Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Glimpses of Athens




People crowd the edges of the Acropolis

sentinel tourists of the Parthenon.

I sip iced mountain tea on a rooftop cafe 

debating climbing up the marble outcropping

in slippy sandals again this year. 

The Museumo d' Acropoli

is air-conditioned and

the reading room asks nothing of me.

Where's your ticket? asks a docent.

Um, I had one I swear, checking pockets.

I lose it every year.


Outside I watch a dig through the glass floor 

and inexplicably

buy a crown of golden laurel leaves for €4,

passing on sweetened dried banana chips at €1.50

no, thank you. Ohee, efharisto, in Greek

with an awful American accent.

So much stuff

so many people

uncomfortable taxi rides

"I show you Olympic stadium," again this year,

the coast, Syntagma Square, 

my Ohee NO doesn't always work here.

Nor my persistent STOCK-SEN-A-THO-HEE-O

HOTEL, or at-the-hotel. Please.

Please. Para-ka-lo.

That doesn't work either.
Me and Lawrence at the Acropolis Museum in Athens


The peace of Alonissos vanishes 

into mist in Athens.

Uber back to the hotel

away from Lawrence,

he's why I come here.

Now I have to catch a

flight in the morning.

I'm ready to go.

Until next year, Lawrence. 


Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Oh, Just Shut Up About How Great Your Crappy Website Is—Trying to Get Things Done in the Age of Technology


karfelt, shut up, trying to get things done, technology





It's after 1:00 a.m. and I just got off the phone with American Airlines. All I've been trying to do is reserve a gluten-free meal on an international flight. 

If you google it, you'll get instructions directly from the AA website. Go to "My Trips/Check In", enter your record locator (reservation #). Click on "Entree Reservations" in the "Flight Option". NOPE.



You can search for HOW TO BOOK A MEAL ON AMERICAN AIRLINES WEBSITE or various variations of it. You'll get slightly differing advice. None of it works. When you BOOK the flight you can request a special meal, but only if it's leaving within 30 days. Once you book and return within the allotted time frame you can't access that screen again.

When I booked my flight I figured this would happen. It's like a Murphy's Law of website usage. 

Today I was determined to figure out HOW to book that gluten-free meal online. DANGIT. I'm a capable woman. I can do the things! I'm not even going to admit to how much time I've been working on this. Today was not my first try. Suffice to say give it up and CALL American Airlines to reserve your gluten-free meal. 1-800-433-7300.

Also, when I called them the wait was over an hour to talk to someone who could help me with the website. I left a callback number. An hour and fifteen minutes later I got a representative who was most definitely NOT tech support. Also, she put me on hold for about a half hour. 

But Marianna said she'd booked the meal for me AND said that you can't do it from the website. So ignore the instructions on the AA website telling you how to do what cannot be done.

I'm taking a couple containers of gluten-free instant oatmeal with me for the nine hour flight. If I can't see it on the website, if I didn't do it myself, my life experience has taught me it's just as likely not to happen. 

The past few weeks, oh, who am I kidding? The past couple of decades have been insanely crazy busy in my life. Every day is just another 24 hours of mad chaos. This means I order take out WAY TOO MUCH.

Sometimes I play Panera roulette, which if you're gluten-free and ordering something from Panera Bread you realize is stupid anyway. But I like their salads. I've not gotten glutened with the Green Goddess salad once and I've eaten a lot of them.

I use Panera's app. It's convenient for take out. You walk in and grab your order and walk out. I love technology. About half the time, though, there's a note for me to see the cashier. This means I have to stand in line and wait. Then when my turn comes, they have to figure out why I've been called to the front. Usually this means that they're out of gluten-CONSCIOUS cookies. I get to pick something else. I always say, what else is gluten-free? They give me that YOU DO REALIZE YOU'RE AT PANERA BREAD RIGHT? look. 

Still, half the time I do walk right out of Panera with my order in just seconds. About half the time I do that the order is WRONG WRONG WRONG though. People tell me that you can call them. HAHAHAHAHA. No. Who has time for that crap?

There aren't many take-out choices here in the shire. Last week I was looking for something for my husband and I. He refused to eat another Panera salad. Recently I discovered that Olive Garden has a gluten-free soup "Zuppa Toscana". I was heading out of town on a road trip and had an eye doctor appointment, shopping to do, a soccer game to attend, and a meeting to go to before. 

I figured I'd order the soup online before I left the house. That way I could request it at a certain time and pick it up on way into the mountains. NOPE. Sure, you can order things ahead on the Olive Garden website, I just couldn't put anything in my cart that day. It just buffered while I packed my luggage. I even downloaded and tried the app. NOPE.

So I called the store where, you guessed it, I got put on hold for several minutes to listen to advertisements about how EASY it would be to order online. 


Eventually, after I'd packed the car and was driving to my first errand, I got a person and placed my order. The whole thing worked out fine then. They even boxed the soup up beautifully and it stayed hot on my two plus hour trip. Hubby even liked it. He said, I'm going to order this next time I come up here just for myself. I said, "It's so easy. Just go to their website." That's the kind of wife I am. Why get married if you can't play with your spouse? But I'm telling you the truth, and please feel free to share your favorite unhelpful website stories. 

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Hello Real World—Alonissos is Better





It's nearly time to head to Alonissos again. I've already begun my packing. During winter I dream of that island. My days in Greece are magical and I write constantly, submitting to whatever the muse thinks needs written. The workshop has always been fantastic. The women writers are gifted and kindred spirits. 

Last year I dragged my laptop on the three day journey each way, on and off planes, up and down stairs and ramps deep in the bowels of ferries. I climb so many stairs that they seem as much a part of Greece as the blinding white light and colorful villages built into hillsides. 

It's like traveling with a Stairmaster


But never again, I promised myself, will I take my laptop to Greece. Turns out I'm always much too busy writing to work on my laptop. A pile of sharp pencils and a notebook are all I need to write. Writing by hand is how the Women Reading Aloud workshops work. 




Writing by hand is magical if I've never told you before. I think our brain and deep writer voice work about that speed.

Last year I nearly lost a couple feet boarding a rocking ferry in bad weather while dragging my luggage and laptop. Waves shoved the ship up and I stepped forward clutching all my luggage to show my passport, so absorbed in what I was doing that I didn't realize my toes were under the rocking ramp. Fortunately the guy behind me noticed and pulled me back before the ship came down again. 

That only serves to strengthen my resolve to leave my electronics with all excess baggage at home. 

After the workshop had ended last September, I stayed longer to write more, to do some research for a book, and to be still. One of the things I enjoy about the island I go to in the Northern Sporades is the quiet. I recognize people after all these years. The first couple days I meet up with friends and hike or go swimming at night. 

This past trip I finally saw a monk seal for the first time in all the years I've gone to my workshop. Alonissos is a marine park. It's a preserve for the seals, but there's one seal who the locals call Billy who likes to sun himself on some of the same beaches tourists enjoy. 





Billy was deep into his bliss as I watched him from a distance. Rumor has it that Billy bites. I could just imagine me trying to explain a seal bite to my husband when I got home. While I stood near Billy he never moved until I muttered to myself, is he alive? He lifted his head as though he'd heard me and gave me a look before quickly ducking back into bliss position just as I made a move for my camera. I like him.

He doesn't pander.

If you want to see more pictures from last year that I posted of Alonissos, Billy the Seal, beaches, ferries, my balcony, the stairs (did I mention the stairs?), and even my favorite (or most startling) Greek food on Instagram. Hop on over and check them out! 


In the evenings on Alonissos I sit on my balcony and write by candlelight. Greece is so hot during the day that people tend to stay in for siesta and come out late for dinner. It's not unusual for children to play in the park at midnight or for music from the tavernas to drift up to my room until four in the morning. 

Sitting at my small table overlooking the Aegean Sea I write, enjoying the cooler night air while curtains dance in the breeze and I sip cup after cup of sagey mountain tea sweetened with local honey.




On my last night I paid tribute to the port that unfolded below my balcony; to the tiny Scops owls I only ever hear (but someday hope to see just like the monk seal); to the moon that lit the dark sky before waning away as my days turned into weeks and then a month; to the loud ferries; and the limes growing from trees over the stairwell that bumped my head when I went past. 

Now I'm home and prepping for this year's journey. Over the winter I sorted through piles and miles of books. It desperately needed to be done. It made me smile to discover that I have a small pile of Goodnight Moon books. I have the cardboard one from when my kids were babies, versions for older kids, and some in other languages (I used to try to sneak learning in while they were too small to notice). I even recently bought a copy of Goodnight Lab—a clever knock off for the newest baby in the family. No wonder I had to write my own version from my balcony overlooking the Port of Alonissos, Patitiri. 


Goodnight port, goodnight Scops owls whispering whom.

Goodnight light and the waxing moon.

Goodnight ferries, goodnight limes, goodnight lavender,  goodnight rhymes.

Goodnight Alonissos and these magical times.



If you want to chat about the book world and writing, sign up for my monthly newsletter. Drop me your email at TheGlitterGlobe@gmail.com. Wonderful things have been happening around here.

Some of this year's writerly travels will be found on Instagram. Though I plan to do more floating that fooling with WiFi this year. I'll be working at writing speed, one foot in front of the other speed, pencil on paper speed. That's the speed of magic, did you know? Slow magic is my thing. 




Wednesday, May 1, 2019

From Mouse Lover to Soulless Mice Assassin

writer, writing, writers life, karfelt, humor, owl
Thumbprint Mice by Nathan Pitts NOLA Street Artist




Growing up I had a pet mouse that lived in a bird cage. I hung it from the ceiling and left the door open so it could climb out and run across the top of the curtain. I figured he had some freedom that way.

In middle school I picked my friends based entirely on who also liked mice. We were an artsy bunch. The kind of free-range kids allowed mice in bird cages. 

Once a mouse ran across the kitchen. I screamed bloody murder and jumped onto a chair. Everyone got all FOR THE LOVE OF LIGHT YOU KEEP ONE IN YOUR ROOM!

Excuse me, not a wild savage one. Mine curled up in your hand and gave you beady but loving looks. He kept his fur nice and soft and elegant. We're talking a refined City Mouse. NOT a plague-carrying rodent. 

Culture is important when it comes to mice.

Once my pet mouse climbed down the curtain. He jumped onto my bed, curled up on my neck, and attempted to nest there in a bit of my hair. This is the part where I woke up. This is also the part where my inner-assassin awoke. In my sleepy confusion I grabbed him and threw him. 

Fortunately he landed in that pile of clothes I kept scattered on the floor. You'll be happy to know Misobruh was fine. Maybe not as happy because I closed his cage door after that. 

Flash forward a couple light-years. We had a house in the wilds outside of Dallas. One morning I opened the dishwasher and there was a FREAKING MOUSE sitting on top the mugs on the top shelf. I shouted for my mad scientist husband. He came and shut the dishwasher door and TURNED IT ON.

I cried.

Don't worry, Dishwasher Mouse was fine. He was sitting there every time we opened the dishwasher for days. Hubby promised he'd take care of it.

He put out mouse traps.

Nooooooo, don't kill them! I argued, can't you just catch them and put them outside? Nooooo, he said. They'll just come back inside! No they won't, I insisted, mice are smart. At that moment a couple traps snapped closed. SNAP SNAP.

"What's going on?"

"I think we have a mouse problem." SNAP SNAP SNAP

Oh, no! Yes, we had more than Dishwasher Mouse to worry about! The traps were going off in the pantry and the kitchen closet and when hubby opened those doors, mice came running out in broad daylight.

I helped by screaming before gathering my wits. MORE TRAPS, DEATH TO ALL MICE.

I've read about the plague. Supposedly those Texas mice still carry it. I have kids. The choice came easy. And just that quickly I flipped into a rodent murderer. Let's not even get started on ticks. That's another blog post. Also, to further make all decisions fifty shades of grey, Lyme carrying deer ticks originate in mouse nests.

After leaving Texas I moved here to The Shire. There are ticks and mice and deer everywhere.

Now I PAY someone else to kill mice for me. Yes, hate can always get worse. I'm aware of internet judgement for the annihilation of pestilence carrying rodents. I invite you to walk a mile in (or live in) the country and then we'll talk. Even as we speak there is an owl in my attic. I kid you not. He hoots all day long directly above my office. 

Said owl also poos from the ledge where a ventilation fan should have kept his feathery backside OUT of my attic. He perches right there and excretes splashes of owl doo down the side of the house and all over the ground directly outside the window where I work all day (and half the night). 

Don't get your undies in a twist. I would not harm an owl. He is going to be evicted though. Once I figure out how. If I find piles of owl pellets up there I'll let you know. The pellets are those furry balls they yak back up after eating. It's popular to dissect those suckers in science class to see how many critter skeletons you can identify.

#FUN

At least an owl might keep the mouse population down. Right? Reporting from the bright side here. Hey, it's kinda organic. Right?
dementia, writers life, writer, humor
S.R. Karfelt

All of my former mouse love has now moved to possums. Rumor has it that they eat ticks. 

Keep in mind that I still love and will always love hypothetical Disney-ish mice, like the ones in the painting above and Angelina Ballerina by Katharine Holabird. As I often say, fantasy is always better than reality. That is the motto of this fiction writer. Go ahead and throw yourself on the mercy of the court in the comments section, but I'm only going to listen if you too live in the country and deal daily. It's that whole man in the arena theory. That's my other writerly motto. 



Wednesday, April 24, 2019

Ten Ugly Introverted Writer Secrets—that we're far too introverted to tell you





Once another writer argued with me that I was not an introvert. "You're friendly," she said. "You like people." "You're not shy, or socially awkward."

The definition of Introvert that I identify with is simply someone who needs to be alone to recharge. Being with other people for any length of time exhausts me. All the things I bring to the table when I'm with people can vanish in a flash when I run out of energy. 

Not all introverts are shy or socially awkward. I'm more of a part-time hermit. If I use up words by speaking them, I need quiet time to make more. It's tough to be an introvert. It's tough to protect your heart and health by taking the time away to recharge. That leads me right to the first point in my list of Ten Ugly Introverted Writer Secrets.


  1. Sometimes you hurt people's feelings when you take care of yourself. This is the number one problem I've had and the reason why I get overwhelmed, stressed, and can't get my work done. Writing does take a long time, but so does recharging yourself so that you can write.
     
  2. Lying bothers me. I try not to do it, and I can usually tell when someone is lying to me. I'm pretty good at reading faces, voices, and between the lines. When I say no, or that I can't do something, that should be enough reason. No. I can't. It's simple and clear. Don't press. No one needs or wants to hear that I simply need empty space on my calendar to follow my muse—be that to spend a day hiking in the rain, re-reading The Mists of Avalon for the gazillionth time, staring into the void, or getting into my Jeep and running away for a day or so.

  3. When I'm on a writing binge, it's difficult for me to focus on anything else. I like to say it's tough to jump between universes—that means the one I'm creating as I write and the one you're calling me from. This is why I never answer my phone. If I interrupt my writing, it could take me days to get hold of that writing thread again.
                                                                        
  4. This doesn't have anything to do with being an introvert, but bear with me a moment. Being able to make a living as a writer is almost a lottery in this day and age. Branding is important for marketing purposes. That means that a good deal of the money that goes into marketing a book is spent on names that have been around a long time or celebrities that can guarantee sales, even if a ghost writer wrote the book or a team of them. We all buy stuff because the name is familiar.

    It takes a long time to write a novel when you're writing it yourself. It may or may not get published. Even if it gets published, not-famous writers don't rate much marketing money. On top of that books are going to get pirated. That means it will be stolen electronically. That means we make nothing. One writer friend calls her royalty checks her reality checks. I laughed so hard.

    Few writers can write full-time now. I can despite my non-celebrity status because, along with and mostly because of my husband, I co-founded and ran and after many years sold a nearly insignificant little photonics business. No, I'm not wealthy, but I can make this writing gig my job thanks to it. I'm one of the lucky ones. Still, after all the work that a writer puts into their book, unless you're a charity or a legitimate business contact, please don't ask for a free copy. This leads me to my next point—

  5. Years ago I gave up on asking for book reviews. I'm too introverted to ask, even though as a writer they're crucial to both sales and getting books published. It makes me happy that my books are read, and sometimes I get letters from readers which is better than a review. So I'm not asking for reviews, what I am asking is that when you see me please don't tell me—again—that you've been meaning to post a review and you'll do it soon. Because you haven't, and it's been years, and now you're just playing with me.

  6. Yes. I am judging your grammar online. I will never speak of it, but when you use to or too incorrectly it causes me physical pain. Everyone makes mistakes. Writers too. But you keep doing it. I'm keeping track. Don't worry though. As I said, I'll never be extroverted enough to mention it. Out loud.

  7. When we talk, I'm using you. I'm filing away your stories, sayings, and colloquialisms for possible story use. Don't worry, you'll never recognize your stuff, but while we're being honest here, I thought you should know. This leads me to—

  8. FFS don't tell me something and say NEVER REPEAT THIS. Don't EVER tell me your secrets. NEVER EVER. There are one of two possible outcomes in this scenario.

    This first is that I actively try to remember never to repeat it. It goes into a part of my brain that I monitor. At all times I'm fully aware of everything I've been told that has been filed under NEVER REPEAT THIS. It's a huge burden. It's like I'm using energy at all times NEVER to say (write) these things.

    My brain lights up like a Christmas tree when I write. It's zipping all over the place grabbing bits and pieces of data and world-building. All secrets are in danger during this process. That brings me to the second scenario, I inadvertently use this information. Neither of us wants that. So don't tell me. I'm serious. You'd likely never recognize yourself, but I probably would at some point. That's STRESS.

  9. When someone says, "I don't read" to me, my brain rewords it to, "I don't need no book learnin'. I watch the T.V." Mind you the guy I married only reads photonics magazines, financial stuff, and things related to fishing. Despite your reading habits or lack thereof I will probably still want to be your friend. I may be an introvert, but I like people, and I like people who are completely different than me. How else can I mine you for story fodder?

  10. I over commit. It's because I WANT to do everything. I want to
    be every other person's BFF. I want to hike, travel, get to know you, make you laugh, volunteer, learn to speak three languages, go back to school, learn to fly, become a master glassblower, read most everything, and write 100 books in my lifetime. It's a problem. Because time. And I'm an introvert who knows she needs quiet time. When I go radio silent and appear to be faking my own death, it's really not you. It's me.
Writers, Introverts, what did I miss? What introvert secrets are you far too introverted to tell? Extroverts, thanks for putting up with our crap.




Monday, April 15, 2019

My Badass Nerdy Husband and The Story I'm Not Allowed to Tell




"The doctor said I was lucky I survived," my husband said, looking guilty.

"Did you tell him?" I asked. "Did you tell him that after you rolled the four-wheeler on yourself and winched it to a tree to upright it, that you then rode it for another two hours?"

"No," he admitted, "I just couldn't."

"Well, I can," I said. "I'm going to blog about it."

"You'd better not," he said.

"Too bad. I had to be the one to worry all that night because you didn't want to leave the mountains and go to the ER. I had to be the one to deal when you finally agreed to go to the hospital the next day, and the ER nurse admitted you so fast that they had to run vitals in the hallway. I had to be the one who stayed behind while they took you to a trauma hospital by ambulance."

"Yeah."

"If you're lucky, I won't mention the part where right after your rollover, you wanted to have sex."

Obviously he's not lucky, because I'm telling. And no, he didn't get lucky. Well, yes, he got very lucky because even though he broke ribs one and two (which are right over the vascular system and apparently could have killed him), and broke his sternum, and bruised up a lung, he basically walked away. But he didn't get lucky-lucky, which is again lucky, because getting frisky might have killed him. 

Then I'd have had to live with that, although it probably would have made me super-popular among the cruise-ship and widower crowd. People would say, that chick sexed her husband to death, but I want no part of that. I kind of want to keep him and if I'm going to get a badass reputation, it's going to be on my terms. 

Watch out. That chick writes what she wants.

Sorry, not sorry, hubby. Maybe fear of public ridicule will work because my warnings for the past thirty-five years haven't done a darn thing. We have this on-going argument where he tells me that it is normal to break bones now and then (without any underlying condition) and I tell him he knows nothing about normal. Not that I do, but I read a lot.

I love my husband, even though he makes me nuts.


The pain hit him eventually. For a good while he could hardly move. I have to assume that right after the accident he was rolling on some sort of adrenaline rush. But when I mentioned cancelling his upcoming wilderness vacation, he insisted he could do it. 

     "You're going to be able to pack-up and haul a boat all the way to the middle of Nowhere, Canada? You're going to be able to portage all your fishing stuff and two weeks worth of food across two rivers and over a dam? You can't walk upright OR sneeze."

     "I've got a couple weeks to heal."

One thing you learn from being married forever is that all arguments are old arguments. You know exactly what you'll say, and exactly what your spouse will say, ad infinitum because you've had these same arguments so many times they're like ear-worm songs. It's exhausting, not to mention annoying, to argue in rounds for decades. 

     You didn't break down the recycling boxes,
     You didn't break down the recycling boxes,
     You didn't break down the recycling boxes,
     
     Do you think Jesus does it? Jesus does it? Jesus does it?

     I didn't have time, you know that dear,
     I didn't have time, you know that dear,
     I didn't have time, you know that dear,

     Get off my rear, get off my rear, get off my rear...

So I knew he'd get himself to Nowhere, Canada for his wilderness adventure. I went all Florence Nightingale and went too and helped. Some. Okay, a little. To be fair my husband doesn't just balls out go wild and crazy about everything—he's usually smart about it. He put his boat on a remote control so he could put it in the water and it'd drive itself to the dock and wait for him to park the trailer. 


That's because of the nerdy part of the badass husband. 


Personally I like hubby's nerdiness over his
badassery. It's far less scary. It's taken me months to write this story. I wanted to make sure he didn't sneeze and die or something. Because then it wouldn't be funny in the least, even though then I could say I TOLD YOU SO. Which I would say, and I am saying, and also, I hate ATV's. Jeeps are better, so long as you keep them upright. 










Tuesday, December 18, 2018

The Best Gift You Can Give—And it's FREE

writing, karfelt, communication, christmas, joy
S.R. Karfelt/The Glitter Globe




"I don't know what to say except it's Christmas and we're all in misery." ~Christmas Vacation Quote


It's true. The pressure for Christmas JOY and perfection has permeated society to our mitochondria. My Saturday book-signings this time of year have backed up my Christmas misery theory. 

December Saturdays are frantic shopping days for those of us exhausted from a long workweek. People want to get in and out of stores as fast as possible because they have a list of things to do. It surprised me how many shoppers told me they're exhausted, tired, can't keep up, don't even read anymore because they're too tired to do the things they used to love.

At book-signings I bring good chocolate and a pile of bookmarks. Some are for my books, but I bring some from my travels too. Ancient Egyptian scenes painted on papyrus that I got in Egypt and some from museums in Greece and Amsterdam are pretty popular.

But I didn't give any of them to the tired shoppers. They didn't want free stuff. They didn't even want chocolate. They wanted someone to listen, someone to hear their stress, someone to pay attention. 


I gave them my time and listened. 



It's not a big thing, but it's a bit of everyday magic. What I've found is that the quiet kindness is worth it. I don't offer unsolicited advice. I listen. I don't pretend to hear while thinking about something clever to say either. 

In our crazy busy lives I think it's something people need. We all want to be heard. Don't get me wrong. I'm not anxious to sit next to someone on a plane and hear their life story word vomit. I'm simply talking about communication. When someone is talking, take a moment to hear them.

As a friend often says, "Put your listening ears on."


Maybe communication is the key. If I take the time and energy to hear someone, we've made some type of connection. It's not a lasting friendship. I'll likely never see them again. But for a brief moment I saw and heard someone even if it's a stranger at a roadside stop, a checkout line, or at a book-signing. 

All those little communications add up to a satisfying life. It's time well spent. 

It's the secret to my happiness, anyway.

Sometimes I go to a Benedictine Monastery. There's one here in The Shire. They have signs in their gift shop that say...


"The greatest gift you can give someone is to listen."


I have found it to be true. Listening is my superpower. I can listen and I do it all the time. Except when my husband's talking about fishing or archery. I just drift right off into what Kahtar and Beth are doing now. Should I decide to continue that story I'm always ready.

For years I thought it's kind of great to be a writer and have a face that people want to talk to. But I've come to realize that the real reason people tell me things is only because I listen. 

Listening isn't all that easy. It can be downright exhausting. 

When I'm listening I sometimes feel what the other person is saying and feeling. Sometimes it's sad. Sometimes it's wonderful.

Occasionally I'll return from a long day of listening and lay down on the floor in absolute quiet to recharge. But just as often it invigorates me and makes me more patient with impatience, like grouchy DMV employees or rude drivers. Everyone has their reasons. Most people are doing the best they can. 

At my book-signing this past weekend a woman went past me pushing her walker in front of her. She had two Christmas pillows perched on it as she headed for the checkout area. They had chickadees on them in snow scenes. That's the kind of stuff that bookstores sell now. Not to mention LEGOS, games, chai tea, and epic journals. But I digress.

One of the pillows slipped off her walker and I picked it up for her. She proceeded to launch into a story of how her mother trained chickadees to eat out of not just her hand, but all the kids too. It was a great story. I filed it away in my writer brain for future use. 

Listening has extra benefits for writers. Priceless material. 

Sometimes people tell me awful things. Like about the time someone hurt them. Sometimes it's something intensely private and they will add, "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Well, I know why. It's because I listen. 

Occasionally someone will tell me what a very nice person I am
after I've been listening to them. It makes me feel like a fraud. In some ways I'm every story I write. A warrior, an assassin, a storyteller, and a bitch witch. I'm not nice. Ask my husband. Ask any telemarketer who has the misfortune to actually get me on the phone. (I so do not listen to them. I'm no saint.) I can make them cry and I'm not proud of that. It's only that I'm sometimes kind, and I have a super power. I listen. 

More people should try it. In this wonderful world where so many people are talking all at the same time, hardly anyone is listening. If you've always wanted to do some magic, why not give it a try?