E. Napier's Blog

This morning, I will not need valium and my cunning spirit to out think my turtle overlord. Remember when I had to clean the turtle tank? (You can read about it here) That involves juggling of tank bits while never turning my back on the Turtle. Today, however, requires sheer strength and quite a bit of limberness.

It's time to give the Schnoodle a bath and he knows it. I'll have to contort myself into positions worthy of the Kama Sutra to drag the furry beast out from under the bed. All four of his paws will be splayed outwards, desperately seeking any purchase to prolong the march to the bathroom. You might be surprised at how heavy seventeen pounds of passive resistance wielding Schnoodle really is.

Now, because I plan ahead, the bathroom will be ready. A hand towel will be in the bottom of the bathtub so the Schnoodle has traction in the tub. Extra towels will cover the floor, the me, and every thing else that I can cover to keep dry. Shampoo and rinse cup will be at hand. That will all be in vain if I don't actually manage to get the Schnoodle into the bathroom.

Once we get into the bathroom and I shut the door behind us, it's like a cage match. Only one of us will leave in better condition than when we went in -- hint, it ain't me. He does stay still for the actual bathing and he does love the drying off. By the time he is all sweet-smelling and clean, the Schnoodle is done with the entire process.

The best part of this process is what we call "Releasing the Schnoodle of War." The bathroom door opens and we all step out of the way. Like a small, furry, still damp missile, the Schnoodle takes off. Up the hallway, down the hallway, under the Boy's bed and out the other side, under our bed and out the other side,  circling around and around from the living room to the dining room through the kitchenj, rinse and repeat (see what I did there? Ha!).

As he enjoys the sweet-smelling feel of freedom, a few treaties, and running as though he were ac actual dog and not a fuzzy doorstop, I sag against the wall. The bathroom needs to be mopped up, the bathtub needs to be cleaned out, and I need to change into dry clothes. I glance over and the Turtle is staring at me, a knowing grin on his amphibian face. He knows I still prefer bathing the Schnoodle. It may be strenuous but at least I'm not worried that the Schnoodle will try to take over the world.

Until next time, Turtle....

I am attempting to type with only one index finger. This is not going well and is requiring even more use of the backspace button. But why is your typing worse than usual, you ask? I put a sewing machine needle through the left index finger two weeks ago. Yep, it was a grand time in the ER that day as I faced my extreme medical needle phobia with a healthy dose of Ativan and by belting out the "Masturbation Song" (both verses... Much to the delight of all of my nurses).

Why am I sewing like a fiend, enough to put a needle through my finger after almost 35 years  without misstep? The Kentucky Highland Renaissance Festival is going on for four more weeks and I had three people to costume. The Boy is back as the Yellow Page to His Majesty, Robert the Bruce. My husband is debuting as Master Marcus Black, sole owner and proprietor of Black's Market. Me? I'm French nobility and they told me "Go over the top with your costume." I think you know that I took that sentence to heart.

So, my writing has been supplanted by sewing. I can't complain. The fair is fantastic, the cast wonderful, and the patrons a ball to play with. Best part? The Boy is off on his own adventures for a good 13 hours each day of the weekend and I don't have to worry. He comes back at the end of the day with stories to tell and exhaustion to sleep off. Now that things are settling down costume-wise, I hope to see some writing. Soon.

But for now, I need to clean out my basket, keep laundry going, and get us back on track for the week after being gone all weekend.

I had a comical "This is Erika during a mad three weeks of extreme sewing" post ready to go. It will be posted later. For now, take a moment to thank the first responders and the strangers who ran towards the explosions in Boston instead of away from them. Pray for the people who are struggling to heal from physical and mental wounds. Pray for those who will be lumped into categories based merely on how they dress or to whom they pray.

And take a moment to readjust your way of thinking. Be smart. Be aware. Be cautious.


And take a moment to remember that race, religion, and politics mean nothing because we are all humans.

And take a moment to tell people you love them.

I wrote this back in January as the new year was starting. It seems appropriate to revisit it today, one year after my dad died.

It begins with a letter...

Dear Dad,

I miss you. I can't tell you the number of times I've picked up the phone to call for your opinion on something or because something caught my eye online. And I admit, I talk to you when no one is around. But, I finally unpacked my bag. You know, the one that I packed when we thought you'd be lingering for a couple of days. I needed bits out of it over the last eight months and just took them out. For me, of all people, not to unpack a bag... I couldn't, though. That bag had been packed so many times, gone to so many hospital and ER trips, I felt like unpacking it was giving up on you.

The picture that Judd gave me is on the bookcase in the living room. For a few months, I had to put it in the Boy's room. He misses you. So do I. On the six month anniversary, I was alone. But, Sarah and I had a detente and cuddled in your chair. Yes, I'm keeping an eye on your demon cat. Back to the picture -- you're at Indy and smiling. I miss your grin. I miss your laugh. I'm forgetting the sound of your voice and it kills me.

And you would give me Hell for the lack of flow to this letter. I guess I'm trying to get everything out before I start this new year. I can't get the vision of you as we moved you down t the new room out of my head. I couldn't look away and I hope I understood you correctly. And I am sorry that you had to lay in that room for so long. I tried to figure things out quickly and thank goodness for the funeral home.

Oh Hell, I just miss you. I miss the you from my childhood when we were still at Disney. I miss dogging your footsteps, my camera in hand and my press credentials pinned to my chest. I miss going shooting with you and Harry and being taught to look for the things no one else would take the time to see. And while I am glad that things worked as quickly as they did because you did not suffer as much as we prepared for, I hate that it was so soon. And I'm mad at you for not taking your health seriously. And I'm sorry for not doing more.

I love you. I miss you.

And with that, I turn to the new year and the determination to make my father proud of me. I don't want to look back and see my health gone and my past wracked with regrets.  But for tonight, I'll finish my champagne and be teary.

It doesn't feel like it's been a year, and yet, it feels so long ago. I can remember every detail like it was yesterday, but removed. I hurt -- this entire week has been hard. But my brother sent me flowers and reminded me to think of Dad's laugh and smile. 

I love you. I miss you.  

Push pins. Much to my husband's chagrin, I tack all kinds of things above my desk for inspiration. Pieces of fabric, snippets of poems that I may never finish, those perfect lines that need to go into a story some day, a hot wheels Mini Cooper, a beautiful placard a dear friend sent the week after my Dad died. Oh, and a swatch of weaving the Boy did in Art. And all kinds of other things to make me smile, make me think, and remind me to get to work because my dreams won't manifest themselves.
Mona and Bernie. My dress form and hat form. Love them! In fact, I'll be getting really close with them in the coming weeks because this will be the first time that I use them both in a large scale design for myself. I still need to adapt Bernie to my head measurements before working on the framework of a headdress. 
My Necchi and pin cushion.  I have both my grammas with me when I sew. Gramma Spidle was a huge Necchi fan and this is her old machine. It runs like a freaking beast! I've sewn through multiple layers of canvas with it. And this faded-but-once-bright pink crocheted pin cushion belonged to my Gramma Crawford. It still has her pins in it. Sentimental, but they both influenced me a lot in art, creativity, sewing, cooking... I miss them.
Bright Kitty! The Boy painted this in Art last year. I adore it! I'm a big believer in having art work from folks I like hanging around the house. 
 Dad's old camera gear. I grew up with light meters as toys. There are numerous memories involving watching my Dad at Disney or in the middle of no where using these bits and bobs. I don't use them these days, but I need them out where I can see them. 
Boxes and baskets and bins. Right now, as I'm in the process of revamping the studio, these are simply in a pile in the corner. But, soon, they'll be pressed into work to hold all the various things I need for jewelry, costuming, writing, photography, and daily living. Some day, I'd like to take the time to cover them with pretty scrapbooking paper. Stylish storage without the stylish price tag. 
So, there you have it. A quick peak into the things I can't live without in my studio for design inspiration and smiles. 

Every morning, I dutifully check my Kindle Direct Publishing reports to see if there have been any new sales. Then, I head over to my Amazon Author hub to check my ranking (yeah, don't ask...) and see if there are any new reviews. At that moment, when I click on "Customer Reviews," I begin to question why I ever published this book in the first place.

Ahh yes, reviews, the bane of my literary existence. I need them to move forward in the ranks and to spread my story (the analogy sounding like a plague is not lost on me). And yet, there is nothing more anxiety-inducing for an author than reading new reviews. Do they like that story I spent hours and months creating, all but penning it in my own blood? Or do they hate it and think it was a waste of time and money? In those few moments while my browser loads the review page, my stomach turns inside out, I start to shake, and all I can think of is "What the Hell have I gotten myself into?"

Ok, maybe not really. After all, at this point in the morning, I've barely had a chance to brew my first cup of tea, so there are very few higher brain functions happening. But, it's still stressful.

So far, I've been lucky. Only four and five star reviews have met my eyes first thing in the morning. I've been told to expect the one stars and even to welcome them. Apparently, they validate your work as real. I'm still not looking forward to them. I know they'll make me sad or angry. I may even throw something or, better, go a few rounds with the heavy bag. (Note to self, have the husband hang it back up) They are, however, inevitable.

Not everyone likes me. That's just one of the facts of life. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will like my book. They won't like the characters, or they will find the story convoluted, or they will think the ending sucks. Again, it's a fact of life for a writer or artist. It's easier to ignore the people that dislike me. I don't care. So, why does it bother me more when people dislike my writing? It goes deeper than the writing being a reflection of me. I wish that I could put it into words as to why it bothers me so much. It's a visceral reaction.

Ahh well. It's bound to happen. When it does, I'll have a small cry, a glass of wine, and some chocolate and keep writing. The stories won't allow me to do anything else. For now, I hope you like the book. I hope it a lot.

Today is a day that I dread. The Schnoodle will be horrified and then run to hide under the bed. Not even a treat will get him to leave the relative safety of that space. The Boy will be locked in the computer room because he should not be a part of this madness. And my husband? Oh, he'll be leaving for work with a jaunty grin despite the fact that it's Monday. You see, it's that time again.

It is time to clean the turtle tank.

Sounds so innocent, right? Just place the Turtle on a large blanket, offer him fresh veggies for entertainment, empty the water, wash out the pump, wash off the rocks, and refill the tank. Place Turtle gently back into the newly cleaned tank and voila! All finished.

I think you know me and my life well enough to know nothing is ever that easy.

First, the Schnoodle is terrified of the Turtle. Any time I move the lid of the tank, he runs and ends up quivering under our bed. A couple of times, I think he may have stolen the flask of Jack Daniels that lives on the buffet. Just a tipple here and there -- I guess it's better than stealing my valium, right?

Second, the tank is a decent size. This is not a fast undertaking. Emptying the water requires trip after trip from the tank to the sink, carrying a dripping pitcher of turtle water. Towards the end, I have to balance the tank on one edge while trying to get the last dregs of turtle water and turtle effluvia into the pitcher. I generally end up covered in both and cursing a blue streak. So far, I've managed not to tip the tank over. So far...

Third, the Turtle. He's bigger than my husband's hand. He weighs close to two pounds and is convinced that he can eat your head. He is not a nice creature. Granted, I do love the Turtle. He even has his very own Christmas stocking. But, I am very conscious of the fact that, should he ever figure out a way to get out of the tank on his own, my life would be in danger. It's nothing personal, he's just full of rage. Green, turtle-y rage. Yeah, I know, he fits right in with me. That jokes been told more times than I care to count.Did I mention that I once caught the Turtle trying to chase down the Schnoodle? Yep, stepped out of the kitchen to check on the shelled guy and he was booking down the hallway towards the Schnoodle. It was slow booking, but determined. Very determined. I intervened before I got the chance to see the Turtle hanging off the Schnoodle's tail nub -- at least that's what I pictured happening in my head.

I'm sitting here, contemplating the Turtle and his tank. He's staring right back at me, almost as if he knows that today is the day. Soon, I will reach in and grant him that heady feeling of freedom. Soon, he can chase that tall, hairy beast.

Maybe I need to make another cup of coffee. It might be safest that way.

Earlier this week, I wrote about discipline and its importance in any artistic endeavor. I said that waiting for inspiration was a cop out. You needed to sit down, crank out the words and trust in the story. But, where does that story come from?

I wish I had an answer for you. A nice, cut and dry answer that would propel you towards your dream of writing. Hell, I wish I had that answer for myself! It would certainly make this whole writing thing easier -- especially if I could schedule the ideas so they didn't wake me up at 3AM and send me fumbling for a pencil and paper before the idea disappears in a flurry of cursing as I trip over the Schnoodle in the dark. Not that that has ever really happened or anything. Ahem...

One way people tout is to watch the people around you. I never got that, frankly. The people around me are not good for dropping into the settings that I like writing about. Although, the image of my poor mother in the middle of a sea battle did provide some pre-coffee amusement just now. I guess, joking aside, it boils down to writing what I want to read. I like pirates, I like assassins, I adore politics, and magic is just the icing on the cake.

I do know that if I sit down with only a nebulous hint of a story, it doesn't work. The story doesn't progress and no amount of discipline will force it to comply with my desires. My computer is littered with hundreds of fragments of ill-conceived stories, all waiting patiently for the day when I finally solidify them into an actual story. Maybe. They probably shouldn't hold their collective breath.

Scary thing? Coming up with the idea is the easy part.

We have all met Those Writers. You know, the ones who write as they feel inspired. The ones who profess to writers' block day after day in a desperate ploy for sympathy. (Actually, you can find Those Artists working in any media) They tell of arduous days where they sat and nary a word was written. Their very souls cried for release but their fingers could not coax the words from their hearts. Damn, just thinking about my last conversation with one makes me need gin and it's not even 7:35AM.

Writing is just like any other skill. You have to sit down and constantly practice it. It will not improve if you only write when the mood strikes. You will never get very far in that case either. No, you have to approach writing (and any art) with a steely determination and cold discipline. Don't feel like it? Doesn't matter. That story isn't going to write itself while you languish on the fainting couch, sweet pea. If you want to see progress in your story and improvement in your skill, then you carve out time every stinking day and you write.

Don't like what is dribbling on the page? Don't think about it. I don't edit anything until the first draft is done. It bogs me down. I write without much thought and purpose beyond getting the story out of my head and onto the paper. It's far easier to edit a complete work than to write and revise and second guess and doubt and waffle and end up so twisted about that you don't get any real progress accomplished.

Start small. Right now, I'm slammed with eleventy-nine different projects, plus trying to figure out this whole indie author marketing thing. So, my daily work goal is 500 words. It takes less than forty-five minutes. It may not seem like a lot, but after five business days, that's 2500 words. Not too shabby. And if I manage to go over, all the better. The whole point, however, is to write every day.

Then there is prioritizing your writing. This is where I have issues. I put my writing on the back burner because I think I'll get to it at night. It rarely happens. I will admit, I've not met my writing goals for a while now because of this problem. I put everything and everyone before my writing. That makes me end up resentful and cranky. So, in the interest of public accountability, I'm admitting this lack of discipline. I am hoping that I will make myself do my writing first thing -- it may involve getting up at 6AM before everyone is awake and the daily grind of house, family, sewing, paperwork, and anything else that lands on my plate starts. But, that's what it takes. I want to write and I want to be an author. One book published does not an author make, especially when there are stories in my brain, waiting none so patiently to be told.

And that, my dears, is what it takes to finish a piece of writing. Not terribly romantic. The inspiration happens in the storyline creation. It is not a driving force behind the actual putting words on paper. Now that I've burst your notions of being a writer, time to belly up to the paper and get your stories done. 500 words a day. You can do it too.

We are very lucky and blessed to be surrounded by creative people of all types. That community pushes me out of my comfort zone every day. Ok, they actually drag me kicking and screaming out of it, but I love every minute.

For instance, I don't sing. Maybe once upon a time in the very distant past I soloed in the church choir, but not any more. I don't think anyone has really heard me sing except for my son. Of course, he was an infant and couldn't get away at the time. In my defense, not even Julie freakin' Andrews sounds good singing "Old McDonald had an Australopithecus" because you've run out of animals at 3AM...But, I don't tend to sing around people. In my car? Oh Hell yes! Shamelessly so. In a group where people can hear? Nope.

Yesterday, I sang "Happy Birthday" during an audition. The casting director winced. Props to her because she tried to hide it, but it was there. If I come through auditions, I expect that I will be asked to sing quietly. Pretend to sing even. I'm cool with that.

Then last night... A group of folks came by the house for a jam session. Three guitars, a mandolin, a penny whistle, a violin, two drums, and seven voices combined staggeringly well. It was amazing. The songs ranged from Jimmy Buffet (you know, my fave) to classic rock to Publican songs to pop. The music flowed in a magical way. The kind of way that only true musicians can accomplish because, despite having never played together as a group, they were in sync with each other. I grinned like a damned fool most of the night and let it wash over me.

Yes, I sang in public. How could I not? No one seemed to mind my flat croaking. The best part? I woke up to find myself inspired to write, inspired to design, inspired to do more. It's as though being forced out of my comfortable little box freed my mind. I'm looking forward to writing today, as much as I can before the day's obligations set in. In the back of my head, I'll hear singing and laughter. It will be the perfect soundtrack.

Two of the folks who were over have an amazingly good and funny group called Drunk & Sailor.
Check them out on Facebook and, if you're lucky enough to be close to one of their shows, go. Don't ask questions just go.