‘T’was the night before Christmas

I’d like to offer a gift to the readers of my blog. I’m going to make .PDFs out of a few of my books, and if anyone would like one (or two), just let me know. Yes, it’s like the gift of “let’s listen to my kid play the piano” (which my mother NEVER did–she used to tell me, “That’s enough,” all the time when I practiced, and still would, except that I can’t play right now because of the pulled muscle/carpal tunnel/whatever this power-stealer is); I’m grateful to be able to type again). But, like the little drummer boy. . . .

Hubby has the flu. We went to the doctor on the day after Solstice (which is also Hubs’ birthday–poor baby) and he got Tamiflu and Levaquin (for a suspected bacterial infection of his sinuses), along with instructions to rest and get that back molar fixed. The dog is still coughing with bronchitis, and my mother is in one of her full-blown depression/mad-fit phases (over my aunt and all the people she misses–and also because we aren’t having Open House and a bunch of visitors this year, mostly because it’s simply impossible.) I’m sad and contemplative as usual, but that’s nothing new. I hope to get some writing done on one of the newer books when things calm down. Right now I need to make a run to CVS for a last-minute gift or two. Does the breakneck pace never end? I’m happy that I only have a touch of the sniffles (I also got put on the Tamiflu.) And that we have rain instead of “a wintry mix”.

Today is a day for celebration and feasting and gatherings. I wish you all the best of festivals, whichever one you choose to celebrate (even if it’s only the “day off from work and stores are closed” day), and a safe and pleasant two days of travel or staying put. Hope Santa brings you everything you want!

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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