BryonySeries at the North Pole Christmas Market

So my "wish list" event for many years was participating in the North Pole Christmas Market at Joliet's annual "Light Up the Holidays" event, which is held every year in several downtown locations the day after Thanksgiving.

The Joliet City Center Partnership hosts a wonderful event with live entertainment, ice skating, horse-drawn carriages, visits with Santa, ice sculpture demos, children's Ferris wheel, slide, tree lighting (canceled this year due to construction downtown), and a large parade towards evening.

Usually by the time I had my family holiday schedule (who was doing what, when, and where), I'd run out of time to apply.

This year I was smart (it happens sometimes), and I applied early. And I was accepted!

So needless to say...

Bertrand and Uncle Barty are super excited to attend, especially since I was asked to also be part of the entertainment and read some Christmas stories to the children (with a special giveaway, details on Monday).

And we also have some special "extras" planned at my booth.

The main one is a BryonySeries miniature backpack, which is doubling as a swag bag for the event. I'll be giving twenty of these bags away from my booth during the event. I'll share the details of that bag on Tuesday.

But we also have two more giveaways.

For any book purchase in the $15 dollar-ish range, you may take home one of these purple music roses (while supplies last), created by Joliet Public Library Youth Services Clerk Jan Stack.

And we also have crocheted mice for adoption for adoption for those who purchase three Bertrand books for $15, which is discounted from $7 for each book, one mouse per three books (while mice are available).

Bertrand knows each and every one of them, and he can assure you they will make lovely companions, all of which will be very thankful to have a new home for the holidays.

Happy Thursday!

Good Stories

I love a good human interest story.

I love to hear them, tell them, and preserve them through writing (features or fiction).

Now most people aren't excited to get hospitalized, and I am one of them. But I heard three three good stories three people told me on Sunday that I wouldn't have heard, had I not been admitted for observation and tests over this past weekend.

Not only are the stories good, the stories remind us that real people, most of the time with good hearts and values along with their skills, are treating us when we are ill. 

In the first story, a health care worker shared with me that he's from one country, grew up in a second that has universal health care and euthanasia (and shared personal experiences), and prefers the United States over all countries. 

What prompted the story? A short discussion about why I was here with reassurance that I was in the best place and having the best tests to figure out the issue. 

In the second story, a surgeon shared the disastrous results when one patient used the internet to diagnose and treat a bowel condition. Except the problem was serious and severe: with bowel strangulation and adhesions choking off other internal structures.

What prompted such a story? A review of my medical history, which includes the pheochromocytoma (almost all health care workers without fail want to hear more because pheochromocytomas are so rare).

Yes, I did research my symptoms online. But perhaps because I'm a journalist, I apply critical thinking to my search results, the who, what, when, where, why, and how surrounding the information I'm reading.

During that time, I also tracked physical symptoms along with clinical ones, such as blood pressure and pulse measurements.

And I searched and logged for nearly nine months before I had a diagnosis.

It's having that discernment and applying the good old scientific method I learned as a kid in school.

So he wanted to hear more. And he shared how disastrous internet advice for health issues can be.

I did not argue with him. Because I know it's true. And it's certainly a good cautionary tale.

The third story is the most sublime. This one came from my the doctor serving as my primary in the hospital, an older doctor who is also a specialist in a particular area of medicine.

He, too, wanted to talk about the pheochromocytoma and even had some experience with it in past patients. But he never had a patient whose tumor had bled as mine had (even more rare - just 85 documented cases since 2021 - and the mortality rate goes way up when it happens.). And so, he was curious about it.

So we talked a bit, and I even name-dropped the surgeon at Mayo Clinic, who still wanted to operate on me (once I was stabilized) and did so successfully when other doctors thought I was too high risk and should just go home.

I shared with this primary how very aware I was of the fact I should have died in 2002 and how I never take a day for granted. 

Now, I didn't take days for granted before the tumor either.

But when you're still alive twenty-one years later from something unfamiliar to most people that most doctors have never seen, and that thing should have killed you, the gratitude is more sublime, I think.

So then this doctor shared a story that he told his wife, that they are on the downswing of life. He said that each time they go to dinner together, they should enjoy it that much more, for the dinners they will share will continue to be fewer and fewer now they are older.

"We will not go together," he said. "Either she will go first, or I will go first."

For that reason, he said, we should cherish each day and our time together.

Have a beautiful Wednesday!

Dreaming Up a Good Story

These were my two thoughts at 3:40 this morning.

No. one: Wow, getting rid of a headache is rather nightmarish (It's been a long couple of months of off and on again migraines).

No. two: This would make a great story.

Here's the dream:

I dreamed that someone I knew wanted to murder someone in Elwood and then commit suicide. Because I knew this person would kill me and my two youngest kids (who were pretty little in the dream), I pretended to go along with it.

So this person began to confide in me. The medium was poison. And she showed me the syringe she was going to use.

Now the setting was bizarre. It looked like a department store on the main floor (We were standing in the medicine department), but my kids were hanging out in the basement. In fact, they were waiting for me to come downstairs and watch TV and color with them.

A few aisles away, several police officers were giving another acquaintance some free food. I had a package of frozen ravioli someone had given me, so I added it to the distribution, quickly tipped off the police officers, and fled to the basement, locking and bolting the door.

I heard lots of angry yelling from upstairs for a long time and then quiet.

Before long, I heard the door rattle and one of the policemen saying everything was fine now and to come out.

By now, I was semi-conscious but still wrapped in the dream.

It's also when I realized my mistake.

By hiding away, I could no longer see the activity on the other side of the door.

Now, everything seemed too convenient.

Was it a friend or foe on the other side?

And did he now have the syringe?

At this point I woke up, fully alert, had the first two thoughts, and decided it would be stupid to get up so early.

So I set the alarm for 4:30 and went back to sleep.

I'm always amazed by the way our minds reassemble bits of information. Here's what it did:

The last emails I sent at bedtime were to several police officers for a story in progress.

My oldest son, who is diabetic, but non-insulin dependent,  is having health issues and used to live in Elwood.

I had read a post from a person receiving food before bedtime.

Also before bedtime, I had printed and packaged up some coloring sheets for my grandchildren.

Rebekah and I made a list of things we need from Walmart on Saturday.

And she wanted to make the frozen ravioli with the pork chops, but I told her to save it for later and use the potatoes instead.

And, of course, I like a good story twist.

The End.

An amazing marriage proposal for an amazing girl

"Dead Serious," by Kristina Skaggs

For Michael Hudson, a routine doctor's appointment brings shocking news: he's not sick; he's dead.
But although being dead has some distinct advantages, before Michael will take the doctor's word, he needs confirmation. “You’re dead.”

This is the first story Kristina Skaggs, co-owner of Complete Chiropractic and Wellness Center in Joliet (www.completechiroandwellness.com), published  on Bryony's website.

She is also the founder of "Write On," the writer's group that meets every first and third Thursdays of the months at the Three Rivers Arts Council in Minooka (http://www.three-rivers-arts.org/index.htm). Read Kristina's blog at www.pokkadotdog.wordpress.com.

  

Michael Hudson glanced up at his doctor, suspecting there was more to what she’d just said. There wasn’t. He decided to ask her to elaborate. “Are you sure?”

   
“Yes.”

  
Doctor Michelle Hughes clicked her pen several times, as if spanking a bad child on its bottom, and continued to script and scroll through paperwork. A bad cold was one thing, but to be dead was a completely different scenario. Would family and friends need to be contacted? How much paperwork would this involve?

  
“You’ve been dead for a while. I’m surprised you were even able to make this appointment.”

His doctor clicked her pen once more and placed it into her lab coat pocket. Her lips, when she went over the charts, made lines, which he did not find charming. Mostly, they frowned.

   
“I should….”

   
“You should relax, Mr. Hudson. You are dead now. These things happen.”

  
The pat on the back she gave him was friendly, but nothing more than a pat on his back. She began to walk away, indicating the end of their appointment. But she paused and turned her head back to him, as if getting one last look at the dead guy. Whatever thought she had to say made a final attempt as her lips parted. He thought how the color of her lipstick made her look crass. Dr. Michelle Hudson closed her mouth, turned the knob on the door, and walked out, leaving Michael in nothing but a thin juniper-colored exam gown.

  
“Dead.”

  
Saying it aloud, the word was foreign coming out of his mouth. Here, he thought he was just sniffling too much. Snot had a way of annoying him, and it was never tolerated. He’d go around with Kleenex sticking out of both nostrils, if he had to get things done. But, no. Now, he was dead.

  
Michael got dressed in the khakis and polo he’d arrived in. They were comfortable, better than the gown. He looked as if he’d just come from a game of golf. But maybe it would have been better to have died in a suit? He looked better with a tie on. He assumed most dead people walked around in their last worn clothes. He would be the dead guy in a polo.

  
The receptionist at the office didn’t ask him to pay his bill; the taxi driver who took him home didn’t ask for his fare. As far as Michael knew, being dead was a free world. At his apartment, the clothes piled up in his laundry basket did not wash or dry themselves. Can’t have everything.

  
After a lunch, which he had to make himself, Michael decided to call his family and friends. They had to know about his predicament. They had to know he was dead.

  
“Hey, Dad.” Michael rubbed his head raw, trying to come up with the best way to tell his parents.

His father pitched him the perfect segue," Michael, how are you?”

  
“Turns out I’m dead.”

  
There was silence on the other line. A pregnant pause so long Michael thought the connection had been lost.

  
“Dad?”

  
“I’m here, Michael. Your mother and I knew that you’d figure this out, one way or the other. Truth is, you’ve been dead for awhile.”

  
This time, it was Michael’s turn to be pregnant.

“You still there, Michael?” His mother’s voice lit up the line, and Michael knew she’d have a better way to explain it.

  
"Mom, how could I have been dead without knowing it?

   
“Sweetie, it’s been going on for quite some time now, honestly. I thought you knew. We figured it out at your junior high school dance. You took that one impressionable young girl from church…Maggie…Marcia….”

   
His mother strained to make her memory recall this girl’s name.

  
“Mary,” his father threw in.

  
“No, she was blonde with those cute ring curls. I always wanted a daughter so I could curl her hair like that.”

  
“Mom,” Michael blushed on the other line.

   
“Anyway, that’s when we knew. You took Mary or Marcia to the dance, and the entire time that you wanted to hold her hand or kiss her, you never did. She sat with her group of friends and left with
them afterward.”

   
He was dead because he hadn’t touched Mary/Maggie/Marcia? Michael needed to make some more calls.

   
The afternoon was spent dialing friends from the office, friends from college, friends from high school. His best friend Mike told him he’d been dead since the day he passed up a promotion at work. His high school friend, Mickey, told him he was dead when he refused to smoke pot after gym class.

There was one more number he needed to call. It was Michaela Kerry’s number, which had been burned into his memory three years prior, when they’d been dating. First on, now they were officially off.

  
Michael had scrubbed his routine clean. He would ask if she remembered him. If she said yes, and he hoped she would, he would tell her that some startling news had come upon him. He was dead. That had gone so well with the others, they knew exactly what he was calling about before he even had to say it.

   
“Hello?” Her crisp voice answered on the third ring.

Michael stuttered.

   
“Hello?” she asked, this time with more urgency in her voice, but still blanketed with her sweet politeness.

   
“Michaela, this is Michael. Do you remember me?”

    
It sounded so silly, to be asking an ex-girlfriend that question. Of course, she did remember, but had she wanted to forget him.

  
“Michael?” The name rolled off her tongue as strangely as it rolled off his.

  
“Yes.” He paused for the powerful effect. “I’m dead.”

   
“Dead?” she asked.

  
“Dead,” he repeated.

“Well, I don’t know about dead,” she scoffed. A nervous laugh trickled down her through the phone wire. “You were very serious and uptight, but you weren’t dead.”

  
Michaela went into a few stories he would have liked to forget. The time at the movies when the popcorn was too salty; the sock drawer he meticulously organized; the kitten heel shoes of hers he’d tripped over. If she didn’t think he was dead after the assortment of occurrences leading up to their break-up, then why did everyone else think so?

  
Michael hung up, feeling better about death, knowing that maybe it wasn’t so bad, as long as your ex doesn’t think you’re dead, just serious.

Leslie Ormandy and "Simply Supernatural," Part 2

Leslie Ormandy teaches two Vampires in Literature courses at an Oregon community college, has re-edited and published Varney the Vampire, and is the originator of the site www.simplysupernatural-vampire.com, a delightful stopping point of all things vampire.

There, Ormandy has links to a wide variety of Victorian literature; a collection of her vampire short stories, as well as the stories and essays her students have written; and links to whimsical items for vampire fans, such as festivals, crossword puzzles, clothing, and movies.

Ormandy has also included essays and links on many vampire characteristics and topics including sex, the victimization of children, children as vampires, porphyria, evil, Dracula, religion, euthanasia, vampire as metaphor, and more.

7)  What else does the class contain?

"We talk about vintage vampire poetry; we look at some modern stuff; and they all try writing a vampire sonnet and a vampire haiku. We’ve talked about vampires as pedophiles, and, at some point, we talk about religion, because you can’t really talk about vampires without talking about religion. I wrote a short story, The Blood is the Life, about a vampire who could walk into a church because she had once accepted God.”

8) I understand you provide modern translations for several vintage stories. What led you to re-edit Varney the Vampire?

"It’s a lost story. Very few people read it, although it was once massively popular, like Twilight. Everyone was reading it, and it spawned many look-alike stories, but now, no one reads it. Also, I’m good at Victorian syntax and explaining things. It was a big undertaking, but no one else was doing it. The story is fascinating. It’s love, romance, and vampires feeding.”

9) Where do you draw inspiration for your short stories?

"A theme will suggest itself, and the little muse will sit on my shoulder and demand I write the story. I just cannot rest until I do. It’s kind of scary what comes out of my psyche.”

10) What are the criteria for student submissions?

"I am an academic and picky. Submissions have to be well-written and connect with both humans and vampires. It’s hard to define what’s well written. You just know it when you read it.”

11) Who’s your site’s primary audience?

"I have a different audience than many other vampire sites. My audience tends to be more academic, but the site is not just for my students. I’m quite well-read in the UK and Europe, and I have a large following in Russia.”

12) I understand you’re currently enjoying steampunk literature. What was your introduction to it?

"My daughter brought a steampunk book home from the library. It had vampires in it and it was set in the Victorian period, thus combining two of my favorites.”

13) What made the most impact from your trip to London for a vampire conference?

"A lot of manuscripts are buried in libraries, so the stories literally have not been read since that time period. It was incredible to touch books that old. I’d like to explore more pre-Victorian vampire stories and Greek vampire stories.”

  

"The Golden Fleece," by Nathaniel Hawthorne

First published in 1853 as part of Tanglewood Tales (Greek mythology adapted for children), The Golden Fleece is the story of the ancient Greek hero Jason, leader of the Argonauts, and their quest for the Golden Fleece, owned by King Aeetes, which upon its presentation to Pelias, would remove that king from the throne, where Jason rightfully belonged.

The story is full of the usual stuff that makes epic tales fun to read: prophecy (Jason loses a sandal in the river after helping the goddess Hera, in disguise, cross it, fulfilling the legend that a one-sandaled man would take the throne from Pelias), adventure (fire-breathing oxen, warriors that spring from sowed dragon's teeth, and battle with the dragon itself), and romantic tension (Aeetes' daughter Media, an enchantress in love with Jason, uses her magic to help rescue the fleece), not to mention Hawthorne's delightful writing style:

Be that as it may, it has always been told for a fact (and always will be told, as long as the world lasts), that Chiron, with the head of a schoolmaster, had the body and legs of a horse. Just imagine the grave old gentleman clattering and stamping into the schoolroom on his four hoofs, perhaps treading on some little fellow's toes, flourishing his switch tail instead of a rod, and, now and then, trotting out of doors to eat a mouthful of grass! I wonder what the blacksmith charged him for a set of iron shoes?

Read it at http://www.eldritchpress.org/nh/tt07.html.

"Leiningen versus the Ants," by Carl Stephenson

In Leiningen Versus the Ants, Carl Stephenson (1893-1954), opens the story with a native vainly trying to explain to a self-made, wealthy plantation owner in Brazil to flee for his life because the ants are coming.

The owner, Leinginen, placidly puffing on a cigar, is unconcerned. By sheer will and brain power, he has already outwitted man, beast, and pestilence, so a new challenge almost excites him.

But when Leinginen encounters the twenty-mile square mass of intelligent, determined ants who outwit one foil after another, Leinginen realizes the truth of the native's words, "before you can spit three times, they'll eat a full-grown buffalo to the bones," and embarks on a battle of wits that will only end when either he or the ants are dead.

www.classicshorts.com/stories/lvta.html

Christmas Vampire Stories and More

Here is a site run by an Oregan community college teacher who offers two "Vampires in Literature" Courses.
http://www.simplysupernatural-vampire.com/index.html

On this site, there are several Christmas vampire stories, as well as classic literature, poetry, essays, cartoons, and links to festivals, clothing, etc.

If you're into vampires, then you'll want to check this out.

NaNoWriMo Whatever Day It Is and Giving Thanks

Okay, since I've delayed the official Herald News story,  here's the incident that (sort of) kicked me out of the National Novel Writing Month.

I love antiques, and my house is full of them. One particularly heavy dresser, with heavy drawers that stick, belonged to my maternal grandmother. On November 9th at  8:15 p.m. exactly (I know because I had just looked at my computer clock and realized I was fifteen minutes later feeding the cats), I decided to grab some cozy flannels and set up for a shower while the kitties were eating.

As I was shoving the resisting drawer back into place, my calico, Faith, decided at that moment to leap across the room and grab onto the draw to peer inside. I slammed her paw flush into the drawer, leaving her dangling. I never heard an animal scream as she did. I quickly pulled on the drawer, and as I did, Faith, in pain and fright, sank her teeth into my thumb.

Owwww! PAIN!

The drawer popped; Faith dashed away; and I knew I was in trouble. I flew down the stairs and into the bathroom and started washing out the wound in hot, soapy water, forcing the pinholes to bleed. Faith stood at the top of the ladder crying, crying, crying. My thumb was already reddening and swelling, but it seemed impossible infection could be developing so soon. The redness, I told myself, was because I have chronic hives; the warmth I felt was due to the fact I was running my hand under hot water; the swelling and tenderness was trauma to the thumb bone.

I comforted Faith and then showered and climbed into bed, but the status of my thumb bothered me. I remembered the past cellulitis incidents of my children and how rapidly a soft tissue infection could spread. I recalled a neighbor who, after noting a slightly red hair follicule, took a short nap and awakened to a swollen face; he died en route to the hospital. I switched on the light and examined my hand. The thumb was definitely red and swollen. I turned the computer back on and typed in "cat bites."

I learned one could adopt a "wait and see" approach with some dog bites, depending on their severity, but cat bites must always be considered a medical emergency. The combination of their long, sharp fangs and the particular type of bacteria they carry in their mouths meant a bite from them literally injected that bacteria directly into soft tissue. I was already sleepy from the drowsy antihistamines I take at bedtime, so I needed a ride.

Ron had to be at the warehouse in three hours, so waking him up was the worst option. Timothy was already in bed and had to be at work at seven o'clock in the morning. Christopher had been dragging all day and was nearly asleep, but he works from home and had nothing pressing to do the next morning. Sooo, after enduring all of his "you're paranoid" and "this can wait until tomorrow" comments, we were off to the ER.

Confession time. I don't know if it's because I have allergies, chronic hives, and asthma (and have experienced the unpleasant consequences of those afflictions), but I have a medical phobia. I am not afraid of hospitals or needles, but of the substances I have to swallow--or have injected into me--in the name of healing. I fear nasty side effects and allergic reactions. I FEAR them. However, I feared worse what might happen to me should I not treat this a cat bite, so here I was in this unhappy predicament.

The ER trip was straightforward, as I feared it would be. One tetnus shot (My last one was in the summer of 1986) and my choice of two antibiotics. Because I'm allergic to penicllin (big surprise), the protocol is one antibiotic from each of two lists. The nurse rattled off two medicines I'd never had--doxycycline and clindamycin--which meant, if I became allergic to either one, I wouldn't know which one.

Sigh. Decisions.

Let's back up. Just two weeks ago, my daughter and web administrator Sarah Stegall had four wisdom teeth removed. Preoperatively and during the post-op period, she took low doses of prescribed clindamycin. On day nine of her treatment, she emailed me a photo of a pimply-looking rash over her shoulders and chest and asked me if it was subcutaneous emphysema. I called her.

"Subcutaneous emphysema? Do you know what that is?"

"No," she said, "but a friend had it after having wisdom teeth pulled."

"That's not Subcutaneous emphysema, but I am concerned about the rash."

Sarah was not. "It doesn't itch."

"Doesn't matter. Have you ever had a rash like this?"

"No. I woke up with it today."

"I'll call you back."

I researched clindamycin reactions and found it can, indeed, produce a distinct pustular rash. I emailed Sarah and told her to show her pharmacist. She agreed to do it later. I awakened the next morning to frantic texts from Sarah. She was in the ER, rash spreading, throat tightening, in pain with two dry sockets and waging war with the doc on call, who claimed it was impossible to have an allergic reaction to a major antibiotic. Abridged ending 9minus the unprintable comments I had about the doc): antibiotic stopped, new pain meds initiated, and an ER trip to the dentist for socket packing. Fast forward to cat bite.

"Can I take Bactrim?" I'd had drug for the first time last year for a leg abcess (another long story), and I had tolerated it "okay."

That eliminated the doxycycline, but the nurse insisted I still needed the clindamycin. I told her about Sarah's reaction and my phobia.

"Have you ever tried Flagyl? We could use that one instead."

I didn't like that option either because that was another unproven drug for me. SIGH! Yes, I know there's only one way to prove it.

"Well," I said slowly. Rebekah did well with clindamycin. I'll try it."

The nurse brought in the clindamcyin first and suggested I wait half an hour before taking the Bactrim. That way, if I had a negative reaction to the clindamycin, I'd have it in the ER.

Well, I did fine with the Clindamycin, and then the Bactrim, so I was sent home with the next morning's dose and told to expect the hand, which was now as swollen as the thumb, to get worse before it got better. I was also instructed to elevate the hand as much as possible, although typing was not prohibited. Just what a features writer on deadline wants to hear.

By next afternoon, I was running a low grade fever, and the infection was traveling up my arm. The plan was to now temporarily stop the Bactrim and initiate ER IV anitbioitic treatments with a powerful cephalosporin used to treat bacterial meningitis. In theory, so I wouldn't have to be stuck each night for the next five nights was to leave the port in my arm. However, I ended up blowing every vein, so the result was a painful arm by day and a new stick each night.

On Monday night, after the last treatment, and as I was stepping out of the shower, I noticed a familiar-looking rash over my chest and shoulders. It was Day Five of the clindamycin. I called the ER (It was 10:30 at night), rattled off my dilemna, and mentioned my next dose was due in an hour. I was to resume the Bactrim in the morning.The nurse consulted with a doc and told me to stop the antibiotic and see my primary tomorrow.

I did, hoping I had enough germ-busting drugs in my system to skip choice number two from list number two, but I wasn't that lucky. She wrote a one-week prescription for Flagyl. From the very does, swallowed at home in a flurry of anxiety, and, within ten minutes, I felt a tightening of my body from head to toe.
\
Now, let me explain that I experienced a similar reaction to an abundance of epinephrine when I had the pheochromocytoma (an adrenal gland tumor; again, another long story), so I dismissed (sort of) the reaction to my anxiety. I also had the same reaction to H2 agonists last year when a doc prescribed them as a secondary drug for the hives, but that drug also produced a rapid heartbeat, which did not happen with the Flagyl.

Do you see why I have a drug phobia?

Sooooo, since tachycardia was absent, I chalked up the reaction to nerves. The next morning, I hardly felt the squeezing, but the following night, it was back. The following morning's dose was fine and so on, until Friday night when, five minutes after I swallowed my Flagyl, I experienced a pressure so strong, I had difficulty swallowing and typing; my muscles painfully ached. That's when I realized my morning reaction might be milder because I was full of all the antihistamines from the previous night.

Shaking all over, I called my doctor, and she told me to stop the medicine and complete the Bactrim. As a precaution, she suggested I add Benadryl to my anithistamine cocktail, but since I take so many and with "off label" dosees, I decided to monitor my symptoms and go to the ER, if necessary. I was fine.

I did, noticing the Bactrim also caused the same symptoms, just milder, so it's definitely a drug I will use with caution in the future.

So what does this all have with National Writing Month? Well, these allergic reactions and infection treatments took a huge bite (so to speak) out of my already tight schedule, as I frantically rushed to complete the assignments already on deadline.

I did, however, establish a habit of working on the prequel for one hour a day. Basically, I go through every chapter, flesh out the outline in place (not quite to the first draft stage yet), and make lists of the topics needing further research. I have worked my way through nearly a third of the prequel so far and that is one-third farther along than I was October 31.

I also, for the first time, had no assignments bleeding into the four-day Thanksgiving weekend. This meant I made a nice dent into the beginning editing of Visage, of which I am highly pleased.

Finally, I found some wonderful support and understanding in the person of Tommy Connolly, Bryony's media researcher and developer, who recently appeared on Animal Planet's Extreme Animal Phobia series to treat his bat phobia.

Every day, he sent a nice Facebook, "How's the paw," message and encouraged me in my courageous facing of the medicines. While I'm not quite at the stage of saying, "Wow, I'm so glad this happened. Look at all the good that came from it," I'm certainly thankful and appreciative of those things, just the same.

And Faith? Well, she was a little shy the following morning, but we cuddled and made up. Seriously, if she would have slammed my hand in the drawer, I probably would've bitten her, too.

Harder.

Arghhh!!! It's Monday morning.

And a crazy Monday it is.

Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines: three stories and one press release, plus a fundraising story. I love fundraising stories, but the "why" is for another post.

In between, I've answered questions about Vamp Fest (the October 14 "Bryony" themed fundraiser for Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and Grundy Counties--www.bbbs

NaNoWriMo Day #9 and Sneak Peek at "Bryony" Music

Bryony Prequel, Section One, Chapter 8: check!

Word Count: 818

It's James Onohan Wednesday!

The official Bryony CD, The Best-Loved Compostions of John Simons is released and available for purchase through James' website. Samples of all the tracks, including the Bryony theme song, are also on that site.

Even if you're not a lover of piano music, I think you will find James' music hauntingly beautiful. And if you do enjoy quality piano music, no further words are required. A recent reviewer of Bryony just emailed me and said the music sounds just like John. So while you're waiting for Bryony's release, check out this music and get a glimpse into the personality of Bryony's lead vampire.

To listen, visit http://jamesonohan.webs.com/My%20Life%20Bryony.html

NaNoWriMo Day #8 and How Soon Before "Bryony" is Available?

Bryony Prequel, Section One, Chapter 3: Check!

Word Count: 842

Very soon, I hope!

Now that the "red tape," has HOPEFULLY been resolved (and which details, I also hope, can be shared in another blog), I'm meeting with Bryony's book designer on Friday, and we're picking through my notes in the proof copy.

Again, hopefully, we shall finish that last bit of editing (a result of over-editing at this point, but that, too, is a long story), re-upload the manuscript to the printer, find that the red tape has been finally cleared, and order (another hopefully) what should be the last proof copy.

We're targeting a Thanksgiving Day release date. Please send up prayers, well-wishes, nice thoughts, etc., that we're a go this time.

In the meantime, there's been plenty to keep me busy: the usual and customary family drama (and a few additional mountains, too), the prequel to outline, the completion of the press kit (another photo shoot tomorrow), homeschooling, and the welcoming of my third grandson.

I've set aside the editing of Visage (for now) in favor of the prequel and helping to edit Tommy Connolly's (Bryony's media researcher and developer) upcoming book: Soul Parole: Making Peace with my Mind, God, and Myself.

In the book, which is based on his blog (www.tommyconnolly.blogspot.com) Tommy candidly details his journey from life as an addict to new life as a Christian, comedian, and actor. Tommy will donate a portion of the book's profits to  go to Chicago-area addiction, homeless, and mental health centers and programs.

I also have, in various stages of beginnings or completions, two press releases about two outstanding volunteers, a press release about a new hip procedure, a story about a family's fight against polycystic kidney disease, how a youth ministry internship changes a journalism student's life, and an American Idol-type competition.

Coming up this week is a local resident's first CD, a woman who designs fashion-conscious clothing for medical patients, An Extraordinary Life piece on a man who fabricated his original jewelry, and an empath. Also, thankfully, next week's schedule is also full. Plus, I'm on the look-out for a pet story for next Tuesday.

Wish me luck!

NaNoWriMo Day#6, Some Thoughts About the Prequel Thus Far, and Another "Bryony" Moment of the Day

Prequel Chapters 4, 5, 6: Check!
Word Count: 1329
New Files Opened and Notes Made: General Research, New characters, New Places, Backstories

Alllll righty then! I'm back in the novel-writing saddle!

Despite the usual routine and two family emergencies, Bryony's prequel is on its way. I've done some terrific rough drafts on three chapters, delved into some of the history behind them (Praise God for the internet!), opened three new files of notes for further research that needs to be done, and added new info to the fourth.

Of, course, I did get behind in my "regular" work, so this morning requires some restructuring. Nevertheless, that is completely do-able (I hope).

Since the drafts of Bryony books two and three required far less historical background than the first, I'd forgotten how much fun I'd had recreating a past time. And, because this book ventures into all the back stories, there's a ton of new characters to name and enliven, all with THEIR back stories. It's an exhilarating process.

Another Bryony Moment of the Day. A book designer posted a video on my Facebook wall today. She said it reminded her of Bryony. Watch and see!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bobskjQwWI

NaNoWriMo Day #5 and "Bryony" Moment of the Day

Well, it's not even a week into National Novel Writing Month, and I've already slipped away from my best resolve.

Never mind the excuses (and they were good ones, too). I really could have given one hour to the deed had I structured the remaining hours of the day differently. Instead, the proof copy of Bryony beckoned me, which did needed to be scanned for errors since I'm meeting with my book designer on Friday, and, even though I knew I was lying to myself, I decided to quickly read through JUST ONE chapter of the book, then bang out my promised chapter of the prequel.

You can guess what happened.

Even more embarrassing, once I came back to the prequel today (with the equally good intention of writing TWO chapters, along with four writing assignments and the day's assorted fires that needed extinguishing), I spent more time typing in the research that needs to be done if I'm to chronicle the events in that chapter correctly.

In short, I really could've and should've written it yesterday, because it was hardly a brain-taxing task.

So now I'm behind and the only way to catch up tomorrow will be to write those two chapters...and the four writing assignments, sigh!. I did, however, finish the proof copy of Bryony, and that's leaving me feeling pretty darn satisfied.

On another note, did you know I belong to a fan club? It's one dedicated to the 1970's British comedy trio, The Goodies, and, although I haven't visted the site lately, there's an ongoing forum topic called, "Goodie Moment of the Day." That's where fans post random occurances with a Goodie "feel."

Recently, I've had several "Bryony Moments of the Day." Today, I'm posting a link to a story I wrote a few weeks back. It's about a family with a christening gown dating from the 1890's that has been passed down the generations. It's made, of all things, from Irish linen. When I met with two of the family members, they had brought the actual gown for me to see and touch. Wow!

Here's the link. Enjoy!

http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/7674670-423/family-christening-gown-in-use-since-1894.html

NaNoWriMo Day #4 and "Markheim" by Robert Lewis Stephenson

Bryony Prequel, Section One, Chapter 3: check!
Word count:  1789

"Markheim," by Robert Lewis Stephenson, first published in 1884, opens on Christmas Day with the protagonist badgering a shop dealer for the perfect present. The gift, however, is a cover for the protagonist's real motive, which is murder, then theft.

As the protagonist moves about the shop, seeking money, fears of being detected and having the dead body exposed plague him, until a supernatural being warns him of impending visitors and offers to point him in the right direction.

Whenever I read this story with my teens, I always cover the last line and ask them to guess what happens. They are invariably wrong.

Read the full text at
www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/1851/

"The Oval Portrait" by Edgar Allen Poe

Bryony echoes the main theme in Poe's 1850 short story: an artist in passionately in love with his work and the spouse who feels in competition with the art.

The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary- in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room- since it was already night- to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed- and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.

Long- long I read- and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought- to make sure that my vision had not deceived me- to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea- must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow:

"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned suddenly to regard his beloved:- She was dead!

Ireland, Legacy, and a Marriage Proposal

Immortality and noteriety are the two reasons why Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara, agreed to become an Irish vampire in Bryony. This makes Ed the first "real" Irish vampire, since Ireland has no distinct vampire mythology (until now).

In the selection below, Tommy Connolly, a member of the Bryony team, shares the memorable trip to Ireland with his father. The trip had but one mission--to seek out and visit a town named Connolly--but for Tommy, it alsoincluded a spontaneous decision to begin building his own family legacy.

Tommy is a recovering alcoholic; he blogs about his experiences at http://www.tommyconnolly.blogspot.com/. He plans to release a collection of those blogs, Soul Parole: Making Peace with my Mind, God, and Myself, in December.


On February 21, 2002, my Father and I left for a seven day trip to Ireland. We arrived to cold and rain, mixed with colder, harder rain and accented with occasional stinging, frozen sleet. It rained everyday, but we had some sunny spots here and there.

We weren't in for the touristy side of the country, so we rented a car and started driving. We left Dublin with only one planned point on the trip and that was to visit the town of CONNOLLY in County Clare. One of the funniest things on our trip was my first dinner in Dublin. My dad suggested Indian food! Indian food? In Ireland? He didn't eat Indian food in America, but we flew three thousand miles to try the stuff! I hated it (and still do).

The "Ring of Kerry" winds and climbs along route N-70 on the southwest coast of the Emerald Isle. I loved everything about the awe-inspiring island. The coast was like heaven. Every fifty feet was a spectacular panorama of peat bogs, inlets, hills, fields, stone fences, and breathtaking flowers. The vast Atlantic lay beyond. God truly was inspired when He painted Ireland. Every scene is a giant green postcard, and I would recommend a visit to anyone, except those pesky terrorists.

Driving takes exceptional skill for visitors and townsfolk alike. Sheep run free on the roads in herds, color-coated so the owners can recognize their stock. When driving on the opposite side of the road, there are no railings or shoulders, but plenty of deep cutting cliffs and slopes. If you slide off the shoulder, eternity will greet you. There are also roadside chapels, painstakingly crafted, in the middle of nowhere, with amazingly ornate statues and seats for prayer. Those driving past can give praise for the beauty or, at least, thanks for making it around the sheep.
We moved through the last few days of our adventure and stopped in a tiny coastal town called Sneem, population six hundred. Here was Ireland complete. There was a church, a pub, a petrol station, a general store, a feed store, a couple quaint shops, and a few more pubs, and a few beds & breakfasts.
As we parked our "smart car" sized Renault in front of the pub of my father's choice, there wasn't a soul to be found. Nothing, nobody, zippo. It was like that ghost town in the Brady Bunch episode with Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo and Thurston Howell the Third) as the crazy miner. Thank God, Mr. Brady was able to knock the jail cell key down with that rope of belts. Ooh! I get the chills remembering the intrigue and ingenuity of Father Brady.

Anyway, there was no one around and we walked from colorful shop to colorful shop. All were trimmed in bright reds, brilliant greens, and other eye-catching hues…and all were locked. We returned to the car and sat perplexed at the silence. It was as if the whole town vanished. We were planning to move down the road when, at the end of the main street, we heard the gong of a church bell. Gong!......Gong!......Gong! The doors flung open, and the whole town spilled into the street right where we sat awestruck. Someone had died, and I think all six hundred townspeople attended the funeral. They scurried back to their shops and continued their business in the colorful town.

We asked for directions to the best bed and breakfast and drove back to check in. It was a quaint home with a spectacular view of a lake and the ocean beyond. I could have stayed there forever. We returned to the pub for dinner. I have mixed emotions by confessing I only had nonalcoholic beer in Ireland. The selections they had were quite good, and I managed to stay free from the attention of the Garda during our entire visit. The most memorable part of the night occurred when a homeless man with a puppy entered the pub. He placed the puppy on the floor, and the little nipper ran right to my father and leaped into his arms, licking and pawing at my dad.

Dad enjoyed a few beers, but the country, as a whole, intoxicated me. The people, sights, and charm of the Emerald Isle live up to the hype. Still very much sober and full of nonalcoholic beer, I told my dad I was going exploring. That expedition was a street of about a quarter mile. At the end of the way was a typical English phone booth, bright red and stark sitting on the edge of Sneem. I walked toward the booth and saw it butted against a tiny bridge with a bubbling creek snaking and crawling underneath and through the idyllic village.

As I followed the course of the river, it flowed gracefully into a lake, then into the ocean beyond. Even though it was ten o’clock, sunlight still cracked through the skies above. The vision magnificently burned in my mind. I thought of my roommate, partner in crime, and best friend sleeping soundly back in the states. She was everything I had ever pictured and my perfect foil. Where I was weak, she was strong. When I was miffed, she was relaxed. She was a great mother, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. We had been living together longer than my three other marriages combined, and I was inspired by the moment’s beauty and grace.

I can be impulsive. It comes with my nature. It was four o’clock in the morning back at home, and I knew Squeaky wouldn't be waking for another hour, but I was consumed. I was driven! I felt my heart leap and sing that THIS was the moment, even though I was an ocean away from her. I dialed the states direct, and she answered the phone slightly startled, and a wee irritated, by the early morning call. She accepted the charges, and I rambled endlessly about the beauty of Sneem and the events of the day. After a few minutes of rambling like a kid who downed a bowl of sugar, my focus returned to my mission.

I started to sob as I confessed my unwavering love for her and the kids. I said the magic words: "Will you marry me?" She began sobbing too, the good sobbing of course. Her first response was, "Are you serious?" I gushed as tears spilled around me and shouted, "YES! I have never been more sure of anything!" She shot back excitedly, "You traveled to Ireland; you're standing in a phone booth at four o’clock in the morning; and you're asking me to marry you? I caught my breath, slowed my tone, and replied, "Yes, I am." She cried a sweet sigh and said with complete assurance, "I would be proud to be your wife..."

God I love Ireland!

"The Necklace," by Guy de Maupassant

First published in 1884, "The Necklace," by Guy de Maupassant has an O. Henry-type surprise ending that makes this a good read until the end.

A young woman, married to a poor clerk, dreams of living in high society. She gets her chance to live that fantasy when her husband, knowing her discontent, begs for two tickets to a posh event. She greatly overspends the budget to buy an expensive dress and borrows a necklace from a rich friend, since fake jewels would be most inappropriate at such a magnificent affair.

Unfortunately, the woman loses the necklace. Read it here:

www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/Neck.shtml

"Adrift on an Ice Pan," by Wilfred T. Grenfell

"Adrift on an Ice Pan," by Wildred T. Grenfell is one of my most favorite short stories. Several sites offer it for free online reading.

On Easter Sunday in1908, Grenfell, a doctor, must see a patient near Newfoundland's Great Northern Peninsula. He cuts across a bay to shorten a few miles, but the ice breaks up beneath him and one of his dogs drowns. Grenfell and his remaining dogs climb onto an ice pan and drift out to sea. How he spends the next day and night is a testimony to man’s will to survive.