Well, that’s not entirely true. I have ideas. That’s not the problem. However, all of them seem self-indulgent and only of interest to me.

As I try and get myself together for the end of the ear, I’m racing in so many directions, and I can’t focus on what to do with today’s post.

Then, of course, I get that annoying self-loathing which is reminding me that I’ve failed to post on the previous two Sundays, and I’m feeling uncertain whether I’m going to have something ready for the next Sunday, which is, of course, Christmas.

All of this is served alongside my to do list, which includes a bunch of stuff that I was hoping to accomplish before Christmas.

This, apparently, is translating to a ramble-y stream-of-conscious post.

I just finished watching American Horror Story’s season finale, and as messed up as this season was (content-wise), I learned that they’re essentially creating a season-long anthology show, and that’s inspired, and inspirational to me.

I’m supposed to go to work tomorrow, and I will need to deliver some Christmas presents tomorrow night, before I go to my mother’s  for the holiday itself, and I’m honestly feeling like the holiday is something of an annoying distraction, and I’m resenting it, and feeling a bit Scrooge-y. In point of fact, I’m not feeling that Christmas is anything but a day of deadlines, presents due, column due, blog post, due.  Then the day after Christmas, I start working on the stuff I wanted to have done *before* the holiday, but, is now late, so I’m playing catch-up instead. Family photo album “Christmas present,” which I’ve only just started.  Backlog of writing work I failed to get done during the past two weeks.  Oncoming deadlines of ornaments (Jan. 7), thank you notes to write (Jan. 3), newsletter (Jan. 1), blog posts (2 plus a Word of the Day) and columns to send out. Columns which no one is even reading.

And they say that the holidays are stressful. No solid waste matter, Sherlock.

Part of me is glad I’ve given myself so much to do in the last few weeks, because it helps to distract me from feeling depressed about the holiday. Much better to  have little sense of the season than to notice that everyone is spending their holiday with children and significant others.

That busy plan was working pretty good until I wrote the above paragraph. Thanks so much, brain, for that one.

Does this post serve any purpose except to make feel slightly better about myself for not missing yet another deadline?  I’m not even sure I’m not just going to delete this thing, and just live with the continual shame of missing deadlines. Is that better? I don’t know.

I’ve got at least another hour’s worth of work to accomplish tonight, and I’m cold, and long for a warm bath and bed. I’m this close to letting that seduce me away from doing anything meaningful tonight.

Expletive this. I’m posting, and then thawing in the tub for a bit.

One of the things that is both a challenge and a joy for me every Christmas is the annual Santa letters. By this I don’t mean a holiday letter to my family, or a letter I send to the dead-letter bin at the Post Office, but rather, the letter I write from Santa to some of the special kids in my life.

I’ve been doing this for nine years now, and I think about them for months before I sit down and write them. I try and think of new adventures for Santa, and for the cadre of characters I’ve invented over the years. I try not to do too much duplication, and tried not to make them too scary.

I goofed one year, and one of the kids was really scared by the story, and, even though Santa triumphed in the end, it was scary for that kiddo in particular. Some of the younger kids weren’t bothered by the same story, it just happened to hit on specific fears he had, and I felt really horrible about it, not just for misjudging it, but, for not knowing my audience well enough to anticipate that.

I write the story first, either on the computer or long hand, then transcribe it onto Christmas paper in script. This serves two purposes, first, Santa would never print. He’s old school. Second, I always print, and no one would guess, from comparing my script to my print that they came from the same person.

I personalize it as much as possible, and try to refer to the things the kids are getting from Santa. I also try to mention things that “only Santa would know.” It takes at least an hour to transcribe the letter into script, and if I make enough mistakes, I start the page all over again.

The stories have had real white elephants, and black polar bears, and a whole mythology about the North Pole. Looking back on them year after year, they make me smile, and I try and imagine hearing them for the first time as a child on Christmas morning.

The hardest part for me is that I rarely get to see the kids’ reactions to the letters. Only twice have I been present on Christmas morning, when my sister read the letter for my nephews. I’ve missed seeing the faces of my namesake and my goddaughter hearing the stories for the first time, and I’m secretly wondered if they even liked them. I’d hear a few things from their parents, but, it’s not the same thing. And, I couldn’t very well ask the children about them.

I won’t wonder about that so much after this year. The letters seem to have a cumulative effect. First, the oldest child for whom I’ve written them (who just turned 12), still believes in Santa, which is later than I myself did, and I suspect that a good part of this is due to the fact that he’s gotten personal letters from Santa since he was three.

This year, when his family was putting up the tree, he collected all the letters from the past years, and took them to his room to study them. He analyzed the handwriting looking for secret codes, or a clue to Santa’s identity. He wanted to volunteer to go to the North Pole and help Santa fight the Nightmares. (The Nightmares are the very thing that frightened him six years ago.)

So, I guess, they had an impact.

Santa told him that while there wasn’t any coded message in the previous letters, it was a fun idea, and maybe next year he’d do that. I’ll work on it. Santa also told him that his sister needed him more than he did, but, that his offer was appreciated.

What I wanted to give these kids was a touch of magic, something that they would remember for their whole lives, even after they no longer believed in Santa. I would’ve done this with my own kids, but, as it’s increasingly unlikely that I will ever have kids of my own, I would just have to do it for other kids I love.

I don’t know how long it will last, and I suspect I will miss doing it for them when they’ve moved on. But, for now, I’ll enjoy that little touch of magic, and look forward to talking with the kids about the stories when they’ve grown. Maybe, they’ll let me write them for their kids one day.

As pretty much everyone knows, I’m a big fan of graveyards.  I’m quite fond of Mr. Gaiman, too, and so, it was time to check out this novel. From the library, ’cause, well, who doesn’t love the library?

I started this book last weekend, and have been reading it in spare moments. I finished it tonight, and am not at all ashamed to admit, I found myself  fighting tears in those last pages.

The Graveyard Book is the story of a young man who finds shelter as a toddler in an old graveyard. He’s protected by the ghosts from the man called Jack, who killed his family, and means to kill the boy.

The boy, who comes to be called “Bod,” short for “Nobody,”  is raised by the dead, who give him an education in more than just reading, writing and ‘rithmatic. He learns the history you can’t get in a text book, plus handy tips on how to stay hidden from the killer lurking just outside the gates of the cemetery.

Like most of Gaiman’s stories, there’s magic and myth woven together in the framework of the contemporary world.  The ancient cemetery, which holds many secrets and things beyond the experiences of the living, is an evocative backdrop for the tale as the lad grows up and has adventures in the land of the dead that he calls home.

I admit, part of me is jealous of a boy raised in one of those ancient burial grounds that traces its origins through millennia.  The sense of a place that reaches across great swats of time, binding past, present and future in that common human experience of life and death,  is magic in itself, even without the touch of the “fairy magic” in the tale.   How wonderful it would be to speak to the people whose names are etched on the stones, and learn about what they saw and learned, and find out what inspired their maddeningly tantalizing and vague epitaphs.

I will also admit, that I have, after spending time transcribing and photographing a cemetery, felt like I had a connection to the people that rest there. This probably sounds ridiculous, yet, still, it’s there.

I’ve come to notice that each cemetery has its own personality. This personality is a weird blend of those buried there, who “express” themselves through their markers, both in the art, and in the words they leave inscribed on the stone.

I always have had a good memory, and it seems to have an especial facility with cemeteries. I can always find, within a few feet, where a specific marker is, months or even years after I’ve completed the block. You say a name, and I can see the stone, and its surroundings. I can usually even recall the material it’s made of and the general look of it, each as unique to me as faces in a crowd.

The idea of knowing a cemetery as Bod does, every marker and tree root,  is, perhaps strangely, comforting to me. He had the additional bonus of knowing what the “residents” looked like, how the talked, and their own unique speech patterns, inextricably linked to a time long ago.

The graveyard that is Bod’s home had that same sense of place to me, and felt as authentic a cemetery as the ones I’ve visited. Through the book, I got to  know this place. It was hard to know that one day, the living boy would have to leave his home.  I could not help but feel that loss along with Bod, and there’s something beautiful in a story that can take the reader along the same paths as the main character.

A few months ago, I started working on my grand scheme to self-syndicate a column. It’s been something that had been in my head for longer than I care to admit, and before I knew what it was I would write about, or what the style would be.

I wrote many sample columns, I threw out many ideas, and finally I had hit on the style that felt “right.” Sure, it needs work to continue to improve and polish it, but, I could *hear* the right notes, and the false ones, for the most part, at least. It’s a work in progress.

I sent my first dozen or so to a few friends, and then, asked them to pick their favorites, the best of the best, the ones that I would use as my samples, the ones for the query packet.

One of the top vote-getters was the one about the “Cafe Du Monde.” I wrote it over my lunch hour one day, it was one of those that came pretty easily.

In the story, I have a conversation with a co-worker about the famous restaurant.  The co-worker was, in reality, a kindly gentleman, who’d been working at our workplace for many years, long before I did. His name was Buz Newman.

I sent my first batch of query letters out on Sunday. On Tuesday, I learned that Buz had died.

When I wrote the piece about the Cafe Du Monde, I thought about Buz. I think about him every time I see a Cafe Du Monde mug. I’ve not even seen or talked to the man in more than 5 years, but, he was the kind of person that sticks with you.

He was a man of subtle wit, and was a well-rounded sort of person who had good taste, and knew many things about a variety of topics. He was a person who didn’t ramble, nor did he say much at all, but, when he did, he conveyed a good deal with just a few words and a meaningful expression. He listened well, and when he was met with a puzzle, he would doggedly pursue the answer until he had it.  He would work for hours, ’round the clock, to get things back in working order, and not complain a bit, nor show any outward sign that he’d been at this for days straight with no rest.

I had not really thought this much about him, or remembered all these things about him until I saw his picture, and the obituary, and shared stories with others who’d known him. I wondered if there was some cosmic timing about the column going out to the wider world, and me learning that he was no longer in it.

I am now also wondering if he is mad that I turned him into a chatty woman in the story. The reality is that he’d said nothing more than “But of course,” when I’d asked him about the beignets, and he smiled broadly, and with that twinkle in his eyes, I knew he was pleased.

I am glad to have known this gentle, wonderful human being. I hope he’s still smiling, and will forgive my touch of “poetic license.”

Anyway, rest in peace, my friend.

Everyday, I write 500 words. It’s more than a goal, it’s a way for me to keep creating something. Most of those 500 words you don’t see right away. They’re the 500 words I just force myself to get down.

I do this at oh my gosh o’clock, early in the morning, at a time when even the sun laughs at me because it wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything at that hour. But, that’s the time when I’m not conscious enough to think every idea or word that I’m putting down is terrible. The editor in my brain is still asleep, so, I can get stuff by her.

Which is not to say that it’s always good stuff.

But, it’s stuff that is now out of my head, and in a format that I can start to shape and turn into something. It might be a something that ends up significantly shorter than 500 words. It might end up needing many more words. But, all of that is part of the process. (Yikes. That’s pretentious, isn’t it? Let’s call it something else in the final draft. What do you mean that it made the final draft? Is this mic still on? What do you mean people are reading this part too?)

Where was I? Oh yes.

It’s hard to call yourself a writer if you don’t write.

I have trouble calling myself a writer even when I do write. I think it’s because I know too many people who call themselves writers, and they’re terrible at it. And they never do anything with it and they never get any better at writing, and are an embarrassment to the title. It’s one of those terms they’ve chosen to put as part of their identity, and wear like a badge of honor, but, it has no outside validity. I don’t want to be one of those people. I don’t want to go around saying I am a writer, just for the simple fact that I can call myself one. I want to earn the name, not just use it. I want other people to be able to call me a writer, before I wear it like a crown.

I’m still about 100 words short of my goal for this morning, so, I need to continue, and a stray thought that this needs to be funnier has taken away my rhythm. Thanks for that, brain.

I put a good deal of pressure on myself to create excellent content. It needs to be content that people want to read. Content that they will enjoy. I don’t want to put out anything that will disappoint me or my readers. All ten of them.

Before it can be excellent content, it must be crappy content. And before it’s crappy content, it must first be content.

I want to make a joke about the content being content, but I’m not sure how to do it. I just got to the end of the previous paragraph and noticed it looked like I was saying that my content must first be content, and I wondered how to tell if my content was content, and thinking the homonyms are sometimes a pain in the tush, and I wish that my brain wasn’t so fond of wordplay because it always does that sort of thing and gets me off track.

This post is going to be an even bigger pain in the butt to edit, I can tell you that. And even though I’ve hit 600 words now, I’m not anywhere near a conclusion, so, I either need to keep going right now, or I need to save it and work on it later. Clearly, it’s a draft, and I’m not even sure if this one is anything more than rambling, so it may never even see the light of day.

What was I trying to say here?

I’m trying to say that I write something down everyday. Even if it’s crap. Even if it’s never read by another human being. I do it so that I have something written. Because, if I put it down, on a page, I can do something with it. I could re-write it and edit it and make it better, and then put it in front of an audience. Or I could decide to junk it. I can’t do any of those things unless I have something tangible to work with. Meaningful content doesn’t just appear. It’s got to be ripped out of the brain, then shaped, and polished. And so, I spend my mornings, every morning, ripping things out of my brain when it is numb and when it is half asleep, so it hurts less and barely notices. Then I’ve got something to work with. A place to start.

I have been thinking long and hard about posting more than the Word of the Day. Especially, of course, since I’ve not posted a Word of the Day in over a year. Someone’s bound to notice something is odd about that.

In part this is to defend my “Geek of all Trades” title, which inherently demands some sort of proof.

I myself would demand proof had I seen such an appellation anywhere else.

Some days, I wish I had not been noted as having “31 flavors of Geek” by my friends, not because I am ashamed of it, but because the truth is really painful.

And I’m a tad ashamed of it.

But only because with every flavor of geek, I get a tiny bit more foreign to the “non-geek” set.

Geek might be somewhat chic these days, but, there’s geek, and there’s downright weird.

And who knows? There’s no telling how long geek-chic will be acceptable. Should anything change, there could be pitchforks and angry mobs, and as strange as I am, I could be learning about the business end of an angry mob. If it comes to that, I don’t really want the “non-geek” to know the full extent of my “geekery.”

You won’t tell anyone, will you?

Good. We’ve got that settled.

I will be posting on three main topic areas: Television, which will feature thoughts and reviews on my current favorite story-telling medium; Colorado, which is my home and the land I love; and what I call general “geekery;” thoughts on things like games and game design, geek culture, comic books, cooking, theater, or whatever else occurs to me at the moment.

My plan is to post the Word of the Day on Tuesdays, and post on the other topics on Sundays and Thursdays.

I have a feeling I won’t be getting much sleep.

Three areas is broad. For me, it’s also tiny.

Part of the reason I want to focus on three areas is that this is an experiment. I want to explore some possible niches, and see what happens.

On a deeper level, one of my ongoing challenges is focus. I’ve always had too many interests. I’ve never really had one that was clearly stronger than the others. I’ve always really envied people who confidently announce they’ve known what they wanted to do since they were 12 minutes old.

Part of me is hoping that by focusing on the strongest of my interests that I will find where the synergy lies. Or, maybe it’ll force something to stand out. Maybe it’ll make it clear that the melody is derived from playing all the bits together.

Whatever the answer turns out to be, I’m looking forward to the journey, and I’d love for you to be a part of it. Read along, tell me what you are enjoying, why you read, and what topics tend to offer the most value to your life. Should be a fun ride.

I remember reading about people who got good jobs, worked at the same company for their whole careers, and then retired with a gold watch and a lovely pension after 40 years of service. I think it must’ve been a book of fairy tales.

Certainly, no one I know has worked for the same company their whole career. Very few have even been at the same place more than five years, and only a handful have hit the decade mark.

I’ve been thinking about all this quite a good deal the last few days, as I have, once again, become unemployed. This is the 5th time over the course of the last 12 years I’ve found myself laid off.  My penultimate (Look it up. It’s good for you) job even sent me my own job to post on their web site (they wanted someone that had more credentials and they wanted to pay that person much less than they paid me).

Of the five layoffs, four of the companies are still in existence. As befitting a geek in this age, I’ve also been part of four different dot com startups. Three of those failed. One still owes me money.

I don’t mention any of this so that I can get sympathy, or to make anyone uncomfortable.  I say it because each layoff has made me see that I’m not really wanting to jump back into that world. I’m hoping to be able to look back at this as the turning point in my life, where I’m not going to be afraid that one day, someone’s going to come in and tell me to take my stuff and go. I’m not going to have to suffer weeks of anxiety from the moment layoffs present themselves to the moment that the axe falls.  I’m hoping to turn it into an opportunity to fall on my own face. Or, maybe, be a successfully self-employed whatever I am.

And, it turns out, I’m simply joining part of the new “Gig Economy.” Increasingly, more and more people are doing this type of “piecemeal” work, multiple jobs, many different types of work, and doing whatever it takes to earn the basics of their livelihood. I listened to a discussion about this trend on NPR last week, and they said that one-third of all workers in today’s economy make their living in this fashion.

I still think the web holds an unprecedented opportunity for people to be able to build a business out of practically nothing. I’m well aware that it’s not a get rich quick environment, but, after several months of working at it slowly, the first seeds are starting to bloom, which has surprised even me.

Part of me has always craved the security of having a job, and knowing that I’ll always have a job. I’d even imagined that if I did have a job, I’d work for the same company until I retired. I’m a loyal sort of person.  Also, I really hate job hunting. Ironic, isn’t it?

My ultimate goal was to quit my job when I had managed to get a consistent revenue stream secured. No matter. There’s no time like the “living on severance” time. Here goes nothing.