Checking the Plot Elements

I've got the week off from my regular drudge, and so I'm working on some rewrites of my WIP (Murder on the Mississippi).

Writing a murder mystery is a challenge to me. But it's fun, too. Using the "Plot W" I've gotten into the last portion of the book. But I'm finding myself going back over the beginning. Without a strong beginning, it all will be useless. Not only that, I'm having to bookmark numerous elements in the story (like the clues), so that I can see where I've put what. I tend to forget where I've put certain things in the story--or if I have!

But back to the elements of the story. I've gone back to a very good source by Aimee L. Salter. Still great advice from this author, who not only goes step by step, helping novices and possibly those who've been writing for years, and need a kick in the butt to remember certain things. (She has altered her posts, and some have disappeared, but many still remain. I couldn't find the Plot W, anywhere.)

In working out the plot, as we all know, the very beginning has to capture your audience. There's something Aimee calls "The Inciting Incident" and I've provided the link here so that when you're ready you can go and check this out. It has been something I've forgotten, and needed to review. There are at least 4 things you have to do either in your first chapter, or as soon as possible, in your book, so that people can not only connect, but want to read on.

Here's a round up of these first things in a book's plot you should check that you've covered.

1). Status Quo

2). Change to Status Quo

3). Affected Character 

4). The Consequences

5). Inciting Incident

Go to the link for explanations of each one of these.

Aimee's plot elements have been something I've followed for a  long while, and every one of her installments are well-written and worth checking out, no matter if you've been writing a long time, or are a novice.

All for today, my writerly friends. Gotta work on my beginning a little bit more.

Finding Voice

I wrote this on Monday in my journal...

I think I've found Lainey's voice. It gradually came to me--or was coming to me--and then this morning I was jotting down this scene and there it was.

It's hard to explain this phenomena (other writers know what I mean by this), but there it was. I'd been writing along, pages, chapters, filling the document with scenes, dialogue, which I tried to give life to. In some cases they were bare bones, no fleshing out, or attempts at it have been like a fishing trip, where the fish don't bite. I would be left with the thought that eventually I'd find a way to make it better.

And then, one day--this day--I'm writing a vivid scene (one of those which either wake you, or you have it in your head when you wake), and BOOM! There it is! Your character has, well, character.

As in all books, I know basically where I'm going. Like driving in the dark with one headlight. It's just getting to that destination without hitting a deer, or having a flat tire--something that stops you cold.

Well, today, it came. Yep. Lainey Quilholt, my MC of my murder mystery has come alive in my head, and I suddenly knew her like the back of my hand.

The following is the scene in which she just popped out on the page. And mind, its in Chapter 9... but here is the section. Set-up: Lainey is investigating the apartment of the girl who was murdered. It's been up-turned by someone looking for something, and Lainey just happened to find whatever incriminating pictures to explain--she hopes--why she was murdered.

And this is the one point in the book she is physically threatened. As a cozy, you can have your MC get into sticky situations, she can get out of them, or a combination of her and someone coming to her rescue. This is one of those situations.

I walked through the living room carefully, my phone out, and began making a video of my walk-through, meanwhile talking about what I saw as I went along. I picked up a few large pictures, opened their backs, which wasn't hard, as the glass was shattered, but found nothing. Finding nothing in the living room, I stepped down the hallway, picking up scents from her bathroom. I opened the door. Expensive perfumes had been left untouched on her bathroom tile counter. The medicine cabinet was emptied, but there wasn't a mess—no toothpaste or lipstick smeared on mirrors or walls. Again, drawers were turned out. Obviously, the destruction wasn't out of hatred, or a need to trash her place. They were looking for something hidden. My instincts were on the mark.

In the bedroom, similar destruction, as everywhere else, filled my eyes. Only in here her clothes were scattered everywhere. The closet was completely emptied. I saw no hidden safe inside, so the person who had been hopeful of something of this sort had been out of luck. Books from shelves were strewn all over. I was a bit surprised that Arline would have books of any kind in her apartment, but upon close examination I learned she liked romance novels. The books themselves were thrown open, face down on the floor. Again, suggesting to me that this person was looking for something that could be slipped between the pages of a book. A picture, or a document came to mind. The person who had been looking would have shook the book, hoping something would slip out.

Oddly, they did not yank down the pictures off the wall, nor disturb those on her dresser. They were looking behind the drawers again. If they had found something, I wouldn't know. But I still wondered if Arline wasn't a bit too bright for locating something she needed to hide from someone she might be blackmailing.

I had been assured by Weeks that the forensics had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints, so I didn't feel the need to don any sort of gloves to begin searching. I took down the first picture and opened up the back. I found nothing in the first three I took down. These were pictures of Arline on a quarter horse. Obviously, she owned a horse and rode dressage in competition. Something that Wendy hadn't mentioned in her rant about what Arline had and Wendy didn't have.

I moved to the next series of pictures. One was of Arline and AJ at the prom. They were a good looking couple, no doubt. Another picture that sat squarely on her dresser was of her and AJ in evening attire. I looked at a small card tucked into the far left corner. This was their engagement announcement and picture.

A thrill went through me as I picked it up and turned the little metal brackets that held the picture in place, and opened up the back. Carefully, I removed the cardboard underneath the velvet backing. Unbelievably, a piece of paper folded in half was revealed. I held my breath, took it out and unfolded it. The picture was hard to see in the dim lighting, but it was of a car with a crumpled front end. I turned on the lamp by the bed, sat and leaned toward the light so that I could see the details of the photo. This was an enlargement of the actual photo. I had to wonder what happened to the pictures, and were there any negatives?

Now that I had better lighting, I could see that there was someone slumped behind the wheel, but couldn't make out who.

Quickly I went to the other photo. The one of their prom. Upon opening this one, I was rewarded again with a prize. Another picture, similar to the first one I'd found, only this was a close up and I squinted to puzzle out who it was when a sound out in the hall, or further in the living room, alerted me that someone was coming. I quickly shoved the pictures the underneath my shirt at the small of my back, and into my waistband to hold them in place. Grabbing my phone off the bed, which was still recording, I held it facing the door to record whoever walked through.

“Hello? Who's there?” I said, my heart having suddenly begun pounding in my chest.

The door opened a little wider, and the young man with incredibly blue eyes, who'd been in the bookstore looking for this very apartment building, was standing there staring at me. Today he was wearing cream-colored chinos and a dark blue shirt and some sort of lace-up boots.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he said in an accusatory voice. Apparently he didn't recognize me from that day he was in the bookstore. Just as well.

“I might ask you the same, but since you asked, my name is Lainey Quilholt, and I've permission to be here by both the police, and the landlady. Do you?”

“I came to see Arline. What happened here?” he said, looking around.

“And your name is?” I wasn't going to let him go without learning his name.

“Dave.”

“Dave? Just Dave?”

He made an exasperated sound like he couldn't be bothered. “Dave Corbin.” He pointed at me, those blue eyes edged in black seemed to throw sparks. “Again. Why are you here? Where's Arline? What the hell happened here?”

Either he was doing a stand-up job of acting like he didn't know about Arline, and wasn't the one who had turned her place upside-down, or he really didn't know. I couldn't discern which.

“Arline is dead,” I said and waited, still recording his reaction with my cell phone. At least I hoped I was, I was too afraid to look down at the cell phone in my hand to tip him off what I was doing, or that I was holding it.

“Dead?” he said. One hand went out and grasped the frame of the door as he slumped a little. I couldn't decide if his expression was one of shock, or relief. There was thought that you couldn't go by how a person reacts to such news. Some people are good actors, and others simply are shocked and can't show emotions right away. “How?”

“She was murdered,” I said.

“When?”

“Two nights ago. On Friday night.”

He mulled this over for a few beats. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, I'm grabbing a few things I left here,” I lied. He had no business knowing. I wanted to get out of there real fast, but I felt that there might be more incriminating pictures hidden somewhere. I had wanted to check the smaller pictures, plus that large switch plate in the kitchen which hadn't worked—which I figured might be a possible hiding place.

He gathered in the scene, saw the dismantled pictures on the bed and said, “What are you doing? Why have you opened up those pictures? What did you find?” His accusatory voice rose.

I lifted my chin. “None of your business.” I hadn't brought my purse in, because of the burden of carrying it while I searched, not that I carried a weapon in it or anything, but as heavy as it was, I could certainly have used it to swing at his big head with.

In a flash he suddenly had a knife in his hand and held it up. It looked like a switch-blade, not that I knew one knife from another. Although the bed stood between us, I didn't feel that was much of a barrier. I could see him scrambling over it to get to me easily. My brain went through a hundred ways I could react, some of which included throwing things at him—like a stupid girl (which was how I felt at that very moment), to running around the room screaming (like a trapped hamster in a cage with a cat after it), and there was my personal favorite scenario (and totally unrealistic), where I became a combination level 5 black belt and professional kick-boxer.

Returning to my reality quickly, I searched my immediate options—throwing pillows wouldn't hurt, or stop him. I eyed the picture frame with the glass just as he said, “How 'bout I cut you a knew belly button.” He wiggled his knife to get his message across.

“Me first.” I grabbed the picture frame, glass and all, off the bed and flung it like a Frisbee. Reflexes like a cat, he dodged just in time. A good thing he did because the frame clattered off the wall, but the glass stuck into the drywall by one corner about three or so inches. I didn't have time to think about what it might have done to him if he hadn't moved. But that definitely got his attention. I grabbed the other picture, took the glass out of it and held it, poised to fling it at him again, even knowing I'd probably cut myself when I threw it, but he'd get cut worse. At least I hoped so. But after that, my options were nil. Filming it all was now no longer important, and at some point I'd dropped my cell phone.

“Don't come any closer, or I'll cut you in half!” I shrilled.

He snarled, looking as though he'd call my bluff and made another step forward.

At that exact moment, someone burst into the room yelling, “Freeze, scumbag!”

Corbin froze.

“Drop it!” came the command. It was Weeks with his service revolver pointed at Corbin's head.

Suddenly the room was full of cops, and within moments Corbin was pushed into the wall, assuming position, searched and handcuffed by two deputies. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to watch and realize I was now safe.

“Charge him with trespassing and assault with a deadly weapon for starters. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know,” Weeks said.

His two men roughly pushed Corbin out of the room.

The excitement was over and my knees shook. I slumped from adrenaline dump. Strong arms grabbed me and held me up. A heavy chest and pleasant aftershave in my face while Week's voice above my head said, “I gotcha Lainey-bug. You're safe. You'll be alright, now.”

After pulling myself together and letting out my held breath, I breathed, “Thank you.” He released me and I stood on my own.

“You okay now?” He bent to look at me in the face. His eyes squinting, the crows feet deepening around them.

“Yeah.” I took stock, breathed some more thinking about how close that had come. “I almost cut him in half.” I pointed to the glass embedded in the wall.

“Too bad you didn't. Could've saved me the job of processing the punk.” I let out a small, very weak chuckle at his joke. Somehow I don't think he was joking all that much.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Mrs. Couch called, said there was the same guy prowling around the place as the other day. Didn't like the fact you were here on your own, and we got out here pronto.”

“He's the one came into the bookstore,” I said. “Asked me where The Chandelier was.”

“Really?” Weeks hands were at his hips, utility belt making it a little difficult to give him a relaxed pose, but he managed. “We'll straighten this all out later. Find out who the hell he is and why he was so interested in this place.”

“You going to question him?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Can I watch?” He gave me a startled look. “You know, through two-way glass, or something?”

“We don't have a two-way mirror, nothing fancy like that. But we do have a live video feed.”

“That would work.” We moved through the room, toward the hallway while talking. I stopped. “Oh. Wait. I forgot, in all the excitement.” I pulled out the two concealed pictures I'd found from my shirt and handed them to Weeks. “I found these behind some pictures.”

He took them and squinted at them. “Looks like an accident with a car.”

“Yeah. I heard that Arline had an accident while coming down from the Dells, back in June. She had to have had some sort of insurance claim. But I don't know what sort of car she owned, or anything. You might want to check this out.” I pointed at the second one. “See? That's not Arline behind the wheel. It almost looks like AJ.” I was squinting at the blown up version of the first photo.

“Where'd you find these?” he asked, looking through them again.

“She hid them behind two nice pictures of herself and AJ.”

“How'd you come up with looking there?”

I shrugged. “My mother hid things in her framed pictures. I didn't know for sure, but it made sense to check these, since the framed pictures were on Arline and AJ.” I looked up at him. “They were once engaged, you know.”

“No. I didn't.” Holding the pictures he said, “This is great. Is this what you were looking for?”

“No. I was hoping for her bank book. But I'm sure whoever had gone through here like a tornado has it.” I held up a finger. “Wait,” I said, having thought of the non-working light switch in the kitchen. Weeks followed me through the apartment. I paused at the light switch. “You got some sort of screw driver?” I asked when he pulled up beside me.

“Sure.” He took out a Swiss Army knife and pulled the correct tool out. “Open that. This light switch wasn't working. I'm just curious as to why.”

Weeks worked all four screws out and lifted off the switch plate. Sure enough, there were no wires, but a small hiding place in the wall. There was something inside. Weeks reached in and pulled out a small camera.

“Man, how did you think of this?” he asked, holding the camera, looking at it.

I shook my head. “All I know is that Arline and AJ were really arguing that night at the park. Someone said she wasn't working any more. And also that she had this expensive apartment.”

“You thinking blackmail?” he asked.

“I'm thinking she may have been holding something over AJ's head. She can't tell us anything, now. But these things might help.”

He nodded. “Lainey, any time you want to help out, let me know.”

“I want to hear what Corbin has to say,” I said.

“Follow me to the station.”

For the first chapter you can go to:

Murder on the Mississippi

Just so you know, this is a WIP, and it's not perfect, (subject to rewriting and changes).

Murder Most Foul

First off, you'll note that I've changed a few things here. I think it took me ten minutes to figure out how to change the header picture--or where to go to do it. This picture is looking down the tracks in DeKalb. The curious building in distance is a coal shoot. I think I've heard that kids would play inside it. I would have been one of those kids, my curiosity so that I should have been a murder mystery writer at the beginning.

But I digress...

The print here is different too. Let me know if you hate, love, or are indifferent to it. I happen to like it and probably won't be changing it.

Now for today's post: "Murder Most Foul..."

Author J.B. Fletcher as played by Angela Lansbury

I revert to J.B. Fletcher a lot. Even though the way in which the TV show was formulated, you don't necessarily want your book to be done that way--with the murderer confessing at the end, or Jessica just happens to walk in on the murder victim. Or my personal favorite when she trips up the murderer, gets them to say something that nails them as the murderer and nearly gets shot before the police detective bursts in at the very last second.

I began my mystery "Murder on the Mississippi" last summer (I believe), and after a few chapters I had to stop and figure things out. I'm not a mystery writer. I have never attempted such in my life. Sure, I place some sort of mystery in my books, but that sort of keeps the reader involved. Writing a murder mystery takes a lot more thought, background and figuring out who is the murderer, and if it actually throws everyone off, is another matter entirely.

I think I changed my murderer about 3 times. Once I decided everyone would guess so-n-so did it, that put me back to square one. It's not easy, let me tell you, trying to decide on who murdered the victim and making it not look quite so obvious. All the red herrings can be obvious, of course. I may even make at least one of them act guilty as hell. Two will have personal relationships with the victim, and one was seen publicly arguing vehemently before her murder.

If only J.B. really existed, I could ask her how she decides. I could talk with her. She looks easy going. In fact she was very nice to budding authors (back in the day) in a number of her shows. I wish I could read her book "The Corpse Dance At Midnight". Sounds like a real riveting story. I have read the murder mysteries which are "based" on the TV show, but believe me, they aren't. Sort of ruins it when the author changes that Dr. Hazlett is married, and that Jessica flies an airplane-which she never did in her shows.

But I digress.

After writing for 40+ years, and pretty much mastering (I use the term lightly), my vampire works, I guess I felt it was time to try something different, and challenge myself. Nothing like trying to walk on water, or fly without benefit of wings. But boredom overwhelmed me last year. I took a portion of the year off. Needed it. You need to recharge energies that were depleted during the upsurge of energy you had in your youth, especially when you thought you had life by the neck. In which case I didn't, so there was some depression going on.

At this point in life I'm just going for whatever life hands me. Hoping that this year is a little better, where sales are concerned. Since handing over the fifth book in my Sabrina Strong series, I'm thinking there's a chance I could make better money. And I'm taking my social security as soon as I can. My birthday isn't until August 27th, so that's a long wait, but we've got plans I should be able to take the summer off. I hate driving the bus in the summer. I hate driving the bus PERIOD!

Again, I digress. Where were we?

The choice of murderer.

Yes, in most murder mysteries, it's usually the very last person you expected. And that becomes a problem when the reader understands this rule as well. Confounding them is your job as a writer, but you also have to throw in little clues along the way, try not to make them too glaring or obvious, just shoot something out there, and your characters don't react to any of it. They act like everything is normal, or that there's a clear explanation why someone's hat is out in the middle of the woods, on the trail to the murder site.

My one biggest clue is (among others, like the hat), is the shoe. Or rather the foot print which the shoe leaves behind in the mud.

These are Doc Martins. I've been sitting on something I scribbled on a note card from a book I'd read way last year: Chukka boots. I didn't know what those were, and only yesterday looked it up. Apparently they're any sort of boot. Dr. Martins also can look like any sort of boot, but I chose this one as it simply caught my eye.

And the character/murderer, who wears them isn't about to chuck them because they got blood all over them. These cost over $100, and the murderer doesn't want to buy new. My murderer makes a lot of mistakes. I came away from one of the MSW shows in which Jessica said, "It's the little things that will slip you up." Yes. The little things. Although not getting rid of the boots is a big thing, but if no one suspects you, and you hide them in your closet for a while, who will know? Right?

This is where my young lady, Lainey, comes into the fray, and slowly begins to unravel the clues because she doesn't believe any of the people the sheriff has arrested is the murderer. Even the one who is obvious. Why? Well, I'm working on that.

Hope you have a good week! Talk later.

Murder is My Game

Okay, you'll see that I've completely switched gears from the vampire-themed stories to my mystery series (I hope it will be a series, but we'll see how the first one goes). Yes, there is a big difference in HOW to write a mystery. It takes more thought on where the story has to go, plotting it and so forth, which is something I haven't really done in the past. I had some idea, of course, where I wanted my stories to go, but you need to really know what's going on in the background with your characters--especially the murderer--before you begin. In fact it wasn't until the other day I knew what the murder weapon would be. It wasn't a gun, but a very large, very elaborate hunting knife.

The other day I wrote chapter 5 from beginning to end in one day. Woohoo! In fact, I had my little hand recorder, with me when I woke and made some detailed notes on it before I got out of bed. I haven't had that happen in a while. And yesterday, had multiple ideas for clues and so forth swimming around, so had to jot them down while I was doing other things. Again, this hasn't happened in several months. Now, I guess you can say I've emmerced myself into the writing of this book. At least I hope I won't fall face-first into the mud of embarrassment because I screwed up something.

In doing a mystery I, of course, gathered information around the Internet. Many blogs where the theme is murder mysteries. One is very good, and gives a lot of tips, not just how to write mysteries, but writing tips as well this particular post was helpful: here
I often check what's happening over on MAKE MINE MYSTERY, not always there is a good piece on writing mysteries, but sometimes one makes me stop in and read.

There are multiple ones on police procedures and crime scenes. There are places where you can link to several things, depending upon what you need. Like HERE.

There are a lot of sites out there to help one get things right. Every once in a while I catch something that pops out at me. Like motive, at MMM (MAKE MINE MYSTERY) site.+

When you write a mystery, depending upon the modus operandi is, invariably, there may be a gun involved, and you need to know the ins and outs of guns, the various kinds and so on. Since I'm not a fan of dangerous weapons, and don't carry, I'm flat stupid about them. But I'm learning. Jungle Red Writers has a good forum at the site I've copied for this segment. You don't want to write about something you haven't a clue about, it's best to have something to fact check. I happen to have a nephew who works as a deputy with the county, and have access to him, whenever I need. He's been very helpful. For instance, did you know that police lock their weapons up every night (or when they are home) to insure that no family member has access to the gun so that there are no accidents with it? Anyone who doesn't lock up a gun where children might be able to access it are only asking for a horrible accident.

Anyway, where was I? Right. Handguns. Even though in the mystery I'm writing the weapon is not a handgun, it's good to read up on such things, just in case some issue of guns comes up in the writing. Here was one on MMM about carrying one, how it feels, etc. The editor of an author caught him writing about something he didn't know--GUNS.

Well, I've got a head of steam today, got lots to write, so I'll end this for now.
Happy Writing!

Back in the Writing Saddle

Yesterday, I got up-to-speed on the Lainey Quilholt mystery--read through the twenty-some pages I'd written last year, before I stopped. I took a long break from writing. I needed it. Not sure what this year will bring me, but I'm just going with the flow for now.

Yesterday I wrote over 1,800 words past what I'd had. I finally wrote the scene I simply wasn't able to do, as yet, last year. Not that it was hard, or anything, I just wasn't in the mood to write. Opening up all my notes on this I find I've made not only the manuscript, but notes for what I think will become a series for my YA mysteries, I created one just for the characters names (and all details on them I need at a glance), and the places which they go or which are in the story. And then there's what I want to call notes on writing the mystery--I find all that I can on writing them from other blogs, and I've pasted them down in this file.

I've never attempted writing a murder mystery--just a straight mystery--before. No vampires, no supernatural anything. I might give Lainey a touch of precognitive abilities, but nothing out of the ordinary. I say I've never written a mystery before, but that's not really accurate. In all my Sabrina Strong books, there is a mystery to solve. Working on a straight murder mystery is a bit of a challenge because I need to know who the murderer is, why he/she did it, and what makes them tick. And then, I have to somehow make it seem impossible this person did it, while throwing at the reader a couple of red herrings (no more than 5, is recommended). And also, somehow, I have to have my main character--Lainey--somehow privy to certain information. Thus, I have her living with her aunt (she lost her parents a few years prior to opening of the story), who is dating the small Iowa/River town police chief. This way, she would have some access to certain procedures, and to the police themselves. This is a cozy mystery, of course. And, since it's a YA, too, so much the better that I won't get into the grisly scenes of the murder--that happens off page. And since it's a YA, also, I won't be dealing with too many adult situations.

That's all I have time for today. Hope your writing is going well. Or, if you need a break, it might be the best medicine. I know it was for me. Talk soon!

The New Year Begins...

Last year was a year of working out the kinks. In my back, in my thoughts, in everything, really.

I took the year off from writing. Well, a portion of the year, since I felt I needed it. Some writers have referred to it as writer's block--any time you can't write. I tend to think of writer's block when you can't continue writing, or even start. And this shouldn't last very long, if you know how to stimulate the writing muscle.

No. Having been writing for four decades, I know that I've gone long periods where I simply needed time away from writing. A break from it. This is what it is. I've no idea if I can get back to it this year. I may not. Not that I don't have ideas. I do. I would like to, but there may be a number of reasons why I won't.

For one thing, during those decades of writing, I did a lot of it. And, for those who have only just begun writing, you've always had it easy. A computer, instead of pen/pencil & paper, or typewriter. I wrote every day, even when I was in school. In fact I probably wrote my stories instead of studied. (I hated school, including college--until I got to take writing courses, of course.) It was all practice. I didn't see much published before the age of 40, and after that, it looked like none of my books would be published, until I self-published "Spell of the Black Unicorn". And had a great book signing in a local Borders.

Anyway, the point is I never gave up. I didn't stop writing like a possessed woman. I worked at a job and wrote when I was home, whenever I could. I didn't stop to watch too much TV, I feel like I missed out on a lot. I quit writing a few times, as I've mentioned. Once, when I worked in a craft store, I concentrated on crafting for 3 or 4 years. I made money at it, but not enough to live on. But it was nice to make money at something I liked doing. Then, I went back to writing and didn't stop writing, until now.

This isn't to say that I'm not doing anything writing-wise. I've finished edits (to the best of my ability) on the fifth book in the Sabrina Strong series. I have three more written (the 8th one still needs some work), and all I plan on doing is the last go-through on #6 & #7.

In the meantime, I've gone back to crafts and crocheting. I've made a number of afghans over the last 3 years. One I gave away to a friend, and one as a baby shower gift, and I may make one for a friend who is getting married. I've returned to crafting, merely because I think there's a market for it, but need to find somewhere to sell them. I was known as the "Coke Bottle Lady". I usually painted Christmas scenes, Santa's, snowmen, and other things on them. I took orders all the time. I charged $6 for the small bottles, and $12 for the large, antique ones I painted, and they flew off the shelves.

Also, last year I re-discovered yoga, and I'm keeping up with it, although, I got lazy and have been doing it sporadically, but I'm going to step it up again. Walking in the winter is not my cup of tea. I used to go cross-country skiing, but I don't have a pair of boots any more. And I'm afraid of falling or twisting an ankle. I still have to work for a living.

Speaking of which I dream of the day I can quit the bus company I work for. I won't go into why, but any job has its annoying qualities, including bosses and supervisors, and people you simply can't stand to be around. Oh. And the job itself.

And in August--a long way off, but the way the calendar seems to turn pages at the speed of sound (yes, time seems to fly, but it really isn't going any faster or slower than it should--it just seems like it), I turn 62 and I will be taking social security. My husband is 4 years younger, but he has to wait until 65 to take his. We are looking into our later years hoping we can hold on and be able to buy the trailer and eventually live in it. Where? Wherever the hell we want. His parents lived and worked in RV parks, so we know the in's and out's of it.

At any rate, the new year has begun, and I'm just going to go day-by-day, and see what tomorrow brings. If I write a little here or there, then so be it. If I don't, no big deal. It's there when I feel like going back to it. I only know that I'll feel refreshed when I do.

Thanks for joining me today. Hope your year brings the things you want, but, if not, maybe there's something else there waiting for you to discover.