Farm Memories

I had a brilliant post written in my head for today but with all of the computer issues I've had, I decided to share this photograph with you instead.  It's the view my great-grandmother would have seen every single day of her early life.  Those aren't the same sheep but the tree to the right is far older than she would be if Granny was still alive. 

Many thanks to Theresa for taking me there a few weeks ago

Love

I've been thinking a lot about love lately. We have a tendency to quantify and qualify our love. We rate it. We love our kids more than our spouses who we love more than our parents who we love more than our pets.We'd die for them in one order or another dependent on how we value their status in our lives. 

Love is love.  It grows, expands, fills holes, heals wounds and enriches our lives.  Who are we to say how one should value those we love? Why do we evaluate it? I might save the dog and kid before the spouse but only because I have an expectation that the adults can save themselves.  I don't love my niece more than my nephew because she's a girl or consider Stashaholic* a better friend than McB* because I've known her longer. I love all four of them. No qualifications or comparisons necessary.

Do we love based on gender, religion, politics?  I love my friends whose politics who send me recoiling in fear.  I love my friends whose religious beliefs demand they convert/kill/ostracize me for my different beliefs.  I love the dog who turns himself inside out with joy whenever I enter the room. I love the cat who draws blood when he skitters away in fear. Mutual affection clearly doesn't influence my ability to love another being. 

I continue to love my grandparents and great-grandparents long after their deaths.  I continue to love friends and lovers who are no longer part of my life. Their love and mine for them continues to fill my heart regardless of their presence. 

Love is eternal, not constricted by physical limitations, convention or even the act of living.

Love is everywhere.

Plants and animals grow and thrive in healthy, loving environments. The same is true for humans. But love survives and grows in environments where conditions are less than ideal.  How many abused children grow into loving parents?  More than convention would suggest.  Time and again I've watched abused animals respond to patience and love.  It exists inside them all.  The only lesson required is how to express it.

Hate and fear are no excuse for responding in kind.  I used to tell my nephew a story about defeating monsters with a kiss.  It was a nice little fairy tale to deflate the monster beneath the bed. Then Monsters, Inc came out and suddenly I was a genius.

A recent episode of MI5 featured an asset turning the terrorist away from his "destiny" by focusing on the love in his life, in his culture, rather than the hate he'd been fed.

Both examples are of fiction but they were timely reminders for me. The world is not black and white, love and hate, good versus evil. There are many shades of all in each of us. It's the choices we make to honour one over the other that make us. 

I choose love - in all of its many forms.

*To prove my point about qualifying, I feel the need to mention that I picked those two because they both have their aliases out on the Internet not because they come to mind faster than any of my other friends :)

Thinking

Join me on this delightfully weathered bench while I sit and contemplate life in Nea's birthplace.

Nothing beats onsite research

A time or two in the past, I may have mentioned the importance of walking the terrain.  Characters come alive when you can visualize them in the exact setting.  Your ability to describe that setting is greatly enhanced by actually walking that ground, inhaling the scents, feeling the breeze, listening to the ambient sound.

As you know, I've been busy for some time with my schooling, Casey's therapy and the book about that.  Hell to Pay was put aside. I'll be digging it back out very soon so that I can polish it up and send it out.

Yesterday I went for a walk along the Hermitage in Dunkeld, Scotland. Yep. Scotland.  Bracken and Nea are both from there.  I've been drawn to that area for many years and a friend's photo of the terrain surrounding The Hermitage inspired a major turning point in Alex and Nea's relationship.

As soon I put foot on the trail, I was back inside that story. I could picture Bracken peering at me from behind the rocks.  At one point, I felt hundreds of eyes staring at us.  The gentle shush shush of our boots through the fallen leaves seemed to whisper thank you at one point.  The roar of the falls gave way to the splash of water drops upon the trees.

Our journey through the woods yielded many bits of information I would never have gathered without using my own senses.  The bracken and birch didn't grow side by side as often as my research had suggested.  The paths and viewing benches may have been man-made but the forest had painted them with all the colours in nature's pallet.  Moss danced across the forest floor, over the rocks and up the trees.  The air was fresh,  bracing in its purity.

And through it all the story played out in my head.

Happy Halloween

I always wanted a baby elephant...

this was the best Ky the long-suffering dog could do about that.  He was just a baby at the time

Mystery pic

Oops.  I was busy making memories with my darling niece this weekend and forgot all about the time.

Can you guess what this is a  picture of?

It's a glass construction block. You could build an entryway, counter or patio with them.  My nephew was selling some for us on kijiji and needed a good picture. Then I started playing with them to make some interesting effects. We didn't sell a single one but I had fun.

Chilean miners disprove Lord of the Flies Theory

A great deal of fiction (The Stand, Lord of the Flies, The Experiment, Survivor) purport that in the face of catastrophy or bare bones survival, man will turn on himself until only one remains.

I think the 33 men stuck in the Chilean mine for 69 days proved that all wrong. Not only did they work together to ensure the group's survival but they surpassed their individual abilities to emerge triumphant in spirit as well as body.  Apparently, they've hired an accountant to create a fund in which to place the profits from the telling of their experiences so that each man, from the quietest to the most exuberant, will share the wealth.

Take that William Golding.

Attraction

A few posts ago I mentioned watercolours and Miz Elen said they were one of her favourite art expressions.  Go look at her header then come back and compare it to this splash I created twenty years ago. 

They're not exactly the twins I thought they were but it's hardly a surprise we're drawn to similar looks.  Just as Stashaholic mentioned she was researching e-Readers at the same time as I wrote a blog about them, these coincidences can only mean one thing. We are attracted to people through common interests. Admittedly, I didn't know Elen liked Motown and watercolours when we first began our interaction but as the friendship has developed we've introduced each other to new things (Mad Men) as well as sharing others (MI5). The more you get to know someone, the more you learn you have in common. 

I'm going to try applying that homily to random strangers who pique my interest.  I wonder if instant attraction can be attributed to a deeper understanding of individuals that is intuited on a cellular level...

Spinning

Sitting down behind the wheel can be very therapeutic and meditative. It can also be frustrating as hell when you fight the fibre. That's easy enough to do when the brain cells are spinning faster than the wheel.  Still, there's something about the shape and wood together that always makes me smile.

I came across these three lovelies at the Pioneer festivities yesterday.  They were tucked into the corner, almost an afterthought while hand-painted glasses and dried flowers had bigger displays. That's okay.  Spinning isn't for everyone.

For those who do enjoy working with fibre and yarn, I'm happy to say The Fibre Garden celebrated their first anniversary.  Stashaholic and I are doing our best to keep them in business for many years to come.

Happy Anniversary John and Alan

E-books

At the beginning of August, the publishing world was a-Twitter over the news that a major publisher had dropped mass market publishing in favour of e-books.  Apparently ebooks account for 12% of their sales and that number is expected to increase dramatically.

Let's just see if I, a financial imbecile, understand this correctly.  They threw away 88% of their market in order to increase 12%???  Is there a good reason they couldn't do both?  How much does it cost to produce an e-book?  Why does it cost almost the same to purchase an e-book as it does to buy a paperback?

Then there are the e-book readers. One of my friends loves her Kindle.  The convenience of several books contained within the lightweight and portable mechanism is important to her.  Most of her traveling is done with a backpack.

Another friend likes her Kindle well enough.  She was one of the people who had a book deleted from her device when Amazon chose to no longer do business with an author.  While it's true that no one who buys an ebook actually purchases the book, just the right to read it, that practice alone makes me think long and hard about e-readers.  Digital rights are not the same as print rights. Borders and Chapters don't come into my home and remove books off my shelf when the author is de-listed.  Without my personal information, they don't recommend other books to me either.  I don't want my reading habits to be scrutinized by anyone other than myself.

The e-book readers themselves are confusing. They all seem to follow different rules so if you buy an e-book from one place, you might not be able to view it unless you have a specific device. It's like iTunes. It took me awhile to be able to play music I purchased there anywhere other than my laptop. I have since figured out the conversions but why did I have to?

Don't get me wrong. I have several .pdf files of books from authors I like who publish in that format. It seems to be a very creative branch of publishing with a lot of editors willing to take a chance on new authors.  I would likely try more new writers that way if I could read them more comfortably.

For now, I'm going to stick with my trusty paperbacks.  I like the rustle of the pages being turned, the slight scent of pulp and the heft of the spine.  Just to prove I'm not a complete dinosaur, once I find the app for my Blackberry, I'll download it so I can read e-books on that format.  It doesn't require a major expenditure on top of the book's purchase price.

Until such time as it becomes more convenient, comfortable and a loss less expensive to convert, I'll remain one of the 88% still reading mass market.  What about you?  Convince me.

****There is some great information in the comments. Some helpful stuff.

I was able to view my pdf files in my browser window on my phone. That's great for her but won't do me much good on the plane when I need to turn it off so I'll likely take a trusty paperback.

Our library ebook software only supports three readers so that didn't seem like a good source for me to pursue.

My other concern is my propensity to spill things.  Paper can be blotted. Electronics get fried.

I really don't understand the price of ebooks.  Why aren't they significantly less expensive?

I'm not in one camp or another. I think there's clearly a market, and place, for both.  But to bail on 88% of your customers makes no sense to me at all.

Creativity

I always wanted to be a dancer.  My mom used to load the stereo with 5 soundtrack LPs and we'd dance around the house while we cleaned. It was productive if not exactly efficient. I can remember re-enacting the Sharks vs Jets from West Side Story all by myself with hay bales standing in for the concrete jungle.  Alas, my ankles weren't built for that kind of movement.

I went to art school for three years. Our focus was oil painting but I loved the soft flowing lines of watercolours. A couple of my pencil sketches won first prize at the local art show but there are days when I can't even draw a stick figure. It's a fickle medium for me.  How does the talent disappear suddenly one day only to reappear several years later?  I couldn't count on it to make a living.

So I turned to photography. Cinematography actually. I aced all of the photography courses but somehow still got shuffled into "female" production roles. I'm a good organizer and wasn't afraid to keep everyone in line and on deadline. Every once in a while I'd manage to sneak in a few shoots operating the camera but less often than I would have preferred.

I wrote all the time. I may possibly have been born with a pencil in my hand. I wrote stories about my paintings, narrative for the films and built worlds around photographs. I wrote short stories, plays and eventually novels.One day I decided to focus more on the words than the pictures.

There's been an internal shift the last couple of years. I've continued to write ( notes and scenes on the sweater book still pepper my desk) but it's lost a lot of its joy. I've lost my joy.  Stuff has happened and I'm not shaking it off the way I used to do when I was lo so much younger.  Nothing earth shattering ,just a mild erosion that I only started to notice when my toes were dangling off the edge of the cliff.

I'm taking a few steps back. Allowing my creativity to flow in other forms. I still think like a writer. I still take notes and make observations. Narrative runs through my head constantly. I'm just not wrestling any of it into a defined format. 

I'm allowed to do this. I don't have a contract. I don't have a deadline.  The only goal I have write now is to breathe - slowly, surely and repeatedly.  Once I'm centered and secure, I'll give all that creativity a form and let it loose again on the world.

In the meantime, you might be stuck with random thoughts, a few photos and who knows, perhaps even a sketch or two.  Enjoy

Social Networks

Yesterday a friend of mine asked me to explain Twitter to her. I failed miserably.  So many of my writer friends use it, not only to promote their books but, also to keep up with the latest publishing trends. I've tried following along but get hopelessly lost. Nor have I mastered the art of commenting on a link I post.

Add in the fact that I haven't got much to promote, and nothing different or unique to say abou the latest publishing trend, I remain silent.

Facebook, on the other hand, is my network of choice. I know my audience, it's personal, and I can share photos. I can follow not only my comments but those that come after mine.  I'm always aware of the multitude of relationships and keep my privacy settings to friends only.  Still, nothing gets said there that I wouldn't want the rest of the world to know about.

So many dear friendships have grown through the use of the comment window on blogs that I will always have a deep fondness for that medium.  I've learned a great deal about writing, perseverance, and life through the blogs I follow.  Some of them have truly surprised me.

What's your preferred method of communication and why?

Connect the dots

August was a very social month for me.  It started with a wonderful group of online friends who came to visit for an extended weekend. I never thought I could fit ten people in my living room but we did it. Yoda was a fairly quiet bird during that time. I think he was soaking up all the conversation because once the company left he chattered for days. 

One of the recurring conversations we had that weekend was about storytelling versus craft. While not all of my friends are writers, they are all big readers who know what they like and why.   There are some big name highly successful writers out there who are a lacking in the craft department but can tell a tale like nobody's business. We are all willing to forgive many flaws if we're entertained.

Last weekend I was visiting Miz Elen and had a similar conversation.  We're both of the opinion that good writing only improves good storytelling.  She introduced me to season one of Mad Men.  It's sharp, witty, has great dialogue and is a tad less paranoid than my beloved MI5.

Stashaholic came for a visit on the last day of the month. Because we started our viewing with MI5 we expected a character on Mad Men to resolve a conflict with a gun.  Not the most relaxing way to wait out a tropical storm.  We switched to a  WKRP in Cincinnati marathon.  There were moments of sheer hysteria. I couldn't catch my breath from laughing so hard. Perhaps it's the fact that Stash and I met at broadcasting college or the fact that we knew a few Herb Tarleks and Les Nessmans or maybe the writing is that good but we laughed til our sides hurt. It was a touch disturbing when Yoda laughed through the Turkey Drop episode.

What those televisions shows had in common with wonderful visits with good friends was stimulating dialogue. On all three weekends I had the opportunity to take part in conversations that ranged from how to save the world ( mandatory naps) to the price of yarn in Jordan (who cares! it's gorgeous, take two) and all points in between.  It's interesting to see how a variety of disparate political views can be heard and respected when there's affection between all the parties.  I lay in bed one morning after an interesting evening discussing the state of the world with Elen.  My mind alternated between how to resolve the holy wars and designing a shawl.  Somehow I don't think knitting prayer shawls for the religious leaders would do it yet it's fascinating how our minds connect the dots sometimes.

As a writer we do that all the time - take random events and connect them.  It's a big rule - if it shows up in one part of the work, it better show up somewhere else. I think that blows the punchline sometimes.  The world is random and full of coincidence. Life does not always make sense.  I suspect that's the appeal of MI5 for me.  Characters die, disappear or are fired as would happen in real life.  While most fiction is an escape, and I want such over-the-top silliness as WKRP provides, there needs to be an element of realism.  I recognize those characters.  Every radio station has a Dr. Johnny Fever, and Andy Travis and a Mr. Carlson.  The world of advertising is creative and cut-throat. You never know when the Intelligence Services have done their jobs and kept the public safe.  Good storytelling breaks a few rules.

The only rule when it comes to great conversations is to listen to each other and see where that takes you.  If you're blessed with friends like mine, they will make you laugh, tilt your head in confusion and most of all consider another angle entirely. Prayer shawls for everyone.

Muse

If you're "waiting on the Muse to strike" you're not going to get much writing done. Inspiration happens in a flash then it's all hard work from there.

You sit your butt in the chair and write a little bit every day. The words accumulate, the story appears and the editing makes it all pretty.  A Greek Goddess does not swoop down into your office and using a peacock feather hand write your novel in lovely flowing script.  The best you can hope for is that she will whisper in your ear as she occasionally breezes through your life.

While I've never had writer's block (thank the Goddess) I have experienced burnout.  Too many things going on, too many deadlines and not enough real life experiences that are vital to a rich writing life.  I've taken a break or two, once a project is completed, to recharge.  The longer I take to get back to the desk, the longer it takes to want to go back to a desk. I've learned to take a notebook and pencil out into the garden, carry one in my purse and utilize the voice recorder feature on my cell phone for those times when I'm driving and inspiration strikes. 

There are other times when Real Life is so demanding that the writing suffers.  It is physically impossible to make a day any longer than 24 hours.  Choices must be made, and as writing doesn't currently pay my bills, it's going to have to take the infrequent back seat. 

When that happens, I feel guilty as hell. Like I'm playing hooky from grade school, or smoking out back with the other 12 year olds.  It's a knee jerk reaction that has to stop.  Those breaks from writing are necessary.  I need to renew my enthusiasm or gather more information, or address other concerns in my life.

I'll get back to the desk. Sooner rather than later because I've built up a good backlog of story ideas, filled several files with research, and created a strong writing routine that is dependent upon discipline, deadlines and chocolate.

Bingo

I have so many thoughts juggling in my head right now it's like living inside the bingo machine on Thursday afternoons at the Senior Center. 

I'm dreaming about the assignment that's due tomorrow for the adult collection course for the library certificate. Once that's done, I have to make a reading map for the other course.

The pond has a critical leak and needs to be taken apart and repaired.

Bathroom plumbing needs to be addressed. It's something that can be done casually and over a beer but still it's run on too long.


It's mid-August and Christmas presents need to be started.

Most of the feedback is waiting for me to implement it in Heal, Casey.  There's a small window between these courses and the next in which I can finish that up and get it out. It's not going to get published from my desk.

Was it only last week that I was sitting beneath Nea's tree beside the falls and showing off Alex's haunts to some good friends?  That was a fantastic day and really helped bring Hell to Pay back to the forefront of my mind. I tossed the revisions in a drawer months ago and never looked back.

How does that happen?  See the above list. That's not the half of what needs to be done.  How do some people do it all? I need to clone myself or find a second job so I can hire out the household stuff.

In the meantime, I'll do what I can, make notes of the random thoughts that might make good stories down the road and get back to it.

Just so you know it's not all drudgery and stress, this is one of the bingo balls.  Sorry for borrowing your Richard, Miss Merry but MI5 is one of my latest obsessions.

Time Travel

I was too exhausted yesterday from all of my time traveling to put up a post when I got home last night.

It started within ten minutes of waking up when my nephew called and asked for a ride home from the campground 40 minutes from my house. I finished my breakfast, grabbed a towel, and headed out. First I drove through the little community that took me back six years when my friend and I would walk through Bubblegum Alley (so named after the colourfully decorated shops) and then down to the beach where we observed Mars one dark star-laden night.

Just a tad further down the road and it was more than 20 years ago where my boyfriend used to ride the wooden roller coaster that shot out over the lake. We'd go listen to bands in the crystal palace and I cried when they tore it down. 

I barely recovered from that trip when I went back two years earlier when my friend and I, with barely two nickels to rub together between us, would pile in the car and drive to the beach.  Singing our lungs out to Bela Lugosi's Dead, (not exactly easy to do), Strange Animall and Somebody . I dove into the Quarry and lost my $300 prescription sunglasses on the second day of owning them.  No matter how often we went back, or how deep the guys dove, no one ever found them but somewhere I still have a great sketch of a red fish wearing pink glasses.

I picked the nephew up and asked him if he'd found my sunglasses all of these years later. The story only amuses him because it didn't happen to him.  From there we drove twenty minutes towards the river and memories that are only 15 years old.

My apartment was so hot in the summer that I'd pack up a lunch,some water, fruit, the dog and my manuscript. We'd park ourselves along the river for the day. I'd attach the dog's chain to the cable that stuck out of the concrete slab at the water's edge. She'd bite the waves while I wrote. Sadly, both the dog and manuscript are long gone.

No more time traveling until after I dropped off the nephew and headed to my friend's further down the river.  Despite the fact that I drive by the house repeatedly throughout the year, as I came up to my great-grandfather's house, I turned into a seven year old child - playing tiddlywinks on the dining room carpet and sucking on a butterscotch candy. The musty smell of the attic invaded my noses as we trudged up into the echoing cavern.  We left with an old hatbox that to this day contains manuscripts.

As I drove into the village, time spun away from me. I could picture Grandpa arguing with the Parks employee who was appropriating Grandpa's land. Even though I wasn't even born for any of that,  I could hear his firm voice and quiet chuckle when he won that battle and kept his land. Wily old fox.

I drove down into the village past the old general store, past the printer's and the barn where Sir Isaac Brock died.  Surrounded by modern conveniences and antiques in my friend's historic home, the past and present merged to give me a headache.  Her husband pulled out some treasures he'd recently discovered while metal detecting; buttons, pins and clasps. I marveled at a teacup designed to keep a man's moustache dry. Then time swirled around as I read the document legalizing a Mr. Owen's indenture to a Mr. Lloyd.  Written on sheepskin and dated 25, June, 1812, it was in mint condition. 

The mind is an interesting thing; the way it works. Because there were times during the day when those memories were stronger than my awareness of my current surroundings.  I suppose that's part of what makes good writers; their ability to blur the line between imagination and reality - when characters come alive before your eyes; their thoughts and feelings as real as your own. 

Time traveling wasn't on my agenda for yesterday but it was interesting. Even if I have some 80's song lyrics stuck in my head -and absolutely no idea the name of the song or artist. then we danced/shared a little romance/then we ??? You see the pitfalls.

Thanks to Me, I found this video for another 80's classic And we Danced

Even when it isn't, it's always about writing

I've read a few blogs lately that suggest writing blogs can't be about writing forever. There's only so much you can say about writing; readers don't want to hear about the process; it takes away from creating the book about which you're blogging.

I disagree for several reasons. This blog has been invaluable in helping me clarify plot points, characterization or meet deadlines.  I receive plenty of emails about how sharing that process has encouraged readers to keep coming back (think special features on the the DVD) But the main reason I think writers can blog about writing indefinitely is that no matter what we're talking about, it's writing related.

We're writers. Everything in our life is filed away for future use. That doesn't mean that I mentally record every conversation or confidence so that I can plagiarize your life.  I notice the body language that accompanies those confidences. I remember the cadence of your voice.  I notice how weather, colours, food, music and scents evoke certain responses in different people. I listen.

When I'm out walking Ky or doing Casey's exercises, or swimming with the kids or exploring the gorge, my brain sorts through plot ideas.  A perfect day with Stashaholic bred a book.  I've put that project aside but it's interesting how many times a day I think of something to add to the ever expanding notebook I have for that particular book.

Writing takes place in our minds.  We take our consciousness with us everywhere we go throughout our day.  It's an essential requirement for all of our interactions. We can't get away from our own thoughts. Therefore no matter what I discuss on this blog, you can be sure in some way shape or form, it's related to my writing process.

Random posting about friends visiting from out of town - how do my characters interact with their communities? Do they hide from friends and coworkers, preferring to keep to their own company? Why? Are they gregarious, the life of the party, trying to drown out the screams of lonliness?

Random post about Yoda the Quaker Parakeet - do the characters have pets? Do they work with exotic animals? Do they empathize with the caged bird who refuses to come through the open door? Are they afraid to take control of their life?

Little of those thoughts end up spelled out so clearly in my final projects but they are all part of the process. Of course I steal from my own life when possible - Heal, Casey is an excellent case in point - but I also have a wicked imagination.  My brain takes a little bit of this,(a photgraph taken by a friend) mixes it with a dash of that (a lifetime of listening to Scottish mythology), adds a soupcon of spice(the light and shadows in the photograph)  and voila nymphs and demons in a pivotal scene from Hell to Pay.  I grew up believing in nymphs, fairies, little people and magic. It didn't take much for me to extrapolate a story out of all that.

My blog will always be about writing - even when it reads like rambling about the weather (HOT! and HUMID) this summer, a review for BB's Robin Hood or junk drawers

Enjoy

Writer insecurity

I finished Heal Casey this week and it's out to readers. 
My stomach is queasy and I think every single word is crap.

That is normal.

The only control writers have over their work is the actual writing of it. After that, there's a score of people who take over; readers, agents, editors, more readers.  It's scary to let go and trust others to recognize the brilliance of your creation. It's scary to pour yourself heart and soul onto the page for the world to read. It's scary to be so exposed and vulnerable knowing that not every word is perfect or golden. Someone somewhere is going to want some of those words changed. How many is my biggest concern.

I don't truly believe I'm a lousy writer. I'm simply nervous. I want to do this story justice and tell it in a way that moves people.

As I was writing this blog, one of my wonderful readers called to tell me how much she loved this book. Yes, it had a few problem areas but nothing that couldn't be easily tweaked.  She cried all the way through the book, even though she knew the story and how it ended. I was able to move her, but what thrilled me most about her call, was that this story, on this day, helped her cope with some serious issues in her own life.

Yet again, Casey heals.

Stuck

I'm having some tense trauma.

In the last post you may have noticed that I used past tense all the time I discussed Sir Guy's past experiences. But when I switched to what he was going through in season 3 my tense use switched as well. Past/past present/present.I was aware of it and left it alone on purpose.

But now I'm stuck with Casey's story. Most of it is told in first person, present tense. I'm using journal entries as the basic format. I've filled in the blanks or expounded on ideas, described techniques and therapies in contemporary past tense. I've added photos in this draft as well but that doesn't involve as much hindsight as the narrative asides.

When reviewing it the other day, it read strange with the back and forth of the tenses.; So I switched to present tense for the narrative and used italics for the journal entries. Perhaps, I've read it both ways too often but, neither one feels right. The first chapter is all narrative and past tense so it's possible that's what's throwing me off. It feels wrong to use present tense there as none of us had the understanding and awareness in the beginning that could only come from looking back at the consequences of our actions.

Here are two examples. The first is present/past:

As this was going to be a team effort, and to keep her both aware and involved, I asked Mom to keep a journal of the pup’s progress.His healing was her project, her idea and she’d fought hard to get him to us.I was concerned that she would feel left out once we’d gotten into the practical application of his therapies.Besides, he lived with her. She would be able to record more of his behaviour.

Mom’s Journal September 10/08

Casey joined us on September 9, 2008. He had his first appointment with Dr. Susanne Langdon who did an assessment and an adjustment. Dr. Langdon suggested that we contact Dr. Lisa Burgess, a veterinarian/acupuncturist for treatments which might improve the nerve damage in his leg. There is no feeling below the shoulder and Casey walks on his leg rather than his foot, with the leg bent upward. Moosonee Puppy Rescue’s vets decided the foot was fused backwards but Dr. Langdon says not so. Bones have not developed yet. The walking on his foot is a result of nerve damage to Casey’s leg. Dr. Langdon feels this may be correctable. Good news.

The second example is present/present:

Mom asked about his progress, mentioned Lisa’s prognosis of floppy foot forever. So Susanne brought out her reflex hammer. No real response. Out came the pizza cutter. He was so laid back – until she got to his baby toe (or that’s what it would be on a human foot anyway). The outside toe was sensitive. She ran it over that toe again and again from every angle and direction. It was the only toe to react but she felt the tendon contract every single time. He wasn’t all that aware of it but she said it was HUGE progress. Tomorrow we swim :)

Dad’s primary input into Casey’s therapies comes as the occasional driver, money man or hot tub assistant. The latter means he coaxes Casey out to the garage and the hot tub. Once I’m settled in the water, he hands the struggling pup over the side and into my arms. He also turns on the timer, hits the button for the jets and yells encouragement. Most of the time, he’s telling Casey to swim across Lake Ontario, chase the geese or head for shore. 

So which do you prefer?

More reasons for good back story

Several years ago, my friend Sage shared her obsession introduced me to the sheer entertainment that is BBC's Robin Hood. We're a year behind over here in North America but we've been buying the complete seasons when they've become available on DVD.  It's good clean fun the entire family can enjoy together.

There have been times when the writers have dropped the ball, or completely rewritten the legend so you never quite know what you're going to get.  Much has been made on the Internet of the Robin/Marian/Sir Guy love triangle.  For some strange reason I was always rooting for the most heinous Sir Guy. Partly, no doubt, because of the brilliant acting and nuances that Richard Armitage brought to the role. Partly, also I think, because there was so much more to Sir Guy in this version than just the Sheriff's lackey.

SPOILER ALERT below:

You may remember my fascination with backstory and all the history behind a person's action. Never was that more evident than in season three as Sir Guy's motivations and life history were revealed. I always suspected he was not all bad, some of his scenes with Marian in season one hinted at his social ineptitude. His obsession with her was at times creepy and others oddly sweet.  He truly loved her.  I knew there had to be a reason that he could so easily twist her kindness towards him as a proclamation of love. Of course, she manipulated his emotions for her own well-being so some of his confusion, and inability to keep up, stemmed from her actions.

Finally, in season three, his past is slowly revealed, a sister returns, the existence of a brother is discovered. All that he thought he knew about himself and the world around him might all be wrong. As we see how past events shaped his decisions, and he experiences the truth of those events, he is faced with decisions about his future.  While he can never atone for all of the lives he took, he can now see how far-reaching and wrong his actions were.  He will never be trusted, his redemption incomplete but he moves forward armed with better information and a desire to if not right some wrongs then at least minimize any future damage. 

Sir Guy was always a tortured and troubled soul. That doesn't change but he no longer subscribed to the life path that misery loves company.  Had his back-story not been revealed, I doubt the viewer would have accepted the changes that took place within him. 

The following video from episode nine is long, fan-made compilation but was the episode in which Guy's transformation solidified.