Murphy to that soup. It may have been a <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2012/12/green-christmas.html">Green Christmas,</a> but it was still a good one for the dog child.<br />
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It was funny, the second I brought home his stocking, he knew it was his and dragged it off a couple of times. And every spoiled puppy should have his own sheep skin, right? Its name is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shrek_(sheep)" target="_blank">Shrek</a>, Jr. <a href="http://i.imgur.com/7r6GP.jpg" target="_blank">but not after the ogre</a>. Yeah I know...he's got it rough.<br />
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Is there a point to this brag-fest of a blog today? </div>
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I suppose this is just another attempt to show you a little bit of who I am via the things that make me happy. I'm a fortunate person and I try to keep that in mind whenever I start to itch over things like not getting to drive a Porsche while living in its motherland, not having control over what happens next for us with regards to where we may go, and not being in the shape I'd like to be in. I think it's okay to celebrate those things which bring us joy, especially when some of that joy comes in the form of a jar glued to a candlestick a dear friend made just for me, because it's when we forget about the little things that we begin to slide toward not appreciating the bigger things we have. So in a way, appreciating new books and socks and wine vessels keeps me grateful that I've got a car at all (the Mazda 6 model of Porsche), that in an unstable economy Chris will still have a job regardless of where we go (while I pursue writing), and the blessing of having a fully functioning body with the ability to get to where I want to be if I can just stick to it. </div>
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Oh, and the Murphdog, because look at this face.</div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-9367458148110427082013-01-02T01:25:00.003+01:002013-01-02T01:25:41.155+01:00Please stop using the word epic for everythingI'd like to think I haven't completely aged out of using much of the slang terminology today's youth employs. Words like <i>cool</i> and <i>awesome</i> are timeless, right? Or maybe my teenaged niece and nephew are just humoring me? Either way, I can embrace some newer terms because in my head I can make sense of them.<br />
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Take <i>sick</i>, for example: I, myself, have often exclaimed that something is so great, so adorable, or so fantastic that it's actually gross. It's true, I told a colleague last year that it's gross how great she always looks, and everybody got that that was a compliment, albeit perhaps kind of an angry sounding one, but that's my humor. When something is so great, it surpasses the whole goodness scale and swings around to the awful side, then you've really got something amazing on your hands. (Ah, flashbacks to the 80s when bad meant good dance in my head.) So it isn't much of a stretch to say that to be sick is a good thing. That Aston Martin is <i>sick</i>. That fight scene was <i>sick</i>. I get it. I may not use it for fear of being called an old lady trying to act hip, but I get it. <br />
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Now let's look at the word I keep hearing every damn place lately, <i>epic</i>: To be epic means to be grander than the usual in size or scope, so I guess one's musical performance could be called epic because it was such a huge song...? But must everything good be labeled epic? <i>Must</i> it?! I get that we're a society of hyperboles, where anything stated as it actually is isn't exciting enough for us anymore, but come on. Everything can't be epic.<br />
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Did you see the game? It was epic.<br />
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Catch that new Pink video? It was totally epic.<br />
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My dog just took an enormous poo. It was absolutely epic.<br />
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No, no, none of this is epic. It's all normal stuff that happens all the time. If someone makes a run for a touchdown and crosses the entire field in 5 seconds, if Pink actually killed people with her singing, or if your dog's poo outweighed the dog, itself, that might be epic. Please stop using this word to describe every little thing in the entire universe. See? I <i>love</i> exaggerating, it's how I communicate, but I can't take it with this word for some reason. I just can't. Sorry.<br />
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So please, stop it.<br />
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I don't know when this happened...when I became this crotchety old lady, angry at the youth culture for their ridiculous choice of slang words. If I suddenly become afraid of technology, please send help.<br />
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That is all. Tune in next week for a strongly-worded letter to Showtime admonishing them for making the up-coming season of <i>Dexter</i> the final one. And one to HBO, too, for making me watch the entire first two seasons of <i>Game of Thrones</i> last weekend. Stupid fantastic show.<br />
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Happy New Year.<br />
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<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-9753951724357596702012-12-28T16:02:00.001+01:002012-12-28T18:01:03.381+01:00Just when you miss your family the most......you look around and find some really super stand-ins.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3-9kYEl8r8QpTqestMTqJmKjImdKrg4ILJPIVhnI6gcYuJKY7FjkNnalW4p2PscYMdhAVbyfFLX7T-yS9jet8YqCZfQty0KBvZ-JLcRA3WDtYAJd0KVHWuccn_L-eSvvSWAqsboC70GT/s1600/MoreChristmas04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3-9kYEl8r8QpTqestMTqJmKjImdKrg4ILJPIVhnI6gcYuJKY7FjkNnalW4p2PscYMdhAVbyfFLX7T-yS9jet8YqCZfQty0KBvZ-JLcRA3WDtYAJd0KVHWuccn_L-eSvvSWAqsboC70GT/s320/MoreChristmas04.jpg" width="320" /></a>This Christmas Eve we began the day by welcoming some old friends in for a quick visit. Liz and her family used to live here, but moved back to the States about two and a half years ago <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2010/06/there-you-are.html"><i>right</i> after we discovered what great friends we could've been all that time we lived near one another had one of us not been so blasted introverted like we both are</a>. Anyway, back for a quick holiday trip to see friends, we lucked out and were able to squeeze ourselves into their tight schedule. The luck part has a lot to do with the fact that our house was on their route headed out of town and on to Paris where they'd be spending Christmas Day, but I'd like to think our promises of coffee, hot chocolate, and hugs had a little to do with it, too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-7G90sOqRecm3VnKdq4SpvRdzdnYkCDuWKJFNZrrw6ydjUlaFNQDFDo_eUaMeRM7LdsJ4LSkvC-QMrDbjZnxaiLrmKta5Mw5op6-xb4ox-ZYbmVi6MvEcJ5JPivdwkg2I3STKv_byMGp/s1600/MoreChristmas05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-7G90sOqRecm3VnKdq4SpvRdzdnYkCDuWKJFNZrrw6ydjUlaFNQDFDo_eUaMeRM7LdsJ4LSkvC-QMrDbjZnxaiLrmKta5Mw5op6-xb4ox-ZYbmVi6MvEcJ5JPivdwkg2I3STKv_byMGp/s320/MoreChristmas05.jpg" width="320" /></a>While we talked and played a little face-to-face catch-up, Liz's husband (who clearly doesn't care for dogs) humored Murphy with a little hide-and-seek.<br />
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Where'd he go?!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGZwUfCqIJzznhyNtTvCWVDjy7MKrNP5PsGcu-1Pq3nQWxhYPIxlJQ7rzgWPMJEmhySYw9kBQIuKY_lhbkvELcs0nG66yhFHgVy7Gl6rX9mHK7eETSXhJkjHZXhgXjDgabvZIJc0jm2Aj/s1600/MoreChristmas06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGZwUfCqIJzznhyNtTvCWVDjy7MKrNP5PsGcu-1Pq3nQWxhYPIxlJQ7rzgWPMJEmhySYw9kBQIuKY_lhbkvELcs0nG66yhFHgVy7Gl6rX9mHK7eETSXhJkjHZXhgXjDgabvZIJc0jm2Aj/s320/MoreChristmas06.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> BAH!</span><br />
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Murphy switched between running on cartoon legs around the living room to cuddling and kissing everyone who would have him - and lucky for him, that was everyone.<br />
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This puppy needs some kids of his own :)<br />
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When the French Press was drained and hot chocolate safely in little girls' tummies, it was time to hug see-you-later again, but I was thrilled to have gotten the chance to see an old friend. I'm no stranger to whirlwind trips where it's impossible to see everybody, so I fully appreciated that we snagged a bit of their time.<br />
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As soon as they were gone, it was time to head over to another friend's house for a Christmas meal together. Murphy put on his dashing sweater, we packed up the cheesecake and we were off. What's great about going to Melody and Brian's house is that they're the kind of friends weirdos like us can feel comfortable around, and they've got the cutest baby to giggle over AND two little fluffsters for Murphy to play with (or hide from until he warms up again). Add to that an amazing meal and our first introduction to coffee milk, and you've got the makings for the perfect day. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1P5LgP2PRV4LS0OeOI7VeMPpVcgJYe9ROuHO8nCmnc0zlSXjdtAc4MDpX41tOQ94CohKIktghQfPsUALLfNpf-1FVNLTfPfHJrMc6iqa9OkUNBrpa7Ye4jo2samj5St946FM1HNB94Fgu/s1600/MoreChristmas13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1P5LgP2PRV4LS0OeOI7VeMPpVcgJYe9ROuHO8nCmnc0zlSXjdtAc4MDpX41tOQ94CohKIktghQfPsUALLfNpf-1FVNLTfPfHJrMc6iqa9OkUNBrpa7Ye4jo2samj5St946FM1HNB94Fgu/s320/MoreChristmas13.jpg" width="214" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqLmVac_GHYuWF1aQKQBWqOQFZN61DCBHR6LqrW7wxdLD6TNqu-byMolH1llmi9Sc49bVNmHBPwZmS71n_TA7449bH29V2if0HSUFeKUu8_-ixdxSoAzoiaxhzPnA-GmAO2F9Re-2wAeJ/s1600/MoreChristmas11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqLmVac_GHYuWF1aQKQBWqOQFZN61DCBHR6LqrW7wxdLD6TNqu-byMolH1llmi9Sc49bVNmHBPwZmS71n_TA7449bH29V2if0HSUFeKUu8_-ixdxSoAzoiaxhzPnA-GmAO2F9Re-2wAeJ/s320/MoreChristmas11.jpg" width="214" /></a>Murphy can't get enough baby sniffs and he'll sneak a kiss if he can swing it. He also has a good friend in Olivia, Mel's sister, who made sure he never felt left out. </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Check these boys out in their holiday sweaters. Chillin'.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">And what do you get when you've had a day packed full of little girls, new and familiar faces to lick, and puppy dog play time?</span></div>
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Pooped.</div>
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The holidays wouldn't be complete without some time spent at Nancy and Jens' place for more Christmas celebration, so we spent our Second Christmas there (it's a real thing in Germany!) </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnfNmEov4yTONK6LqVx-jQpjDy_8eFTshmIhX5Cu_tyBB-wIGxh_nW_AcGFsMmxs04wQ3bEFtQwVlZn4xaCOfoFuBjjJ6Xr3kt2ihvqNjbLTM_QKumDSNSFdYU3X5EiFo71UDY2LkppgCU/s1600/MoreChristmas36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnfNmEov4yTONK6LqVx-jQpjDy_8eFTshmIhX5Cu_tyBB-wIGxh_nW_AcGFsMmxs04wQ3bEFtQwVlZn4xaCOfoFuBjjJ6Xr3kt2ihvqNjbLTM_QKumDSNSFdYU3X5EiFo71UDY2LkppgCU/s320/MoreChristmas36.jpg" width="214" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmi9b-Jjj3xQxFEwqfEd6gitqAwxuP0AcSeeMYDGG-QszpDEsdRoafaOkvd9y2z_EmN19JpwDs2ypTQ7Kiuc920O4dP25osq0er8545RskHy5jQbOvh5V6ohFciyzaFh2eaXnizBTJVww/s1600/MoreChristmas37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmi9b-Jjj3xQxFEwqfEd6gitqAwxuP0AcSeeMYDGG-QszpDEsdRoafaOkvd9y2z_EmN19JpwDs2ypTQ7Kiuc920O4dP25osq0er8545RskHy5jQbOvh5V6ohFciyzaFh2eaXnizBTJVww/s320/MoreChristmas37.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="214" /></a>More yummy food, more friends, and Nancy's homemade eggnog made for fuller hearts this time of year when missing family is at its peak. This was my first time seeing a Christmas tree lit by traditional candles and it looked truly magical.</div>
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Above left: Proof that Juergen has a big soft heart beneath all that scoffing. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheeG4kYt1-E1qh9YAJh9Y6RisP3oMdM0wKQlXx-hbe0QGiibYzRlTp6LR6iEj66Jb6CABOq-NixG-Jf_K9uMwyZ-AiFtYXh61cfn5BghYYElaEqJqNXTEhvXwibc-COCcM8eVJzW0gDsHV/s1600/MoreChristmas38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheeG4kYt1-E1qh9YAJh9Y6RisP3oMdM0wKQlXx-hbe0QGiibYzRlTp6LR6iEj66Jb6CABOq-NixG-Jf_K9uMwyZ-AiFtYXh61cfn5BghYYElaEqJqNXTEhvXwibc-COCcM8eVJzW0gDsHV/s320/MoreChristmas38.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaitc8RYtL8MrOW5ruiBu_wvsCMELkfpkIFgkoYO5ErPIE8Dcm1ghSbMncSvolLlzKYGNG_0csPu41vQmRw_IwuEa0SoHkntDfjjROlRXHUIrpQPFwW9BCk0z08xrCgQP4ULZ1MSqxq_C/s1600/MoreChristmas39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaitc8RYtL8MrOW5ruiBu_wvsCMELkfpkIFgkoYO5ErPIE8Dcm1ghSbMncSvolLlzKYGNG_0csPu41vQmRw_IwuEa0SoHkntDfjjROlRXHUIrpQPFwW9BCk0z08xrCgQP4ULZ1MSqxq_C/s320/MoreChristmas39.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="214" /></a>Puppy dogs all around sporting holiday cheer via glowing collars.<br />
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These ladies have become like sisters to me in this place and I don't look forward to the day that calls for moving boxes. Together we share ideas, writing, and the moments you carry close to your heart. I've learned a great deal from both of them and regardless of where the future leads, I'm not afraid of losing touch. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMtwUXb1Mut9Po4DgZjE6K27tWlUPcKbdZaQFPcJQ-lqG95X3GrsJxc6mA_9YY9IMcpzxsKeFoU72_SsoxQ2pdfBA8mGT899Jg5ydgEtqqaXXsNr2WjA7CSQkx7X-edKijEWPGcirJZjh/s1600/MoreChristmas41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMtwUXb1Mut9Po4DgZjE6K27tWlUPcKbdZaQFPcJQ-lqG95X3GrsJxc6mA_9YY9IMcpzxsKeFoU72_SsoxQ2pdfBA8mGT899Jg5ydgEtqqaXXsNr2WjA7CSQkx7X-edKijEWPGcirJZjh/s320/MoreChristmas41.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Nancy, Kirsten, & Lindsey<br />
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We are women,<br />
we are writers,<br />
we are winged.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;"> We're also a little silly.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbHMJubvlsNw3kOydSTv39St-a6anIYPhkGG274LXLbszKY4ELdggR-lUYNKLpJBwnRpnqXEsKlbUrHPQ08xHXHSh5rV6Yf3Idh2UOlQUu0FxJ3ghlGGoSdJU8p3fHUTajWDV5cIKrhulk/s1600/MoreChristmas42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbHMJubvlsNw3kOydSTv39St-a6anIYPhkGG274LXLbszKY4ELdggR-lUYNKLpJBwnRpnqXEsKlbUrHPQ08xHXHSh5rV6Yf3Idh2UOlQUu0FxJ3ghlGGoSdJU8p3fHUTajWDV5cIKrhulk/s320/MoreChristmas42.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Merry Christmas!!!</div>
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All I can ever hope for is to have friends I cherish enough to spend the holidays with when family is too far away to hug. Thank goodness for Skype - we may not be able to hug, but we can sit in the same room and share a little bit of holiday cheer amidst the noise of tearing wrapping paper and the chatter of loved ones. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPawaokNB4vyXywMu4bgSWoskI4ZZ9R5sd6t9y851ezTfnOtKc-QRiyVCYmgW8AJf2PS6um2_lWKdokn1DaJO3VOv4zk8JH2otaOKneLYsae8atLslLzyoCyR8xHchi1pvKLW1MkHWz15/s1600/MoreChristmas34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPawaokNB4vyXywMu4bgSWoskI4ZZ9R5sd6t9y851ezTfnOtKc-QRiyVCYmgW8AJf2PS6um2_lWKdokn1DaJO3VOv4zk8JH2otaOKneLYsae8atLslLzyoCyR8xHchi1pvKLW1MkHWz15/s320/MoreChristmas34.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Miss and love you guys.</div>
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<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-17306228634583104152012-12-24T20:18:00.001+01:002012-12-24T20:38:50.042+01:00Green ChristmasHappy Christmas Eve!<br />
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I'm going to be uncharacteristically brief about something that's been a source of abundant worry over the last couple of months, and just say that this may or may not be our final Christmas in Germany. We're hoping it's not, but preparing for the crappier possibility. That said, I bought the tallest and fullest Weihnachtbaum (Christmas tree) that would fit in our living room this year and we decided to only hang ornaments we've picked up on our travels. These are some of my favorites.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62-6IbL9Zd6CixRtujlrikgxTa2fOOZ9-ICqYqh1sWK9OV7chN5ffJhoc4ntwS-6JtEp_bYfCMOg3D6JRL_7e0-z8_I-JihsbNQGazlF91mKBESl083DTnhC-dWZk2HxBG1MSxcVukM-9/s1600/Xmas15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62-6IbL9Zd6CixRtujlrikgxTa2fOOZ9-ICqYqh1sWK9OV7chN5ffJhoc4ntwS-6JtEp_bYfCMOg3D6JRL_7e0-z8_I-JihsbNQGazlF91mKBESl083DTnhC-dWZk2HxBG1MSxcVukM-9/s200/Xmas15.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rnqiUXOikSdPwDkSW9aPAVjPpEB_29irZF3UpXgxc12GGLV-GNrKRf0m5N18WIEnbWcUZ52ZqyChlu6v9L9h5A_I4cXM4JAGWAc6sGjXbTl_TT37VPBuKYUW6UalYdrf7nKk_bbiQRXt/s1600/Xmas16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rnqiUXOikSdPwDkSW9aPAVjPpEB_29irZF3UpXgxc12GGLV-GNrKRf0m5N18WIEnbWcUZ52ZqyChlu6v9L9h5A_I4cXM4JAGWAc6sGjXbTl_TT37VPBuKYUW6UalYdrf7nKk_bbiQRXt/s200/Xmas16.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhbBY_it9am7ex1e-CawJyA8t0MsoSCCK_HXBPb8jF3jBLPK69o3x-dgIYisb6QUbFxJm7gaSQpJMKHsiNgSuH7dE5Fk0ZKqb06vRh1hCArd0y8ZQ_OBaLB-N9y2yO5I8YDPUc5Ekhege/s1600/Xmas11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhbBY_it9am7ex1e-CawJyA8t0MsoSCCK_HXBPb8jF3jBLPK69o3x-dgIYisb6QUbFxJm7gaSQpJMKHsiNgSuH7dE5Fk0ZKqb06vRh1hCArd0y8ZQ_OBaLB-N9y2yO5I8YDPUc5Ekhege/s320/Xmas11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Find the pickle!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-YmcTdlVbqmZ8Rop0vzVOHWrcK-ZwgUXlDdY87OHuWPOMfoiNy72lNOsPxBT2FiyDe9NC6TY0mkXjifcDsij4XAfq4YKv0MYsb8wDEs6BMYTR3AKxAxnGeFFRQ21xcigbrnzzuj1CPSi/s1600/Xmas14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-YmcTdlVbqmZ8Rop0vzVOHWrcK-ZwgUXlDdY87OHuWPOMfoiNy72lNOsPxBT2FiyDe9NC6TY0mkXjifcDsij4XAfq4YKv0MYsb8wDEs6BMYTR3AKxAxnGeFFRQ21xcigbrnzzuj1CPSi/s200/Xmas14.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaH-iwQ5C8Eshwf8moHla7-l3id9WqEg7boMTRwMUdt1Vv5KlRYkPQDXvFKVFA6LyEngKyIz2UtYTStK7lYUKZY8LDVTYBn7W-9Plvhyphenhyphen26-Hs_3CXxOmf0rKB15oGpsUIAQLDaRDVTSO3/s1600/Xmas13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaH-iwQ5C8Eshwf8moHla7-l3id9WqEg7boMTRwMUdt1Vv5KlRYkPQDXvFKVFA6LyEngKyIz2UtYTStK7lYUKZY8LDVTYBn7W-9Plvhyphenhyphen26-Hs_3CXxOmf0rKB15oGpsUIAQLDaRDVTSO3/s200/Xmas13.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCYN1c_CMPgqTWqaEm1VUgybKkZ1zGQaL7V2uPc98G-tc_FvZF-XDTPjXxIruWGKiSwM5I4IXg6CcuCCgZvPpif2SII212Gztb2V_yU5JW4pD2TlVeGJ-2jQJEZCTj6ULWPHFp0710CME/s1600/Xmas07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCYN1c_CMPgqTWqaEm1VUgybKkZ1zGQaL7V2uPc98G-tc_FvZF-XDTPjXxIruWGKiSwM5I4IXg6CcuCCgZvPpif2SII212Gztb2V_yU5JW4pD2TlVeGJ-2jQJEZCTj6ULWPHFp0710CME/s200/Xmas07.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0-sMpnQptvgxx-UPtK22e9MRi95dgzJKA_MAr4r5DnyMBL5deO38n0Ivf4SB6Dd_sMT2B8Wal0EkM7ioA3cWNjN_Q5vMXtZlBNzvk0-gc0Y9BH1wKxZrX8LxDdyaaTENKy0Sw8JamLDT/s1600/Xmas09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0-sMpnQptvgxx-UPtK22e9MRi95dgzJKA_MAr4r5DnyMBL5deO38n0Ivf4SB6Dd_sMT2B8Wal0EkM7ioA3cWNjN_Q5vMXtZlBNzvk0-gc0Y9BH1wKxZrX8LxDdyaaTENKy0Sw8JamLDT/s200/Xmas09.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWZMKTcZar5advrRepzy613jyp534SePVVb5RsiA-HKRM_MvcddkEYP6Q8xcNDTcA5TAWJBE2VB9yaXTJlwFP4DxuYm1-XwnnkihICjJknOW4sE8ZYFiP5tQYfLkQGUZbkFubAl2cQOPt/s1600/Xmas10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWZMKTcZar5advrRepzy613jyp534SePVVb5RsiA-HKRM_MvcddkEYP6Q8xcNDTcA5TAWJBE2VB9yaXTJlwFP4DxuYm1-XwnnkihICjJknOW4sE8ZYFiP5tQYfLkQGUZbkFubAl2cQOPt/s200/Xmas10.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrX9RMwtLXJBFue7phtfi7a1MgSnBRdIHnxVqElEE8dc5KeSk_jQwJgIVyirlaiDTtsJVkg1rBYEuSoYZMDeZXUjY5azs9ggk0RoGkZb_pkTCOtdPipPC-AHnfNMJV8XG6XNnsvTl_fG6/s1600/Xmas05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrX9RMwtLXJBFue7phtfi7a1MgSnBRdIHnxVqElEE8dc5KeSk_jQwJgIVyirlaiDTtsJVkg1rBYEuSoYZMDeZXUjY5azs9ggk0RoGkZb_pkTCOtdPipPC-AHnfNMJV8XG6XNnsvTl_fG6/s200/Xmas05.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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From what I can recall, we've always had snow on Christmas living in Germany - it's <i>Germany</i>. I'm pretty sure Germany <i>means</i> cold ass winters in some distant dialect. This is the first place I've lived that not only visibly has all four seasons, but brings lots of snow each winter, which is the prettiest thing outside a window when there's no reason to leave the house. (That year in Virginia was just an extended visit, not living.) There have been Christmases in the past few years when we thought we might not have a white Christmas, but awoke Christmas morning to trees coated in white and a fresh blanket of the beautiful stuff laid across the front yard.<br />
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I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen this year.<br />
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Sure, we had a crazy early first snow of the season before Halloween and everybody was racing to get their winter tires put on their cars and buy salt for the sidewalks, because who's ready for snow in October? Nice one, Mother Nature. Some kind of freakish warmth has since settled in and melted it all away, leaving it almost feeling like a Florida Christmas outside. The trees are winterly bare, but the ground is green and as the forecast is calling for a high of 65º F on the 25th, me thinks it's going to be our first Green Christmas in Germany.<br />
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I'm not sure who to blame, but it begins with Murphy's nakedness this holiday season. Let's go back.<br />
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Last spring Murphy's curly crazy hair had gotten so matted the groomer had to shave him. Without his adorable curly hair he is a third the size and looks perpetually frightened. Though still adorable, he has the face of a schnauzer and the body of a tiny, baby deer when shaved and we willed his hair to grown back on a daily basis with our amazing mind power. Six months later, we had our fluffy puppy back and we were so happy to see him, we let the hair get super long again. The day I learned that I do not, in fact, know how to properly care for curly long hair on a dog was slightly traumatizing, as the groomer looked at me and said Murphy would need to be shaved again!<br />
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"No!" <i> </i>I cried.<br />
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To which the groomer said, "It must be done. Come back in two months and I'll teach you how to properly brush him."<br />
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Embarrassed and guilt-ridden, I went straight out and bought him a fluffy new throw blanket to curl up in and a puppy jacket to battle the cold and (eventually) snow. I have to say, he's quite handsome, and without his long mustache and grumpy old man beard, he looks more like a young gentleman with his new cut.<br />
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What does this have to do with the odd lack of snow outside? Keep reading.<br />
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When I woefully relayed this story to a friend, explaining how terrible I felt about it and what a shame it would be for Murphy's-first-Christmas-with-us pictures, she helpfully suggested we simply call it a <i>Green Christmas </i>where Murphy's nudity would be appropriate. I don't think she realized how powerful a woman she is, and that she may have single handedly kept the snow away this Christmas. So it's <i>her</i> fault.<br />
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But then, if I weren't lamenting over Murphy's seasonally inappropriate nudity then she never would have accidentally melted all the snow to make it okay for Murphy (she's a good friend and she loves the Murphster), and the groomer's the one who shaved him, so it's the <i>groomer's</i> fault there's no snow this Christmas.<br />
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But then I guess it's not the groomer's fault that I let Murphy's undercoat get matted, even though I <i>do</i> brush him, I swear! And a lay person wouldn't have even been able to tell there were any mattes most places because the hair is so fine and soft, it just felt a little tangled, nothing shave-worthy. Nonetheless, it had to be done...and it's me who apparently needs to learn how to brush a dog correctly...so I guess it's <i>my</i> fault it's going to be a snowless Christmas. Crap.<br />
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But wait! Chris is just as responsible for Murphy as me, so it's his fault, too! Let's just blame him altogether, that makes it simpler.<br />
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Thanks a lot, Chris. <br />
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You can hardly tell, right?Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-27707184807951665132012-12-04T14:24:00.000+01:002012-12-04T14:24:04.136+01:00The Chronicles of NaNoWriMo 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In case you're unsure, as the graphic is a little subtle I know, I won the National Novel Writing Month challenge this year. You know, whatever, no big deal. It's just a 200 page novel. In a month, but not the kind of month you're probably thinking of. No, I didn't write this new novel in one of those 150 day months, I did it in one of those crazy ones that only has 30 days in it. I know. And it's not like I've never written a novel before (I guess I've never actually finished one) in my 22ish years of life (shut up, I said <i>ish</i>). So like I said. No. Big. Woop.</div>
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Except that it kind of is, which isn't to say that thousands of participants around the world didn't also meet this crazy writing goal during the month of November this year, because lots did, but inside my tiny corner of the world, within my little life, it's a pretty big deal. Now I know how much better I do with deadlines when it comes to writing, and I know that if I really want to, I <i>can</i> make daily writing a priority above all the things that usually beat it to the top of the list, but not just daily writing (like the blog), but <i>a lot </i>of daily writing. </div>
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But it's not done yet, no sir. Fifty thousand words does not a complete novel make, at least not in this case. On Friday when I passed the 50,000 word mark I was giddy. I high-fived fellow writers in the pub and giggled a little at my own shock and ordered the most expensive whiskey on the menu (it was only €4.50). The weekend after I hit the mark was super busy, but I didn't <i>have</i> to find the time to fit in a bunch of writing, so it was a nice break. Now I'm kind of itchy because I haven't written until today, so it would seem good habits aren't such an impossibility. Quick, give me a keyboard, I can't take it anymore, I need to <i>write</i>!</div>
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While I'm certainly not abandoning the new novel, this week is all about playing catch-up with life in general, Christmastizing the house, and getting re-organized post NaNoWriMo craziness. I started out making notes about the process with the intention of sharing here in some kind of witty and interesting way, and then it kind of crumbled into a pitiful pile of good intention, as you'll see below. </div>
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<b>NaNoWriMo 2012</b></div>
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Because I'm not sure if this will be entertaining or interesting, I'm keeping track as the days pass but keeping it all together to post as one big comment on the whole experience at the conclusion of this experience.<br />
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* Oct. 30 & 31 were spent obsessing and worrying and effectively talking myself out of jumping in with this new novel idea. I read a little, watched TV, checked email compulsively, and stressed myself right out.<br />
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And GO!</div>
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Nov. 1 - I got a good start, logging 2,156 words. If you divide 50,000 words by 30 days you get 1,666.666 words per day, so really I totally kicked today's goal of 1,667 words in the ass.<br />
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Went to a kick-off get together at the library tonight for a little Q&A with three different published writers and chat time with other Wrimos. Kirsten Carlson, Amber Riley, & Dan Wells, thanks for getting things going.<br />
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The best moment of the evening: The collective gasp of the entire room when horror author Dan Wells suggested not allowing yourself to use the 'delete' button while writing this month. Scary stuff.<br />
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Nov. 7 - I'm up to 12,567 words and feeling pretty good. (That's 30 pages in week one!) </div>
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The election is over and I'm so glad I got to sleep through all the waiting last night in the States and just wake up to the results and President Obama's acceptance speech. Sometimes the difference in time zones is a good thing.</div>
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Yesterday YA and mystery author Bonnie Ramthun talked to a room full of writers via Skype about her experiences with traditional publishing, offering us all kinds of helpful tidbits she said she wished she would have known when she was just starting out. Maybe I'll write up a blog-o-tips for writers after I catch my breath from this month.</div>
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Every day when I sit down to write I struggle against the feeling that I have no idea what I'm doing, but each day I also feel so lucky and supported, to stop is not an option. I don't know if it's the worldwide juju of other writers or the fact that I'm meeting successful authors who want to help me reach my goal, but something is certainly in the air.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Nov. 8 - Dan Wells just blew my mind with his presentation about outlining...the 7 Point System is exactly what I've been needing to get my stories organized. After scribbling furiously everything he projected on the screen, he gave us the link to this very presentation online. Blast, my aching hand, but now I've got it to refer back to whenever, which is wonderful. He's also one of 3 or 4 other writers who put on a 15 minute podcast weekly about all things writing, which I'll actually include in a later post. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">The day after Dan's session a piece of wall behind my writing desk became a giant story map. I spent the whole day constructing it and getting to know my own story better. It was fantastic. The math loving side of my brain is drooling over this formula, while the creative side searches for ways to reinvent it.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Same evening, we Skyped with Beth Groundwater, a mystery author out of Colorado. She talked to us about networking not only with publishers and agents, but other writers and writing organizations. Lots of good stuff here.</span><br />
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Holy shenanigans, I am on fire! A 5,000 word day and I'm still going! Love this, love this, love this feeling of being caught up in a wave of inspiration when the characters start making their own choices and I'm just here to write it all down, a medium to the story inside me. </div>
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Nov. 14 - Balancing Dialogue, Action, and Narrative</div>
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<i>and</i> Determining Genre</div>
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<i>and</i> Writing a Log Line and Synopsis with Margi Desmond and Thomas Edgar</div>
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Lots more great tips for summing up what you've been pouring your soul into over the last month(s) in order to sell it to others who'll want to publish it and make you very happy.</div>
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Mario Acevedo Skyped in to talk about the benefits of attending writing conferences - I can't wait for my first one in the spring!</div>
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As I near the home stretch of this insane writing commitment, I'm struggling with what I'm doing. At this moment, I hate my story and feel wholly incapable of writing a cohesive story anyone would want to read. My characters are running all over the place and what I thought was well-planned is now fraying out in so many directions I want to quit. This is so frustrating! </div>
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In the end (and after a tearful breakdown in front of Chris) I realize even if this novel never leaves this house, I will have learned a great deal from this experience, and no writing is wasted effort because it all helps build me as an author. Breathe. I can finish. It's important that I finish. </div>
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I can I can I can I will I will I will.</div>
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Nov. 27 - SCBWI Panel with Kirsten Carlson and Jen Blom</div>
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The Society for Children's Books Writers and Illustrators is a global organization that started in California that connects people with a love of children's books and films together in one giant network. I joined this year and am loving the resources available to me, even if my YA manuscript turned out not to be YA after all.</div>
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Nov. 28 - It's all about the query letter when the novel's ready to shop around, pitching well, and finding an agent to represent your work in the publishing industry.</div>
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Donnell Ann Bell Skyped in our final night to talk about how writing contests can lend a hand by giving great feedback, and possibly giving a previously unknown author a launch into the published world.</div>
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And this brings us back around to Friday, Nov. 30, 2012, the final day of NaNoWriMo, when I typed past that 50,000 word mark and celebrated with a manly dram of whiskey and allowed myself to feel genuinely proud for a little while.</div>
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Now it's time to start revising, when I'm told the <i>real</i> work begins. I'm grateful to have had this crazy experience because it connected me with lots of other writers and authors I wouldn't have otherwise met, and opened a world up to me I didn't realize was so close.</div>
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Will I do it again next year? You bet :) </div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-72425394511780923142012-11-16T16:06:00.001+01:002012-11-16T16:06:33.827+01:00A Letter to MyselfIf I were myself <i>and</i> another person, this is something I would say to me from time to time:<br />
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Sometimes there are days when there's absolutely no Earthly (or otherwise) reason you should feel down, but you do anyway. Sometimes it's your birthday and you're sad all day for no reason at all, even after you get 50 happy birthdays on FaceBook, a card in the mail, a text from America, and a couple of phone calls. Sometimes you have everything to be happy and grateful for, yet all you want to do is hide in a hole all day. I'm here to tell you that it's okay when this happens.<br />
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It's okay because sometimes your body just needs to purge pent up stress and worry and whatever else it's been carting around. It's okay because sometimes everybody has an illogically down day even if <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2012/08/hope-relay-2012-my-hope.html">Dee</a> isn't a major presence in their life. (Haven't been introduced? Click on her name.)<br />
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If you're one of the millions living with their own Dee, having a down kind of day doesn't mean you're slipping again. It doesn't mean what you thought was working suddenly isn't anymore, and it doesn't mean you'll still feel like this tomorrow.<br />
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It's okay to feel your emotions,<strike> even when</strike> especially when they seem completely unfounded and unjustified. It's okay to let them bubble up, because how else are they going to get out and leave you alone? You can't get rid of something inside of you unless you allow it to rise to the surface, after all. It's okay to have a weak moment, a vulnerable moment when no amount of <i>everything will be okay</i>ing can do a thing to pull you out of your funk. (It's also okay to pretend it helped.)<br />
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You'll be back tomorrow, and if not by then, shortly after. This never lasts, so don't worry about worrying about it because that doesn't accomplish anything except making you feel even worse about feeling bad. You see the cycle..remember when you lived there?<br />
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I won't tell you to buck up, and I won't ask you to explain. But I will be around tomorrow to sit with you over pumpkin spice flavored coffee and talk casually how awesome this life is.<br />
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Lots of love,<br />
Me<br />
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<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-78088025168620573962012-11-12T18:40:00.000+01:002012-11-12T18:40:24.299+01:00The Rush of WritingHi.<br />
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I'm sorry I've been so quiet, but I've been immersed in writing a new novel, you see. The difference between everything else I've ever written before and this time is that <i>this</i> time I know a little more about what I'm doing, and <i>this</i> time I've gained a lot more advice from other writers who are actually making a living from writing. </div>
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Suddenly, I have a more concrete plan and things make more sense and I see which direction I should be going. </div>
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Suddenly, it actually feels possible that I, too, will publish my own writing and maybe even sell a copy or two. </div>
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Suddenly, the mystique has been lifted and I've had a glimpse inside the magical machine that is a well-told story and its successful novelist and it doesn't seem so unlikely. It's like when you learn the secret behind the magic trick; it loses its magic, sure, but now you know how to do the trick, as well. You become the magician, the story-teller. </div>
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Yesterday I wrote for hours and experienced the first rush of organic writing of this novel. What I mean is, when I sit down to write a story I generally know what it's going to be about. I usually know the ending first and work my way toward it, but even knowing the essence of the story, I don't know what's going to happen specifically from page to page, chapter to chapter. There are key scenes I know must be there, but all the connective tissue between the bones of the story tend to evolve on their own. So when I refer to an organic moment in my writing, I'm talking about the moment when the writer becomes mere medium to the story pouring out of her fingers. I'm not consciously making decisions, the characters are leading me and following their own paths before my eyes. </div>
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It's a rush losing yourself in your own story. Yesterday, my main character took over and I trailed behind trying to keep up on the keyboard. I found out she's much darker than I first thought thought and while this makes me a tad bit nervous for when people read this story, it's exciting, too, because it's growing on its own.<br />
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<i>Later that same day...</i><br />
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I spent hours working today and barely squeezed out 2,000 words (between 4 and 5 pages). Yesterday's writing session wrung it out of me...I hope the week shapes up.<br />
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Here's to all the Wrimos pushing out words this month. I'll send you some of my motivation if you let me borrow some of yours.<br />
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-90144371711772445762012-11-06T13:45:00.002+01:002012-11-06T13:45:43.406+01:00The Liebster<div style="text-align: center;">
Guess who just got her first ever blog award?</div>
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<i>This</i> girl! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOREt6t743eKHzNwufiB8t_uFJdIhp4O8fnzKlQ2iohexoydX2Y1cghnNT1dpBwdqqSSFavUm4yKooDmmMTE4nOiyaiCIkVrM2bDIim9K7h60u4HH9i8G3KsixqYbgezVlv4S9F_UdYmA/s1600/cave+zombies1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOREt6t743eKHzNwufiB8t_uFJdIhp4O8fnzKlQ2iohexoydX2Y1cghnNT1dpBwdqqSSFavUm4yKooDmmMTE4nOiyaiCIkVrM2bDIim9K7h60u4HH9i8G3KsixqYbgezVlv4S9F_UdYmA/s320/cave+zombies1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(If this isn't proof I've got a healthy sense of humor, I'm not sure what is.)</div>
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I call this picture <i>Cave Zombies</i>, even though we're not all broken and dead looking yet. Think of it like this: We've just been bitten on our ankles and died quickly from Zombie infection, and are now holding back a postmortem sneeze, and hungry for that first cannibalistic morsel, from left to right.</div>
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Thank you Erica of <i><a href="http://yeahimanerd.com/2012/11/id-like-to-thank-the-academy-2/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=id-like-to-thank-the-academy-2">Yeah, I'm a Nerd</a></i> blog fame for this super sweet acknowledgement, which I humbly accept. Erica is an avid hiker and runner, an advocate for the woman's ability to pee while standing, and has a healthy respect for zombies. I already loved this girl for awarding me an awesome new pStyle during her giveaway and now she's gone and given my writing ego a boost, so let's just say Erica has officially gotten herself a new stalker. You should check her out and stalk her, as well. She's got a great writing style and fantastic sense of humor and frankly, if you're not reading her (or my 3 Liebster winners below) you are missing out on something special, my friend.<br />
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So without further ado, here it is...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfkA7Pqs7n0kHV3Z2GW3S7hk5MjsBU9umEqYpnF8GeZ0RePDSUDmTua_yqKqKeZNlk0P24lvohTrXNxEQyz1t50Ft910vWE01swdEWDYR39VmsPbjlkF99Fabo69Z4p3Uc03u7c7keRKME/s1600/liebster-award-150x150.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfkA7Pqs7n0kHV3Z2GW3S7hk5MjsBU9umEqYpnF8GeZ0RePDSUDmTua_yqKqKeZNlk0P24lvohTrXNxEQyz1t50Ft910vWE01swdEWDYR39VmsPbjlkF99Fabo69Z4p3Uc03u7c7keRKME/s200/liebster-award-150x150.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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Because I'm too lazy and otherwise focused on writing a novel in a month, I cheated and just read Erica's explanation of the history of the Liebster Award and the requirements that come with receiving this prestigious award for up-and-coming blogs of 200 followers or less, and I'm going to go ahead and follow her lead. Here it goes.</div>
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<b>Eleven Things About Me</b></div>
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Flowing in these veins I've got Scottish, Irish, English and Cherokee blood, which explains my light skin, eyes, and hair, as well as my artistic streak, as far as I'm concerned; I'm a Floridian by birth but am growing more and more rootless the longer I live outside the United States, and this is slowly becoming okay with me; My favorite color is red, but the deep, dark, blood kind of red; I love '80s music partly because my kind of rhythmless dorky dancing seems to go hand-in-hand with the classics of my childhood; I hate glitter because it gets everywhere and I have a strong aversion to tiny, sticky things that won't. come. off. my. skin. (Sorry, my Lawsbian comrades.); I bungy jumped off the Kawarau Bridge outside of Queenstown, NZ and loved it; I zip-lined from the top of the Atomium in Brussels (an enormous version of an atom 335 feet tall built for the 1958 World's Fair in Belgium); I love dogs; my imaginary friend during childhood was an animated Skunk, appropriately named Skunky; back in my school days I looked forward to every fall because it meant new school supplies; and I'm a writer.</div>
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<b>Eleven Questions from Erica</b></div>
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<b>1. <span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">If you had to choose one food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">Pizza, because it's diverse and I will never not love pizza. Plus you can eat pizza for any meal, hot or cold. Oh, nobody asked why? Fine, bonus information for you.</span></div>
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<b>2. <span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">In the case of a zombie apocalypse, if one of the people most dear to you turned into a zombie, would you put them out of their misery, lock them up in hopes for a cure, or set them free to feed on brains? (Or if you have another alternative, what would you do?)</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">I would chain him up in a shed behind the house a'la </span><i style="color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Shaun of the Dead</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"> and continue to hang out with him at a safe distance. I'd also feed him all the jerks he wanted, provided they were already dead when I found them. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">3. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">When living with a spouse or partner, what are your thoughts about using the restroom with the door open?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">In real life I always close the door if he's home, but pretend I'm capable of welcoming him in during such business to gross him out when necessary. This comes in handy when he's intentionally driving me crazy, because all I have to do is run into the bathroom and drop my pants and he runs in the other direction. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">4. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Why did you start your blog?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">I started my blog to give myself a place to ramble about life and explore my own writing, while trying to learn a little self-discipline. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">5. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Who is your favorite super hero?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">This is hard...I'll go with Iron Man because of my life-long crush on Robert Downey, Jr.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">6. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">If you could be any animal in the world, what animal would you be and why?</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">If I was guaranteed to belong to someone like me or Ellen, who loves and pampers her dogs, I'd go with any kind of dog. If not, a mockingbird because I've always wanted to fly (hence all the jumping from the tops of high structures), and the mockingbird is Florida's state bird.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">7. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">What are your feelings on Hot Cheetos and Takis?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">This is one of those times that living outside of the States puts me at a sad disadvantage when it comes to what's popular at any given time. Sure I can read news online, but I usually don't. If you're referring to the individual snacks, then I'm sure they're great for people who like setting their mouths on fire for fun, but I prefer to still have feeling in my tongue post-snack. In other words, I'm a huge baby when it comes to hot and spicy, so these aren't my choice, though I've never tried (or heard of) Takis. If you're referring to the rap song I just found a thousand times over when I consulted Dr. Google, then I think it's a fun little bit of silliness that was totally worth the minute and a half I watched of it.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">8. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Toilet paper hanging over or under?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Is this a serious question? Over, of course. I wasn't raised in a barn.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">9. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Do you believe in ghosts? Why or why not?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">I want to, but have yet to be convinced. Why? Because I want to believe in more than I see.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">10. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">If you could leave today and go anywhere in the world for a week-long trip, where would you go? (money and life won’t get in your way, so dream as big as you’d like)</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Honestly? I'm amazingly fortunate when it comes to travel, so my answer to this one is easy: I'd go home. In this case, home means the States, more specifically Florida (because I'm sure I could convince Mom and Dad to come down from NC to see me if I camped out at my brother or sister's house). I miss my family more than I let myself acknowledge most days and more time to pretend I don't live across an ocean is always fine by me.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">11. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Mac or PC and why?</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">Mac, but only because that's what I've got.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><b>Eleven Questions for my Liebster Award Winners</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">1. If money was no object, what would you spend your life doing?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">2. If you could have any super power, what would it be and why?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">3. If you could visit any place in the world, where would you go?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">4. Beach or the mountains?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">5. What's your all-time favorite movie? (Top 3 is acceptable if it's too hard to choose one.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">6. Do you have a favorite book? If not, your favorite author will do.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">7. Are you a cuddly sleeper, or do you need your space?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">8. What is your favorite time of day, and why?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">9. What's your weakness, salty or sweet?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">10. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">11. Who's your biggest celebrity crush right now?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;">(I know that last one is cheap. Sue me.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><b>And now for <i>my</i> Liebster Award Winners...</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><a href="http://thespigotlist.com/">http://thespigotlist.com/</a></span></div>
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As a self-proclaimed lover of shiny objects, Lesley uses her blog to shine a light on the brighter side of things. Strolling through her posts will bring smiles, chuckles, warm fuzzies, and nods of appreciation. She's a writer of both non-fiction and children's books, and lends her witticisms to her posts for her readers to look upon and admire. </div>
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<a href="http://twintensity.blogspot.de/">http://twintensity.blogspot.de/</a></div>
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This American-born lady has been a Peace Corps volunteer in Haiti, veterinarian, and now a proud mother of five. She lived as a transplant in Germany, and now in Australia where she continues her quest to figure out what she's doing. She writes about her own struggles with understanding the Universe and her place in it, as well as her children and the adventure that is raising them, weaving in the wisdom she's picked up along the way to keep her readers coming back. No longer just a Mommy blog, this writer gets into commentaries about the education system across continents and the shared experience of being human and flawed that we all share, but struggle to overcome no matter where we are in the world.</div>
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<a href="http://kt40s.blogspot.de/">http://kt40s.blogspot.de/</a></div>
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Katy is an artist living in Oregon who has spent the last few years finding her own spirit through her art. She's a photographer, a mother, and a dreamer who isn't afraid to chase after the whimsy that keeps life magical. Some of her posts are peeks into her soul, and some are fun photographical glimpses into a weekend festivity, but they all succeed in sharing pieces of herself in a beautiful and honest light. When you visit Katy's space, you feel like you've gotten to know her a little and the feeling is something special.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>Dear Liebster Award recipients,</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>Please accept this nod of appreciation from me and complete the following steps:</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>1. Thank the person who gave the award to you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>2. Display the Liebster Award on your blog.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>3. Post 11 things about yourself.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>4. Answer the 11 questions posed to you by the person giving you the award.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>5. Create 11 questions for those you choose to nominate for the award.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 24px;"><i>6. Nominate 3-5 up-and-coming blogs (with 200 subscribers or less) for the Liebster Award. For this, let them know and send them a link to your post.</i></span></div>
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<i>No tag backs.</i></div>
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And congratulations on being inspiring. Keep it going, ladies.</div>
<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-78469254697426813992012-10-31T13:09:00.000+01:002012-10-31T14:09:49.696+01:00Ready to Write<div style="text-align: center;">
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Below is a typed out version of the Noveling Affidavit that comes from Chris Baty's <i>NO PLOT? NO PROBLEM! Novel-Writing Kit. </i>A lovely friend who has this kit was kind enough to make me a copy of the above affidavit, which we signed together last Friday. We're both participating in this year's novel-writing month challenge and it's necessary to have writerly support all around for such crazy commitments. The National Novel Writing Month may have begun with something like 21 people back in 1999, but this year there are people from nearly every continent jumping in. It's exciting to know there are writers carving out their stories all at the same time all over the world, and I'm looking forward to being one of them.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95tY5PsuX_SuITxX1NwPV62exIfNLNrfmukxRHoW1NAsG9bvFltZMejabozPjg7yS_-ozlhjIVXB3MRq2eqa7_hhdkkPmMbrQZ89O_Nxb_36vuOj65TVAme8UZ-0_8yg8jfahjmvk9uef/s1600/noplotnoproblem1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95tY5PsuX_SuITxX1NwPV62exIfNLNrfmukxRHoW1NAsG9bvFltZMejabozPjg7yS_-ozlhjIVXB3MRq2eqa7_hhdkkPmMbrQZ89O_Nxb_36vuOj65TVAme8UZ-0_8yg8jfahjmvk9uef/s320/noplotnoproblem1.jpg" width="261" /></a><br />
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I've been reading and developing character backgrounds and thinking non-stop about this novel project, so have already managed to overwhelm myself with all the planning I convinced myself I should do before beginning. Today I'm not thinking about any of it - aside from writing this post - so that come tomorrow morning, I'll be excited and ready to start this story. </div>
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Thursday morning I will begin writing a novel and by November 30th the goal is to have 50,000 words written, the first draft completed of a new manuscript. It's equal parts insane and exciting. With my plans for a previous mentioned young adult manuscript suddenly halted and drastically changed, the timing is pretty great to focus elsewhere on something completely different and completely new. I'm sort of counting on being able to stick to this 30 day commitment partly because I stuck with the 30 day daily blog thing. Plus there's the whole wanting to be a professional author and all. </div>
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<b>Noveling Affidavit</b></div>
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I, Lindsey Cole, hereby pledge my intent to write a 50,000-word novel in one month's time.</blockquote>
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By invoking an absurd monthlong deadline on such an enormous undertaking, I understand that notions of craft, brilliance, and competency are to be chucked right out the window, where they will remain, ignored, until they are retrieved for the editing process. I understand that I am a talented person, capable of heroic acts of creativity, and I will give myself enough time over the course of the next month to allow my innate gifts to come to the surface, unmolested by self-doubt, self-criticism, and other acts of self-bullying.</blockquote>
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During the month ahead, I realize I will produce clunky dialogue, clichéd characters, and deeply flawed plots. I agree that all of these things will be left in my rough draft, to be corrected or excised at a later point. I understand my right to withhold my manuscript from all readers until I deem it complete. I also acknowledge my right as author to substantially inflate both the quality of the rough draft and the rigors of the writing process, should such inflation prove useful in garnering me respect, attention, or freedom from household chores.</blockquote>
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I acknowledge that the monthlong, 50,000-word deadline I set for myself is absolute and unchangeable, and that any failure to meet the deadline, or any effort on my part to move the deadline once the adventure has begun, will result in well-deserved mockery from friends and family. I also acknowledge that, upon successful completion of the stated noveling objective, I am entitled to a period of gleeful celebration and revelry, the duration and intensity of which may preclude me from participating fully in workplace activities for days, if not weeks, afterward.</blockquote>
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Signed and dated with a witness, so it's serious business. And now I've effectively made <i>you</i> a witness, if not to my signing of this agreement, then to my sharing and acknowledging of it. You now have permission to question/encourage me with regards to my novel-in-progress, just be aware that depending on how far into the month it is and what condition my mental state is currently in, I may run from you.</div>
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WARNING: If you know me in real life and see me out and about in November, please excuse the dark circles under my eyes, over-caffeinated jitters, far-off staring in the middle of conversations, and unwashed hair. I will likely have been obsessing for hours over plot conflicts or the color of somebody's shirt, then left my house in an attempt to recapture some semblance of normalcy among other human people. I appreciate your understanding and willingness to selectively ignore the weirdness that may or may not escape me in the coming month. </div>
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I'll keep you in the loop and will hopefully be celebrating a first draft in a month's time. I'll also be a year older by the time that happens - how's <i>that</i> for time flying by?</div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-69186738554310021452012-10-26T16:29:00.000+02:002012-10-26T16:29:12.106+02:00Domizil & NaNoWriMoThis is me acknowledging what a terrible liar I am when it comes to posting regularly. I try really hard not to be someone who can only focus on one main thing at a time, but apparently that's totally who I am. When I was blogging daily, <i>that</i> was the main thing around which everything else had to maneuver; now it's my new novel and all the thinking and planning and researching that goes with starting a new project, in this case, a complete first draft to be written within the month of November.<br />
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I'm sitting in Domizil on this cold and grey Friday afternoon with Murphy curled up under the bench and three guys singing around a guitar to my right. I forget how much I love live music, especially when it happens in small and intimate spaces such as this bar in Leonberg. Especially <i>especially</i> when said three guys are not only singing songs in English, but songs I like. They're keeping their voices soft since we're inside, and the strumming of the guitar is gently massaging my temples. I could fall asleep if not for the coffee I've just ingested with copious amounts of sugar.<br />
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By next Friday it will officially be November and Domizil may or may not be swarmed with more writers participating in NaNoWriMo, as we three Friday regulars decided to share one of our favorite writing spots with others chasing the writing dream. <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a>, for those of you not in the know about such things, stands for National Novel Writing Month, and it's been happening since it's July debut in 1999. These days November gets the honor of wrapping its arms around thousands of participating novelists (from wannabes to published) while we commit to the 50,000 word count, whine about writer's block in the on-line forums, and push each other to hang in there, suck it up, and keep the writing going. This is my first time participating and I'm excited to see if it'll work for me. Even though I'm awful at being consistent with things totally in my control, I do seem to rise to the occasion when an honest commitment is made, so here I go on another 30 day commitment, this time I'm just going to write a novel.<br />
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You know, no big deal.<br />
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This time next week, I hope to be surrounded by the sound of tapping keys while I drink my coffee and scratch Murphy's head under the table. The mere presence of other writers (or any kind of artist, really) does something to my motivation; the air changes and carries with it the vibe of creative electricity. Since I haven't been allowed to begin the actual writing of my new novel (per the rules of NaNoWriMo) I've been nose-deep in outlining and researching it, which just feels like a tease and makes me want to get started even more. But I think having this time to really give it time to roll around in my head will prove to be super beneficial. My characters are developing with more thought than had I jumped right into writing, and I feel like when I do sit down at my laptop on November 1st, all the anticipation and delayed gratification will result in an outpouring of amazing story. I'm hoping, anyway.<br />
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Now I need to get back to building backstories and developing my story's blueprint, so please stop bothering me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH1TjbD8g_CBOuaEPt1qE1ZoxrEibPdE5UnJvJf6TCviG3z-P5hkiF3hyCkndFTyaFU-EiO6gdM-UHAwZwj8vomKs-bwdaQ8Apef2Lxi-B1AtAxdx2g6g27MfiSJ8RpkIX-CSukV5zsNA/s1600/addison+in+carseat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH1TjbD8g_CBOuaEPt1qE1ZoxrEibPdE5UnJvJf6TCviG3z-P5hkiF3hyCkndFTyaFU-EiO6gdM-UHAwZwj8vomKs-bwdaQ8Apef2Lxi-B1AtAxdx2g6g27MfiSJ8RpkIX-CSukV5zsNA/s320/addison+in+carseat.jpeg" width="240" /></a>Here's a picture of my gorgeous Goddaughter just because I love you so much. Call this my apology present for yelling at you for bugging me and making me write something today while I was supposed to be working on other things. <br />
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This child is four years old - FOUR! - and I swear she's almost as tall as I am already. Why can't children stop growing while I'm living far away and just wait till I visit to spring up? Is that so much to ask? Meanwhile, I've got three nieces and three nephews getting all kinds of grown up with their driving (bikes, cars, go-karts and 4-wheelers), dance-attending, and general 9-going-on-19 shenanigans. I don't agree with this, not at all.<br />
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<br />Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-65011107375468565962012-10-17T10:13:00.000+02:002012-10-17T10:13:41.040+02:00His Name is Helmut<div style="text-align: right;">
Oct. 11, 2012</div>
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This morning I was rushing down streets and between trains to the Frankfurt Book Fair, having completely underestimated the amount of time I'd need to get there by 9am to meet my friend Kirsten for lattes. The fair is overwhelmingly enormous, both in its physical expanse and the sheer number or events (discussions, exhibitions, interviews, readings, signings, this year's Maori dances, game demos, screenings, and I'm sure 50 more categories) going on all day long. As I rose up the escalator from the U-Bahn (underground city train) station I could hear the music. Assuming it was a recording being piped in, possibly as part of the fair, I thought about how <i>nice</i> it was to hear such lovely violin music floating over the heads of the hundreds of fair-goers as we moved like a wave through the halls toward the surface of the city.<br />
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When I saw him my hurried pace slowed just a little bit, because for a moment, I was enjoying his music so earnestly I forgot that I was late (and I really hate being late). It was the perfect playing of songs I didn't recognize but wanted to know that invited me to pull over out of the flow of traffic to dig out some change to drop in his case, but it didn't hurt that he was a gentleman of mature years who so obviously loved what he was doing. He wore scarves knotted at and trailing from his waist as he moved with the music as if he were in his own living room playing only for himself. He intermittently closed his eyes as he swayed and danced, always smiling. I was fascinated because looking at this man jumping around outside a U-Bahn station with scarves and long, white hair, you might assume he's another street performer who may or may not be saving up for a bottle of something or another, but you would be <i>wrong</i>, you judgmental snob! But I wouldn't know his story until later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgEfekyh1jWPOWTDlOQTCC9QBzwyWIFyE0O3mD0kLmlaMq8Fm1_a937IbD-SvzTud3vxo4hOFcqwWJxSMugBKcu16oTAaAcD3Hr-wOFjb05nqlLKXI4X76T6dOQXYSGhZmBcmt9JJF5Yz/s1600/Helmut1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgEfekyh1jWPOWTDlOQTCC9QBzwyWIFyE0O3mD0kLmlaMq8Fm1_a937IbD-SvzTud3vxo4hOFcqwWJxSMugBKcu16oTAaAcD3Hr-wOFjb05nqlLKXI4X76T6dOQXYSGhZmBcmt9JJF5Yz/s320/Helmut1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Busker: A street performer </td></tr>
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So here I was watching and listening to this grandfatherly looking man play away on his violin with a smile on his face, and he was good, <i>really</i> good. I took out my camera, caught his eye for the okay, and snapped a shot of him, then dropped in a coin and continued on my way. After all, I was late and in desperate need of coffee.<br />
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But thanks to the violinist in the hall, I rushed on smiling.<br />
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After a fantastically long day, I headed back down that same hall to the underground to hop the train back to my hotel, and there he was again! He wasn't playing, but was packed up and changing his shoes for the walk he'd be doing post-performance. I got all the way to the top of the escalator, before I stopped. I needed to tell him how much I enjoyed his playing that morning.<br />
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So I did. When I approached, he cordially flipped his hat forward and off his head with a little bow, and I loved him immediately (even more). Once we established that his English was better than my German, we chatted for a while about his music and my writing, the Frankfurt Book Fair and how 20 years ago he used to play at this very fair, until the "big guys" made things too complicated. I remembered seeing a few CDs in his violin case that morning, so I asked about his recording career. He'd made a handful of albums, the last couple featuring an accordion player by the name of Katherine Toy. As I was out of cash at that point, I asked how much and told him I'd be back the next day for one of his CDs. His response was, <i>Don't let money be an issue. I'll trade you. My music for one of your stories</i>. More than his suggestion, it was his enthusiasm about it that reached right into me and jostled awake that bit of myself I forget I still have, the artist who cares not for whether or not I ever get published, but who lives for her craft and the freedom to share it.<br />
<br />
Ever tethered to blasted reality, I explained to him that I didn't have a printer at the hotel, and asked if he had an email address, instead. Whether he completely understood me or just figured it was getting too complicated, he gave me the CD anyway. Only then did I realize I hadn't asked his name, and when I did he pointed to the CD in my hands. His name is Helmut Scholz.<br />
<br />
Since I've been back in my room I've Googled Herr Scholz and read up a little about him and his partner in music, Frau Toy.<br />
<br />
On their website, I found this account from someone who saw them perform: <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">They are indeed an unconventional duo. Mr Scholz, an elderly and much-bearded gentleman, seems the physical manifestation of some sort of mad, passion frenzied, whimsical and fiery violin solo. When he takes to the stage he does not perform as a man playing a violin but as the body of the music, dancing with all of his being, white hair flying.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.thevirtuosos.com/">http://www.thevirtuosos.com/</a></span></span><br />
<br />
Then I found an article written about him when he was first discovered in London in 2001, and now I can't wait to run into him again tomorrow and ask him more about his life. Also, I just learned a new word: busking. Give this short article a read.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2001/may/15/davidward">http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2001/may/15/davidward</a><br />
<br />
I've curious about why he's back in Germany and what his future in music looks like. And I'm totally going to ask him again if he has an e-mail address.<br />
<br />
Today I boarded the U4 train with a recording of Helmut Scholz performing at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, London where he said he lived for around 15 years. This CD, which I've been listening to since I sat down to write, features Helmut mixing the art of spoken word with playing the violin, both the poetry and music composed by him. It is a short CD of just 5 poem/music pieces, but it's moving. Called <i>A Dream You Forgot</i>, I think this might be one of the coolest gifts I've received in a long time, and certainly from a stranger.<br />
<br />
It's always nice when goodbye isn't necessary, even if the connection you make will only be short-lived. The idea of no good-byes has become a way of life for me given the ever-changing landscape of my social surroundings living abroad among a semi-nomadic community. Both because sometimes you just want to hope you'll run into someone again, and sometimes the chances are truly great that you will, saying something like "See you later" is a better way to walk away from someone with whom your connection really meant something.<br />
<br />
As I walked away this evening with his CD in my bag, we both said, "See you tomorrow."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***********************************</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sadly, I did not see Helmut again. Although I know he planned to be there for the duration of the fair for the high volume of traffic, hence our plans to talk again, the hall was empty of his boisterous music the next day. Perhaps it was the police officers hanging around his stretch of hall leaving the U-Bahn station who kept him away. I wanted Chris to meet him when he joined me on the weekend, but still, Helmut wasn't there. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoMjtk1OUk5JstLlqzXJpz9soZ2bTdP1GeDQuabycFcRHyLjbVFt4q4XUUTiKnT_HiQuB6d-Qs_r94zZ63fC451yqpniDMYySP6OZCKVjqIlmznKn0XqDRkcJ425r8sCv8cupmADZ-E1Q/s1600/helmut2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpoMjtk1OUk5JstLlqzXJpz9soZ2bTdP1GeDQuabycFcRHyLjbVFt4q4XUUTiKnT_HiQuB6d-Qs_r94zZ63fC451yqpniDMYySP6OZCKVjqIlmznKn0XqDRkcJ425r8sCv8cupmADZ-E1Q/s320/helmut2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image borrowed from <a href="http://www.thevirtuosos.com/" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;">http://www.thevirtuosos.com/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Fear not, Helmut - I'll track you down some day and tell you what I thought of the music you shared with me, per your request. I hope you'll keep busking to your heart's content, and I hope I'll see you tomorrow. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-6905320808383110432012-10-09T20:59:00.004+02:002012-10-09T20:59:55.130+02:00It's Day 30Hello people of the interwebs.<br />
<br />
Today marks the 30th day of my 30 day commitment, something I've sort of harped on over the past few posts because I'm a little surprised I made it without incident. That said, I figured I should address how this blog will progress from here.<br />
<br />
I had a lot of fun with the themed days, and will continue to post to them sporadically, though not every one, every week...a Travel Tuesday here, a Secret Saturday there. If you're a regular reader (thank you!) I hope you'll bear with me as I scale back the number of posts I write per week. The rest of October is going to be a little crazy, then November will begin a whole new novel writing project, but fear not, the blog will not be totally forgotten. I aim to post at least once a week, more if I can manage it, and hope you'll keep popping by.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I'll board a 6am train that'll take me a couple hours north to attend an international book fair, complete with interviews with and readings by authors, discussions about digital publishing, and the chance to meet other members of SCBWI (Society for Children's Books Writers and Illustrators). My head is so submerged in writing and publication, I never want to come up for air!<br />
<br />
Until next time, thanks for reading.Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-57442831973590508582012-10-09T14:28:00.000+02:002012-10-09T14:28:51.884+02:00France? Oui, s'il vous plaît.<h2>
Travel Tuesday</h2>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I’m not writing about one particular trip, but my
overall impressions and experiences with the people of one particular country.
Having just spent a weekend in and around Colmar in the Alsace region of
France, my tummy still full of escargot gratin, and my trunk full of fresh
pastries (okay, maybe not <i>full</i>), I’ve
got France on the brain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoe8ijLa33YHX4a0kjnJwgaTiT-cEAyJphlMSEapO0PMSK4WVGOE1MFP9ZCom4v6Q3XvYD_1CGeD4tRY8wAvq5Del5O3faQcVxiq3SNf1E2HXBLDIpa_v0IvNCMiVdTZzQPlZTKh67wqic/s1600/vendor+couple.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoe8ijLa33YHX4a0kjnJwgaTiT-cEAyJphlMSEapO0PMSK4WVGOE1MFP9ZCom4v6Q3XvYD_1CGeD4tRY8wAvq5Del5O3faQcVxiq3SNf1E2HXBLDIpa_v0IvNCMiVdTZzQPlZTKh67wqic/s1600/vendor+couple.jpeg" /></a>When Chris and I first moved abroad in 2004, beginning this
high travel way of life, we did not immediately venture off to Paris, perhaps
the most popular European destination for Americans. We visited Croatia in the east and
Ireland way up north before we ever set foot in France. It’s relevant to note here that we
were living in Northern Italy at the time, the French border a mere 4 hour
drive away. France was so close, but our desire to explore within its borders
were heavily influenced by what other people told us about their time there. For
instance, we heard nothing but negative stories about Paris. Everyone we talked
to who’d been said everyone was so rude, they
didn’t care to ever return. Looking back now, I’m a little ashamed that we let
other people’s impressions dissuade us from going anywhere, but we were new and
impressionable; call us Freshmen of the University of Travel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was November of 2006 when we decided we really <i>did</i> want to see Paris, and it would be
our first Thanksgiving not spent with friends or family around a big table full of enough food to feed an army. We went prepared for
over the top snobbery, pushy Parisians and endless pretension, but what we
discovered had us floored: Parisians were <i>nice,
</i>and not just nice, but <i>helpful</i>.
Sure we inspired our share of sighs when we walked a little too slowly in front
of someone who knew where they were going, but you get that in any big city.
(This reminded me of being in New York for the first time and being surprised
by the helpfulness of the people there, too, after being fed story after story
of the horrible and rude people of that metropolis.) We attempted French
whenever possible, both badly and apologetically, and I think that helped
because we weren’t feeding the stereotype of the loud, entitled Americans who
demand to be catered to. People were generally friendly and patient as we
stumbled through their melodic language, smashing its toes with our clumsy
American accents. And suddenly some of the stories of horrid rudeness we’d
heard made sense, because we’d seen some of the people who'd told us these stories out and about. The
difference was, we embraced the fact that we were visitors in someone else's country, and we were <i>trying</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One night we were looking for an art gallery in a
neighborhood near the Moulin Rouge. We’d been over and over the map but still
couldn’t figure out what we were missing. It must’ve been around 9 o’clock at
night and we were staring at our little tourist map under a streetlamp.
There was a woman walking toward us leading her toddler by the hand, and I
reflexively smiled at the little girl as she drew closer to us. I didn’t expect
what happened next. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Ay twa vare do? Preesh voosadi?” said the woman, or something that
sounded like that to my non-French-understanding ears.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I gave her the look that meant I didn’t understand a thing
she’d said, which I’ve now perfected and consists of eyebrows raised to my
hairline, eyes as wide as golf balls, and a cartoon-esque smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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To which she responded, “Oh, pardon me. Do you need some
help finding something?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Clearly a Parisian walking home with her daughter, and she
was asking to help us. This was our Paris, and pretty indicative of the rest of
our time there. It should be said that we did encounter one man whose rudeness
had me considering walking out on the check, but he wasn’t even French. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After that trip, we happily returned to France several more
times, eager to help them get through some of those butter croissants and
amazing cheeses and bread and wine and crepes and foi gras on toast and fondant
chocolate and wow do we love French food. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This weekend in Colmar, our experience was no difference.
Granted, Colmar isn’t Paris, but it gets it share of tourism all year long, or
so our waiter said today at lunch. Jordan’s actually from New Zealand, but
living in Colmar because of, what else, the love of a French woman. Before we
knew he wasn’t French and he took our order, he was quick to make sure I knew
I’d ordered snails, and his facial expression told me he expected some show of
revulsion on my part. I smiled and nodded, because I freaking love escargot. My
favorite is the Alsace style of simmering the snails in garlic butter, or
sometimes pesto, but today it was escargot cooked in a gratin kind of potato,
cheese, and onion casserole and I’m still full. After we’d eaten Jordan asked
where we were from, detecting our North American accents, and we had a nice
conversation with him about our respective homes and living abroad. His fiancé
is from Colmar, it turned out, so there he was, trying to learn French and
making plans. As we chatted on, I noticed the rest of the (presumably) French
restaurant staff standing behind the bar watching with smiles on their faces.
Later we mused that perhaps they were giggling at the chatty Kiwi they worked
with, for Jordan was the only waiter we had such a nice long conversation with
on the trip. We even talked about service with Jordan, and he kind of rolled
his eyes and commented on how rude the service usually was around Alsace, but
we had to disagree – we’d had great service, <i>friendly</i>, even. He said we’d been lucky, and perhaps he was right,
but to this day we’ve never had a terrible experience anywhere in France. Knock on wood.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjIMn1lHZ7WOjeuHuzgpJgBKQUsEZtEqQfimId5O-C4B5JRxSQ1bwB5ZJHdPDTtA3PdxlX340HoHEJ0g60cB2DoFzogGlmRSQYY5X6mgH-bkAVK2_QFi7uFSGvc2De4z2_55NgoR7Qutc/s1600/hike+saved.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjIMn1lHZ7WOjeuHuzgpJgBKQUsEZtEqQfimId5O-C4B5JRxSQ1bwB5ZJHdPDTtA3PdxlX340HoHEJ0g60cB2DoFzogGlmRSQYY5X6mgH-bkAVK2_QFi7uFSGvc2De4z2_55NgoR7Qutc/s1600/hike+saved.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking back <i>out</i> of Verdon Gorge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Jordan is the second non-French person we’ve met living in
France because of a woman, the first being artist Kamil Vojnar. We met <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2010/04/provence-day-five.html">Kamil athis gallery in St. Remy</a> a couple of years ago. Kamil is Czech, and his wife, a
French woman from St. Remy, which was one of the stops we made on our road trip through
Provence in the spring of 2010. That weeklong trip has got to be one of my
favorites. We took to the road and rolled through the countryside of southern
France, stopping in Apt, Rousillon, <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, Avignon,</span> St. Remy, and
<a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2010/04/provence-day-seven-our-last-day.html">Annecy</a> slightly out of Provence on our way home. On that trip we learned how
amazing <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2010/04/provence-real-day-one.html">a simple picnic </a>of market sausage and cheese on a fresh baguette with
local mustard and fresh strawberries on the side could be. We also learned how
good small town French hoteliers were at charades, as this was generally how we
communicated with them. We <a href="http://thehouseofcole.blogspot.de/2010/04/provence-day-two-hike.html">hiked to the bottom of a small canyon</a> on that trip,
and only found our way out because of some French hikers who’d come prepared
with a map of the trails. We tried real aioli for the first time and never
loved blanched vegetables so much. I fantasize about having a little cottage in
the countryside where I can buy my produce from the farm down the road and
write in a garden bursting with lavender. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOb4pMSYdWR9tpQTKSSLKUyWsTtjKfkKrm7sJGB3d70lJglgBJK6cWK3eV4UYy5afrC4drFq5exR133n_P4zMtSlHpfwDfuouUaI9xbj3IMeYubwwGuOkV0dZoHUJhxQ4j5mui7R95MqZ/s1600/bird+man.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOb4pMSYdWR9tpQTKSSLKUyWsTtjKfkKrm7sJGB3d70lJglgBJK6cWK3eV4UYy5afrC4drFq5exR133n_P4zMtSlHpfwDfuouUaI9xbj3IMeYubwwGuOkV0dZoHUJhxQ4j5mui7R95MqZ/s1600/bird+man.jpeg" /></a>I guess my point in recounting these times in various parts
of France is that people are people, and just because a person happens to have
been be born in a place like Paris doesn’t make them any more (or less) likely
to be a jerk. People appreciate it when you attempt to speak their language
while you’re visiting their country, in the same way we expect everyone in the
States to speak English. People also appreciate it when you acknowledge the
cultural differences with respect. Every place has its own rhythm, and you don't have to understand it or force yourself to fall in line with it, but it is my opinion that you should at least be respectful, if not give it a try. The people of any given place know its rhythm and therefor function with it; this is something visitors do not innately understand, so my advice is to try not to hurry when you're there. (Thanks, Nancy, for this thought.) Take a step back and just observe a place for a minute; you might find you understand it a little more. And yes, some people can be real douchebags,
but that’s true wherever you go in the world. If there’s one thing I’ve learned
while living this traveler’s dream over the past eight plus years, it’s that no
matter where people come from, we are all very much the same. We all love, fear
and dream. We can all be rude and obnoxious, and we can all be gracious and
helpful, depending on our moods. Everyone has their moments, I think it has
more to do with our attitudes than anything else, and being open to whatever
comes, in my opinion, is the best way to be in a world so full of could-be
spectacular moments. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment--></div>
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-31876992440673661272012-10-08T09:59:00.003+02:002012-10-08T09:59:39.149+02:00Mazel Tov, ME!<h2>
Mazel Tov Monday</h2>
<div>
I know I said MTM would be for pointing the good job stick at others, but I'm nearly done with the 30 day commitment of daily blogging and I'm damn proud of myself. It wasn't easy, and I'm afraid it wasn't always mind-bending or revolutionary, but I stuck with it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was down in the dumps, I wrote. When I felt like I had no time, I wrote. And even when I got no comments to suggest anyone else in the whole wide world had read the post that day, I wrote. Yea ME for following through when there was no one holding a gun to my head or guilting me into keeping my word, because that means I did it for myself. This means likely nothing to anyone else, but it means something big to me. I'm not very good at keeping my word to myself, you see, so this gives me hope.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It takes a bunch of tiny steps before you can look back and realize you just made a really big one. Here's to the tiny ones.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mazel Tov, Me, on making it to the end of my 30 days (tomorrow) without tripping up or justifying away the commitment I made to myself.</div>
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-15185031926580485222012-10-07T07:52:00.002+02:002012-10-07T07:52:36.705+02:00Dun, da-da-daaa!<h2>
Something Learned Sunday</h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's almost over, the commitment of 30 days! And being the final SLS of this stretch, let's look at what I've learned from this whole experience:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>It is possible to post something every day and still be a functioning human being - mostly - so if I can post a blog daily, I can surely write/revise daily.</li>
<li>Writing every day is easier for me when there are restrictions in place. Who'da thunk being <i>less</i> free would work better for me?</li>
<li>I probably put too much stock in comments as proof of readership, but am capable of writing for myself anyway.</li>
<li>The Blogosphere is a really fantastic place full of amazing people and lots of support.</li>
<li>It's impossible to type with Murphy on my lap.</li>
<li>Murphy will not, in fact, implode if I ignore him to work for a while.</li>
<li>I like Britney Spears less now that I've seen her on XFactor.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And the biggest lesson of all...</div>
<ul>
<li>I can follow through with a commitment I make only to myself.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-76331920328304858692012-10-05T13:50:00.000+02:002012-10-05T13:50:04.655+02:00Quotes I'm Loving<h2>
Whatever I Feel Like Friday</h2>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I admit this is sort of a cop-out since I'm not really writing anything of my own, but sometimes it's worth taking a minute or two to appreciate the words others have managed to put together so well.</div>
<div>
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<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTiHRoeVjXqLfDaUEHN-zYW0WNg82wDpK_Xu9XFrYBtTRTwSlMrn8JkjrffKMbvmPBbxXfv6NxzwRnwmFnExSjVuh_985X2ITE9ponC5LQtoE5doBB86dFK24hJHzfsxhdWkhdphKQkCX/s1600/banksey-leave-the-house.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTiHRoeVjXqLfDaUEHN-zYW0WNg82wDpK_Xu9XFrYBtTRTwSlMrn8JkjrffKMbvmPBbxXfv6NxzwRnwmFnExSjVuh_985X2ITE9ponC5LQtoE5doBB86dFK24hJHzfsxhdWkhdphKQkCX/s400/banksey-leave-the-house.jpeg" width="285" /></a><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 21.983333587646484px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 21.983333587646484px;">“It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">- E.E. Cummings</em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></em></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></em></em></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”</em></em></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 21.983333587646484px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding: 0px;">
<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">- Henry Ford</em></em></em></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e5e5dd; color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">Outside a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e5e5dd; color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">~Groucho Marx</span></div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-37156386735002083602012-10-04T10:39:00.000+02:002012-10-04T10:39:07.162+02:00Thanks, Universe<h2>
Thankful Thursday</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image borrowed from <a href="http://www.verylol.com/funny-coincidence-2762/">VeryLOL.com</a></td></tr>
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Today I'm feeling hopeful, and dare I say, a little excited. There's a ton to be stressed about as it feels like my life is up in the air right now, but I've noticed a whole bunch of coincidences recently. I keep hearing I'll see it if I'm open to it... Okay, Universe, you've got my attention.</div>
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I'm not sure how I feel about coincidences. I'd like to not believe in them, but to instead subscribe to the belief that everything happens for a reason, and there is a path for me and it's just a matter of me recognizing the signs. This would mean, to me, that there is some magic in the world that exists just to keep things in balance and help us all find our way to where we're meant to be.</div>
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However, the ever-skeptical questioner in me (and lover of general nerd-dom) can't un-hear Sheldon's scientific take: "This would be one of those circumstances that people unfamiliar with the law of large numbers would call a coincidence." (If you don't know Sheldon, you don't watch <i>The Big Bang Theory. </i>Luckily<i>,</i> I forgive you.) And even if the lines written for this fictional character on a TV sitcom are not, in fact, pulled straight from authentic scientific sources, it sounds pretty rational to me.</div>
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Either way, several things have suddenly lined up for me very recently with regards to my writing. It's not as if anyone has hunted me down and demanded I hand over my manuscript for immediate publication, but the opportunity to go for it has just sort of popped up on my radar, thus giving me a really good reason to get this thing done already. <i>Silent Refuge</i> has been hanging around far too long, and it's time to let it go. I'm sort of scared to say much more for fear of jinxing myself, not that I'm superstitious like that... Let's leave it at a bunch of strangely specific things are falling in line in a way that makes me wonder if perhaps I could have some sort of success if I jump onboard. Right now. And even if this doesn't go the way I'd like, I'm still grateful for the kick in the pants. </div>
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So here I go. I'll let you know what comes of this vague (for you) but exciting (for me) coincidence-laden...I don't know, time? </div>
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Dear Universe, you may or may not possess the ability to accept my appreciation, but for the sake of my hopefulness, I'm going to go ahead and assume you do. You've suddenly made me wonder if some things really do happen how they do and when they do for the best, or even for a reason<i>, </i>as they say. You've placed some deadlines in my path that could not be more specific and perfect for where I am, and given me reason to believe I'm headed in the right direction. You have given me the gift of drive and confidence.</div>
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And for that, I thank you.</div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-28109768883954878572012-10-03T12:59:00.000+02:002012-10-03T12:59:08.858+02:00Silence<h2>
Wordless Wednesday</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCikONYpxdbZZkce4eN72B-d8n0fMbreDXAuADI03ZDTd0khGQvFNu_wRyhhW_Re1SnQmYI-y94-BNDAdIBV9aV_12T87EP0pVFWGbVT17X5C-Gzn967azhhIC6G1__8SOlcXhsn38fri/s1600/meondock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCikONYpxdbZZkce4eN72B-d8n0fMbreDXAuADI03ZDTd0khGQvFNu_wRyhhW_Re1SnQmYI-y94-BNDAdIBV9aV_12T87EP0pVFWGbVT17X5C-Gzn967azhhIC6G1__8SOlcXhsn38fri/s200/meondock1.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvthFL8S1O4gzg_phG0JcsMiRO7P1xyVHXp9LfzCb-naEPyImYPRB6dI7aok6a2LikJe_pummvpLfbmshR84uRzEOCewnBPC_IiIWzL1WPYs9bkB433E8g2nx-yG39DIoFMYyflR82dcq/s1600/dock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvthFL8S1O4gzg_phG0JcsMiRO7P1xyVHXp9LfzCb-naEPyImYPRB6dI7aok6a2LikJe_pummvpLfbmshR84uRzEOCewnBPC_IiIWzL1WPYs9bkB433E8g2nx-yG39DIoFMYyflR82dcq/s400/dock1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5724501963436476209.post-87270262707444910272012-10-02T12:06:00.001+02:002012-10-02T14:47:24.337+02:00Road Trip Scandinavia (Geiranger Fjord & Township)<h2>
Travel Tuesday</h2>
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I could have stayed at the top of the Troll Road all day, but we had a ferry to catch a couple hours down the road. Our next pit stop was the town of Geiranger, settled at one end of the Geirangerfjord, and we opted to save ourselves the last half hour of driving to kick back on a 2 hour ferry leaving from Valldal. It was time to jump into the fjords of Norway. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKm5CcC7FkCcWT_3tXtSronIJDSwizUTBm_CdivTKXCBtXdPf1JvI43fjT9V_5peib744JJmdT7EBW0ydkZKnAj1fc2ipbF3wok3xRTea937wptdFrs_pImU-RVEc0m6EEnMw72Ko_mwO/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKm5CcC7FkCcWT_3tXtSronIJDSwizUTBm_CdivTKXCBtXdPf1JvI43fjT9V_5peib744JJmdT7EBW0ydkZKnAj1fc2ipbF3wok3xRTea937wptdFrs_pImU-RVEc0m6EEnMw72Ko_mwO/s320/Norway:Copenhagen082.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfpOG7iNCywFTbmBbrDQhhmNiDQkS5Pm7qtd739qKVmeYJuRa9Oe5zuIf3d1WfJYNP82UGcWNv1jsJ3LtWFDgq4hJT_8qRucxOt6IFwTA2LSXGS1DFAQr6eGazSV-NXE9mcDZ5HobD89g/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfpOG7iNCywFTbmBbrDQhhmNiDQkS5Pm7qtd739qKVmeYJuRa9Oe5zuIf3d1WfJYNP82UGcWNv1jsJ3LtWFDgq4hJT_8qRucxOt6IFwTA2LSXGS1DFAQr6eGazSV-NXE9mcDZ5HobD89g/s320/Norway:Copenhagen079.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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It was a rather sunny day, perfect weather for taking our time out on the waters of Geirangerfjord. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjE_1kiRz8WJgBZ8UBDGBmmxiV0kcx-Iux0wm2kzoFsA4Y47OSmgXUH2j5xk7JOw74J-UG8OjdwG5g_9mL40Mp4tC5bsEjzhZIYnx7RBTY0WCuD4VhAZkE9NRXsTbsQuBM5L9p9abWGZk0/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjE_1kiRz8WJgBZ8UBDGBmmxiV0kcx-Iux0wm2kzoFsA4Y47OSmgXUH2j5xk7JOw74J-UG8OjdwG5g_9mL40Mp4tC5bsEjzhZIYnx7RBTY0WCuD4VhAZkE9NRXsTbsQuBM5L9p9abWGZk0/s320/Norway:Copenhagen083.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYNAzbe6KoTXYgMRyuwr6Anrt8tXuuDuY9iNz-dHzhVnj9mrhuG3sD6g8cmxOYBawM7xBETFd1zhuI3PMqtuXQ_IJxSXD0nTiGPI5vAmbnOhSQcGhThkHrfRNAT9_WAWXm6PHapQia8me/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYNAzbe6KoTXYgMRyuwr6Anrt8tXuuDuY9iNz-dHzhVnj9mrhuG3sD6g8cmxOYBawM7xBETFd1zhuI3PMqtuXQ_IJxSXD0nTiGPI5vAmbnOhSQcGhThkHrfRNAT9_WAWXm6PHapQia8me/s320/Norway:Copenhagen084.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This adorable guide threw bits of bread to the seagulls stalking our ferryboat to give the children onboard a thrill.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-py7inD_HOHWFZVv9u86FzziztsoNm1HPEIshGiqIo0KDUT1RvYvkKhy-Nkyzp7kOgg5pDZlPUDA3l1wmkX4Qty32DNHjJseWyf0hFmHAvyOv3DDZAF7NrVyOj0nosmn-294wdwzAfjjm/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-py7inD_HOHWFZVv9u86FzziztsoNm1HPEIshGiqIo0KDUT1RvYvkKhy-Nkyzp7kOgg5pDZlPUDA3l1wmkX4Qty32DNHjJseWyf0hFmHAvyOv3DDZAF7NrVyOj0nosmn-294wdwzAfjjm/s320/Norway:Copenhagen091.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
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What made this ferry ride different from the many others we took on this trip were the ferry guides who took it upon themselves to talk about the things we passed along our journey. They pointed out old farm settlements now left vacant up on the steep mountainsides around us, and told the stories of each of the waterfalls cascading into the fjord.<br />
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Above on the left, The Seven Sisters and on the right, appropriately, The Suitor.</div>
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Once we reached the town of Geiranger, we found it was Cruise Ship day! But despite the packed streets, the town still had amazing character. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRD-CqiIh66Z1eliSJWCRhyphenhyphen3y4MrCWdAJz4y2ADvQx4r2kfQ_PsyQCaoslWJw8WOhJYdVGTcpCI7kjC-ncy1d8w7tNM0bY7nENLgOI3hyphenhyphenkrHHoEeHG4IJRTRkh2dYFxW36Ol22eZhSv8a/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRD-CqiIh66Z1eliSJWCRhyphenhyphen3y4MrCWdAJz4y2ADvQx4r2kfQ_PsyQCaoslWJw8WOhJYdVGTcpCI7kjC-ncy1d8w7tNM0bY7nENLgOI3hyphenhyphenkrHHoEeHG4IJRTRkh2dYFxW36Ol22eZhSv8a/s320/Norway:Copenhagen099.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiA_DVWfAm6ecLYxLQj9aa9nrbXcDPfeGBvu-LAHuYePXNa6uUz8gzUYF52H198SwUe6HXFCnvJKxc-YCLS2et6T4PuLhiu58hMb03k6rWjO12nI8qrNmW6Mcm1d1tEDEbJYGGAHcqcucg/s1600/Norway:Copenhagen101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiA_DVWfAm6ecLYxLQj9aa9nrbXcDPfeGBvu-LAHuYePXNa6uUz8gzUYF52H198SwUe6HXFCnvJKxc-YCLS2et6T4PuLhiu58hMb03k6rWjO12nI8qrNmW6Mcm1d1tEDEbJYGGAHcqcucg/s320/Norway:Copenhagen101.jpg" width="213" /></a>Chocolate With a View was a small chocolate shop on the edge of the fjord harbor, but what caught my eye more than the display case inside were the decorations on the street, all painted the same bright, sky blue.<br />
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There were several souvenir shops from which to choose, but one art gallery/shop in particular had me wishing the exchange rate wasn't so outrageous. Above to the right is one striking wall sculpture that really had me. Even though her eyes are all dark, which is kind of creepy, there's something peaceful about her gaze. I so wanted to bring one of these home, but we also needed to eat for the rest of the trip, so she stayed put.<br />
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There was one main hike we wanted to do while in Geiranger, so we were up early the next morning to get started. It wasn't a long hike, but we wanted time to hang out at the waterfall this trail was named for.<br />
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The trail to the Storseterfossen was only 2 kilometers long, but we took our time as the trail took us on a scenic tour of the hills and up the mountainside.<br />
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Soon enough we could see the Storseterfossen ahead. What made this hike especially attractive to us was the fact that you could walk back behind the waterfall. <br />
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It was slick and steep, but we made it down in one piece to peek down over the edge where the water plummeted past.<br />
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After playing behind the waterfall we had a relaxed picnic lunch above the falls where we could sit and stare out at what surrounded us. It was gorgeous, though a little chilly. The hike down was nice and then it was time to explore the area a little by car.<br />
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Above the town is a stretch of road called Eagle Road, one part of a series of more crazy switchbacks that offers incredible views of the fjord. Though it was hazy, we drove up to check it out.<br />
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A look to the left, a look to the right.<br />
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At the end of the day, we were happy to kick off our shoes, open a bottle of wine and enjoy the view from our room. Not much beats enjoying a nice Nero d'Avolo from a couple of red Solo cups on your own little balcony overlooking this... <br />
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The next morning it was time to leave. Even now that this trip only exists in pictures and memories, our time in Geiranger was my favorite of our time in Norway. It was peaceful and beautiful and a gorgeous taste of Norway's fjordlands. <br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">On our way out of town, we stopped one last time to take a departing photo and kiss Geiranger goodbye. It doesn't even look real to me, and I took this photo!</span></div>
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Linzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06811007268126994533noreply@blogger.com0