God, Mother Nature, and Father Time Walk into a Café…

Photo Credit: Mantasmagorical/Karfelt

So God and Mother Nature meet at a café for lunch. A surly waitress gives them a booth, drops their menus on the table, and vanishes. God slides onto the bench in his flowing white robe, smoothing his long snowy beard. Mother Nature plops down and the manager scurries over.

          “Excuse me, Ma’am? Are those – uh – service animals?” The pot-bellied manager points to the birds and butterflies circling her head.

          “Let’s just say they are, Sonny,” she snaps. Thunder rumbles through the café and static electricity makes the manager’s hair stand on end. He hurries away.

          “Where’s Father Time?” God asks.

          “You know he’s always late,” Mother Nature mumbles, flipping through the menu and scowling. “I don’t know where half this stuff in here comes from, but I assure you I had nothing to do with most of it.”

          “Girl,” God said, “You’re preaching to the choir.”

          Mother Nature slams the menu shut, puts her elbows on the table, and leans forward. “How are you doing lately?”

          God lets out a long sigh. “You’re the first one who’s asked me that since – mmm – you’re the first one who’s asked me that. I’m busy, my to-do list never ends. You know I rested on the seventh day? Well that was the last time.” A buzzing noise vibrates against the table. God pats his robes and fishes a cell phone out of his pocket. He looks at it and hits mute. “The office can deal with that one.”

          “You sure? I know your work’s important.”

          “Technically that one was for you.” At her raised brows he elaborates. “It was a prayer for the snow to stop.”

          “Oh for pity’s sake!” She gripes, and holds her hands up like two sock puppets, moving her thumb and fingers like mouths she mimes, “I’m hot,” the other hand mimes, “I’m cold!” An ensuing hand-puppet rant follows. “I need rain!” “Make the rain stop!” “When’s summer gonna end?” “When’s winter gonna end?” She smacks both hands against the tabletop and one of the birds circling her head makes a mess on her shoulder. “I’ve got a planet to run and maintain! I cannot run an entire eco-system based on when someone’s daughter is getting married!” Nabbing a napkin off the table she wipes the mess off her shoulder. “I’m telling you they’re driving me crazy. And they’re mucking up everything! Isn’t it time for you to smote them or something? I could help, and it would sure make my job easier!”

          God chuckled, shaking his head. “I love people.” His cell vibrates again and he lifts it off the table briefly, again hitting mute. “Lotto request. Ridiculous. I need to make a filter for those.” Again the phone vibrates and he leans forward to look, frowns, and waves his hand over it. “Bam.”

          “Wish I could do that,” Mother Nature griped.

          God laughs, looking around. “Who do I have to know to get a piece of cherry pie around here?”

          “Can’t you just bam that?”

          “Seriously? Do I really have to do everything myself?”

          Mother Nature leans out of the booth and bellows to their waitress on the other side of the room, “Yo! Can we get some service over here?”

          The waitress hands a check to a customer while clearing dirty plates off a far table. She shouts, “I don’t know CAN you?”

          “I think she wants you to say ‘May’,” God points out. “It’s only polite.”

          “I think someone’s boobs are gonna hang low. I’m in no mood for it.”

          “Do you really have time to be facetious?” God shakes his finger at her, but he’s smiling.

          “It’s one of the job perks. Not that it matters much anymore what with plastic surgery and all. Oh here she comes.”

          The waitress plops two glasses of water on the table, pulls a pad of paper from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear. “What’ll it be?” She blinks at God, waiting.

          “I’d like a cup of tea, and a slice of cherry pie, please.”

          “We only have cherry pie on Fridays, today is rhubarb.”

God stares at her for a moment, glances at Mother Nature, and slaps his hand against the table. “Bam.”

“Would you like that cherry pie ala mode?” The waitress asks.

Mother Nature shakes her head. “Love a duck, Father Time is gonna bust something. You just made it Friday, didn’t you?”

“It’s one of the perks of the job. Besides, people love Fridays.”

The waitress turns her gaze on Mother Nature’s revolving halo of flying woodland creatures, and scratches her nose with the back of her pencil, waiting.

“I want a salad with fresh field greens – none of those packaged lettuces. I want every fresh vegetable you have tossed in there – nothing pickled or canned. I wouldn’t mind a few golden raisins though. And nuts, something fresh – and unsalted. What kind of cheese do you have?”

“What kind do you want?” The waitress tosses an exaggerated eye-roll in God’s direction. He grins at her.

“Goat cheese, just a little. And I want a BIG plate – make it a platter of salad. I’m hungry.”

“That’ll cost extra. Do you want dressing?”

“Vinegar and oil, on the side. And a chocolate chip milkshake – made with whole milk, whole ice-cream and dark chocolate chips. Got it?” The waitress didn’t answer, shoving her pencil behind her ear she stomped away.

“Well that was very When Harry Met Sally,” God said.

“Hey, I know what I like. Do you actually watch movies?”

“I see all,” God said.

“Poor you,” Mother Nature said.

“I know, right?” God said.

To be continued…

Valentine Reject

Love has many faces

Dear Hubby refers to Valentine’s Day as the day he’s going to get in trouble. It’s not that hard guys – let me boil it down for you.

Prove your undying love today.

Just kidding! Hah. Mostly. Haven’t we all been polluted by pop-culture? Must. Fight. It. If you had to choose between Air-brushed Movie Star Man and his bouquet of roses, or a real guy who leaves the toilet seat up (and thinks it’s funny if you fall in), which would you pick? Let’s look at that again. Who do you suppose would be there for you through thick and thin, and endure six months of your whining should you ever be on bed-rest that long?

So far I’ve found no correlation between anything I’ve ever seen in the movies, and that hearts and flowers stuff, and marriage. Maybe that’s just us. I’m married to an engineer. Think a hot Mr. Spock who likes to archery hunt and you’ll have it. Valentine’s Day is as high on his radar as New Zealand’s Waitangi Day.

But I love his guts and I wouldn’t change him. (Well, maybe the toilet seat.) (Yeah, and maybe the hunting, but I digress. That’s another blog post.)

Earlier this week I flopped down next to Dear Hubby on the couch and dropped this Valentine hint:

“Friday is Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to cook.”

DH: “Do you want to go out?”

“Naaah. I’ll be writing.”

DH: “Ah. Do you want me to cook?”

“Naaah. I don’t like your food.”

DH: “Um. What do you want to do?”

“Ohhhh. I don’t know. But we should do something.”

DH: “Do you want anything?”

“Mmmm. I’d still like a hover suitcase. Have you invented it yet?”

And that’s where I lose him, always at the hover suitcase. Today I wandered to the supermarket and picked up two live lobsters. Dear Hubby can boil a mean pot of water. The store was selling piles of roses, and heart-shaped cookies, cakes, candies, you know the drill. I nabbed some chocolate covered strawberries and hit the check out.

The cashier told me I was paying too much for the strawberries. She doesn’t know the half of it, I pick off that chocolate coating stuff – it’s not real chocolate. But I was trying to get into the spirit of the day! They’re festive. She redeemed herself when we got to the lobsters though. She bent down and peeked inside the bag and talked to them like she was talking to puppies. “Oh so sad, oh good-bye, good-bye.” I realized I don’t know this crazy woman, but we could be friends.

And that was my Valentine’s Day. Dear Hubby even peeled the yucky coating off the strawberries with me, AND he washed the lobster pot after dinner. He’s getting the hang of that Valentine thing. I don’t even know what he’s talking about when he refers to it as the day he’s going to get into trouble. Unless he’s going to do the toilet seat thing.

That should be illegal, don't you think?

Dream Weaver

Photo Credit: FiddlerJan/Morgue Files 

Last night I had a dream that sort of reflected real life mixed with stories I'm writing. There were several high-speed chase scenes involving the space shuttle, the Amish, and nuclear warheads. A spectacular crash ended in twisted wreckage. The horses escaped unscathed. The buggies weren’t so fortunate, and I’m afraid the Eiffel Tower needed all new lighting, but we saved the world. So there’s that.

All in a good night's dream, but I needed a shower.



The safe house sat at the end of a deserted country road – as they so often do. After the villains were carted away I returned there to freshen up. Because a three-story, unpainted, falling-down, dust-mite infested safe house is where you go to take a nice hot shower. Up three flights of dilapidated stairs sat the bathroom. I turned on the shower to wait for the water to heat. Before I climbed in my daughter came into the room with a dirty bowl. “Mom,” she said, “I can’t find the dishwasher.” I tightened my robe and remembered that the bathroom had one of those extra-small bathroom dishwashers so popular in dreams.

It took several minutes for me to figure out how to insert the lone bowl into the bathroom dishwasher – it was a type I’m unfamiliar with. My daughter figured it out, which was probably the most realistic part of the dream. Yes – the shower water was still heating up, yes we were washing one bowl in the dishwasher, but that’s all that would fit. Bathroom dishwashers tend to be on the small side. My daughter opened the bathroom door to leave, backed back in and shut it quickly.

“Mom! It’s the man with the hoodie! He’s been sneaking around the house all day! I meant to tell you!” I thought that bad guy had gone down in the space shuttle Amish buggy crash. Dang! Plot twist! There was no lock on the door, and the floorboards creaked with each step as he approached. “What should we do, Mom?” Neither of us had our cell phones (like that would EVER happen). The only weapon we could come up with was a Costco-size bottle of shampoo and conditioner. We decided to squirt it all over the bathroom and at least slow him down slipping and sliding. If you can’t stop a villain you can at least make him work for it.  

Suddenly I remembered something and turned to my daughter. “Daughter,” I said. “This scenario is either a story I’m plotting out or a dream. Either way that means I can do whatever I like – even if it ruins the book.”

So I hurried into the hall and shrunk the bad guy down to the size of a mouse. I carried him into the bathroom and flushed him down the toilet – after making fun of his skinny jeans a bit. All bad guys need a small dose of humiliation at the end, don’t you think?

"Turn him normal size when he gets into the septic tank." My daughter suggested as he swirled away.



I think maybe she's going to be a writer too.

How about you? Any dreams you'd like to share? And do you think it would be worse for the bad guy to be mouse-sized or full-size in the septic tank? 

A Tale of Two Kidneys

Photo Credit: S. R. Karfelt

Once Upon a Time…A teenage girl played basketball. Let’s call her Moe. Although Moe came from a family of dark-eyed, dark-haired, crazy-handsome Italians – she was ivory skinned and light, apparently inheriting only the crazy-handsome gene. Moe was one of the smaller players on the team, but mighty, skills that come in handy when you need a player to nab the ball off tall players. One day Moe missed a practice, and then another. This wasn’t allowed. Questions were asked. Rumor had it that Moe lay listlessly in her bed – something those who knew her couldn’t imagine. But being a loving and supportive team, well wishes were sent her way such as:

            Don’t you dare miss the game!

            Suck it up, Cupcake!

            You better have coughed up a lung or something!

Moe went to the doctor. The doctor sent her to the hospital. The hospital sent her to another hospital. At fifteen-years-old Moe was in Stage Five Renal Failure. It’s highly unusual to be much of a basketball player in Stage Five Renal Failure. As a matter of fact the doctors couldn’t believe she was still alive. Moe needed a kidney, and had for quite some time.

In retrospect Moe should have received some sort of MVP award for being the BEST basketball player EVER in Stage Five Renal Failure. Don’t you think?

Also in retrospect Stage Five Renal Failure can also be considered the “or something” part of “You better have coughed up a lung or something!”

Moe got a kidney though, because her Dad had a spare that was just her size. Dads can be awesome like that.

See how I did that? BAM. Moe got a kidney. I skipped right over all her dialysis and doctors, hospitals and time, and time and hospitals, and – well, you get the idea. It wasn’t that easy. Fighting for your life never is, but she did it. BAM. Moe got a kidney. Thanks Dad. She started to look Italian too. So now she had the dark-eyed, dark-haired, crazy-handsome package, AND a kidney which is a very important part of all package deals.

Insert some time and some complications – as you probably already know, life does that – and due to a series of unfortunate events Moe needed another kidney. Dad didn’t have another spare, I’m not sure that would have stopped him, but this time around the donation had parameters that ruled out her family members.

Although the world is chock-full of spare kidneys, the great bulk of the population isn’t Moe’s Dad. But a guy at Moe’s church offered to give her his. And it matched. Kidneys aren’t one-size fits all. I don’t know what the odds are of having a guy at your church offer you a kidney and have it fit, but I don’t think it happens every day. Turns out he’s not Moe’s Dad, but he is a Dad.

Life isn’t easy when your kidneys aren’t functioning. Just getting to dialysis three times a week to have a machine drain the blood out of your body, clean it, and put it back, well – it’s not the kind of fate teenage basketball players envision for after graduation. Yet this has been Moe’s life for years.

What’s impressed me so much about this young lady is the grace with which she’s endured. I’ve never even heard her complain. Once I heard her tell one of her brothers he should bring her a drink – and not make her get up – because she didn’t have a kidney, but I personally thought that was brilliant negotiation. I don’t think he fell for it though. Brothers don’t fall for that stuff – not even if you cough up a lung or something.

Next week Moe is going to get a new kidney. BAM. Yep. Just like that. Maybe one of these days she’ll write her own tale – and fill in the blanks. In the meantime if you’d like to give Moe a virtual high-five, click this link and “Like” her Facebook Bean for a Queen page. It’s an effort to raise awareness about organ donation.

And about your spare kidney – you can’t take it with you, you know? Well, you can, but it’s no good on the other side. For all we know you lose points for wasting it. Why not flip your driver’s license over right now and sign the organ donor section? Maybe mention it to your family too. BAM. 

Blowing Snowmen

Blowing Snowmen
by S. R. Karfelt

Yeah – it’s a hobby. Have you ever tried it?

Mostly I like to write. To say I’m obsessed with writing is a serious understatement. I’m fortunate to be at a place in my life where I can neglect the real world and write a lot. Not as much as I’d like – because apparently sleep is mandatory – but I keep pushing that envelope.

S. R. Karfelt

Books take a long time to write. Sometimes I want to make something faster, something beautiful that won’t take much prep work. I don’t want to use much writing time up doing other things – but the desire to create something sometimes hits hard. I found a way to get a quick fix.

Yes. I blow snowmen, or glass pumpkins – they’re my favorite – or a flower, ornament, or paperweight. It’s not something you can do at home. I go to a glass studio, with professional supervision. Molten lava hot glass isn’t a kitchen project. You can’t even take it home the same day you make it. Glass has to be cooled in a special oven overnight or it will shatter.

Glass Pumpkins by S. R. Karfelt

It’s worth the effort though. It’s beautiful – and if you have the help of a skilled craftsman it isn’t difficult – though some projects can be very complex. The glass studio I go to allows children to blow some glass projects. I often take visitors with me so they can make something too. Mostly because I just like to say, “Do you wanna go blow snowmen?” to my company.

Glass Flower by S. R. Karfelt

A glass blower is called a gaffer. The furnace that is used to reheat glass and keep it malleable is called a glory hole. Yes it is. Get your head out of the urban dictionary. Glass blowing is an excellent winter project because it is hot. When working on a project the gaffer will often have to put the glass back into the glory hole to keep it pliable. It looks almost liquid when it is red hot, but if you’re using tools to try to shape it – it’s quite uncooperative and stiff. It feels like glass even in a pliant form.

Glass Paperweight by S. R. Karfelt

Think you might want to check your area for a glass studio and give it a try? Let me know if you do! I wanted to share my little hobby with you, mostly just because I wanted a blog entitled “Blowing Snowmen”. 

S. R. Karfelt

Sit or Squat

For some time I've been tempted to blog about public restrooms. Is there an app for that? Actually there is. It's called Sit or Squat, and it's put out by Charmin. Kinda appropriate wouldn't you say?

You just never know about public restrooms. You can't judge them by the outside. I know this because I have no standards when I've been drinking iced tea. I'll go inside any of them. The worst one I've ever been in is inside a supermarket near where I currently live. You'd never guess it would rank lower than any truck stop (they're usually pretty nice) or run down gas station by the way side (again, not normally too bad). I've actually seen small children leave that supermarket bathroom crying in terror. I don't shop there anymore.



The best thing about Charmin's app is you can rate restrooms as you go - so to speak. This is a terrific public service! You can check out reviews because you really can't judge a potty just because it's in a dodgy neighborhood or because it doesn't have modern plumbing. I've been in an Amish outhouse where there was a bank of toilets and it was very nice! Seriously. I almost dropped my phone down a portal too. It would have been gone forever despite the cleanliness. (Note to self: Stop putting phone in back pocket.)



Wish I'd discovered Charmin's app sooner. There's a restroom between Roswell and Carlsbad I'd have enjoyed trying to rate. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was about 130 degrees inside, that can't be helped in the desert. Neither can the "Warning: Rattlesnakes!" sign in the parking lot be blamed. What I'd like to know is, what's up with the three foot tall doors on the stalls?



Somewhere in Pennsylvania I discovered a McDonalds with a Ladies Room made of granite tile, with real flowers, and expensive antibacterial soaps. It does a hopping business too. The only reason I stop in a McDonalds - unless there is a whining child in my vehicle - is to use the restroom. Am I the only one? Who else has taken to using McDonalds as the new rest stop? There's coffee!



But the most amazing bathrooms I've ever been in are in Las Vegas. Vegas is the only city I've ever been in where the hotel rooms actually look like they do in the movies. They're big and beautiful and clean - and the bathrooms are huge, themed, and luxurious! At least the ones on the strip are. As a matter of fact, those bathrooms were about as nice as the rooms.

Somewhere in the Paris Casino

Eiffel Tower Restaurant

Maybe you know? I forget.

House of Blues - metal doors - nice touch!

I remember it was Vegas.

You cannot fathom how many of these potty pictures I now have on my phone. Suffice to say any of the big hotels/casinos have ridiculously posh Ladies Rooms. Though they all use fairly generic toilet paper, points off for that from a functional perspective, don't you think? I mean some of them had television monitors at each sink, but yucky potty paper. The Amish toilets have better paper, and theirs has to be biodegradable. Just saying.

Though I suppose any toilet paper is better than none. I've crossed the border before and there was no toilet paper on the other side. It's easy to forget when you're cruising luxury bathrooms, that paper is a commodity and not affordable or available everywhere. 

I resisted adding Bellagio's spa to my pictures here. Their ladies room had everything from blow dryers to hair pins, deodorant, and juice. I was there for hours. Oh, like you wouldn't have? There was a Jacuzzi and a Eucalyptus steam room too. Sheesh, I don't even gamble and I like to go to Vegas. I think it's like wandering into Ancient Rome from the Serengeti. You look around and say, "Now that's cool, but I'll be going back to the real world now." 

Just Because

Once you're back in the real world you realize you don't need a designer bathroom, and a clean one is all the luxury you really need. As you go about doing your own business, will you join me in my investigative potty reporting on the Charmin App? Whoever is in charge of cleaning the bathrooms in this house better get to work, because if I rated you tonight it would NOT be good. Whose job is that anyway? 

Dang it. I need a robot. Luckily the app is for public restrooms. 

Kahtar

If you've read Warrior of the Ages, this little interview of the main character might be of interest to you. When I write, I write much more than goes into the book. Every time I think of a question, I write scenes out so that I know the where, why, and how of the book.

This is a scene I wrote as though someone Kahtar trusted and could speak to had asked him what it was like to die. In my mind he was speaking to Beth, a melancholy late night conversation where he opened up and said exactly the truth. Which, of course, you have to do when speaking to Beth.

Your comments would be much appreciated!

Kahtar’s Comments on Dying

There’s an emptiness between times. I mean after I die, and before I repeat again. I don’t ever remember being a baby, and I remember who I am about the age of consciousness, maybe four or five years old, but I’m sure about that emptiness between repeats, and that it has nothing to do with the time I don’t remember who I am yet. I sense something happens during the in-between, but I have nothing more than a vague sense that something did happen.

That’s not what you wanted to know though. You are curious about death.

It doesn’t define your life. Death is usually just one bad day. I would have a hard time pining what deaths went with which life most of the time. The lives stick out more, though some of the timeframe of deaths are easier to remember. I died from the plague three times – twice as a child – so I remember when and where. My entire clan died when a meteor hit that bay in what you now call Canada, I remember that.

Don’t misunderstand. I remember plenty of deaths. It is why I collect those weapons Beth insisted I put down in the basement. I just can’t usually remember which one went with which life. This will not be a pleasant topic. Are you certain you want to know?

Of course it hurts, don’t be ridiculous. I’m always a warrior though, so I’ve never had the pleasure of dying of old age, or in my sleep. I’ve often wished I’d someday know those deaths. I used to think that if I could choose one death, it would be to go while making love to a woman. Now that I have one - a woman that is - I wouldn’t want to waste a moment of lovemaking by dying during it.

The worse way? Dying with regret and failure, dying with no honor or purpose. Alone? We all die alone, that doesn’t matter.

I know what you meant by what’s the worse way. It’s hard to say what is the worst physical death. Torture is bad, there are many ways to hurt a man, but death is welcome then, a gift. I would not say death itself hurts at all, just the path there.

No, normally I don’t welcome it at all. I’m a warrior; I have my duty to live for. I fight death. I’ve particularly hated drowning – for example – when a ship goes down in a storm. Being able to scan makes it worse; you know there is no hope of rescue or land. You know you’ll die of thirst in the middle of all that water, but it would be dishonorable to give up and accept. So you fight it. You get so waterlogged your skin peels off, so sunburned you blister and bleed. If you’re lucky sharks find you. It doesn’t feel lucky when you sense them coming, or when they take a bite and drag you under. It is worse, though, when the sharks don’t come. You battle yourself then, so tempted to sink beneath the waves, but unable to allow it. It is not easy to be Covenant Keeper. It is not easy to be Warrior of ilu.

Both freezing to death and burning are horribly similar in some ways, but fire is worse. You actually burn eventually, like wood I mean. I know that I’ve been unable to fight it to the end with fire. That I breathed in smoke on purpose to end it. There comes a point with pain, when the man vanishes, and the animal takes control. It is horrible to witness…freezing hurts, but then you grow tired, unable to fight it and you sleep.

War? Battle? We do not have the adjectives. It is chaos and insanity, both in ancient wars and modern battlefields. As a Covenant Keeper I do not believe killing should ever be easy. You should look a man in the eye, and kill him with mercy when it must be done. There is an evil in killing by pushing a button. A detachment that is dangerous. Your soul knows though, perhaps the most dangerous part is you can’t heal after it. You must know and suffer what you inflict on others.

Poison is particularly gruesome. I breathed mustard gas in the Great War, separated from my clan I went the same way as the other men I fought beside. You cannot heal yourself. No, I don’t lament that fact, only state it. ilu thought of everything, we need each other to live, it is as it should be. The worst poison I ever ingested has blessedly been eradicated. It was not a Seeker poison, but a Covenant Keeper poison. I died for three years, it was indeed hell.

Copyright 2013
All rights reserved
by S. R. Karfelt

A bit melancholy isn't it? Kahtar is quite good at living with his part-time immortality, but he is only human despite it. I've always thought immortality would be horrific, obviously by this story. What do you think immortality would be like?

Why Does it Take so FREAKIN’ Long?

Photo Credit: Pennywise

Book two was written before my first book was published. As a matter of fact the entire WOA (Warriors of the Ages) series was.

So what gives? Either it’s finished or it’s not, right? Thing is, I didn’t say it was FINISHED, nor did I say it was DONE. I said it was written. Big difference. Huge.

The writing process varies for everyone. Here is how it works for me.

• I write a story.
• That can take from two weeks to about six.
• It’s not ready then. Think of it as a skeleton. A skeleton is not a complete being. It’s a skeleton.
• My book skeletons must be set away for awhile because I fall in love with them when I write them. THE POTENTIAL of those skeletons is huge. It is hard for me to see through that potential and realize there are femurs missing and possibly it has two heads.
• When I’m ready to take off my rose colored glasses and look at that skeleton critically, only then can it come out of the closet.

• At this point I check the bones, and hopefully doctor up any extra or missing parts.
• By this time I’ve once again fallen in love with it, and I’m ready to work on it.
• Here comes the tricky part. Adding insides, muscle, and flesh to the story skeleton.
• After that I have a BABY! Yay!
• My baby goes off to about five of what I call beta readers. I’m the alpha writer, they’re my beta readers. They get a first look at my baby.
• Sometimes they say, “Man, yore baby ugly!”
• Sometimes they say, “Didn’t you notice this baby has a tail?”
• Sometimes they say, “There are seven toes on every foot and there are three feet.”
• What they say can be pretty much endless.

• Obviously my baby comes back pretty bruised and crying for its Mama.
• Don’t tell, but I cry with it when that happens, and I hate my beta readers for a good minute.
• Through my tears I notice that most of the beta readers said my baby has a tail, and a pointy head. I look closely. By George, it’s true.
• So I fix it.
• That takes as long as it takes. Surgery is like that. You know that if you’ve ever waited for someone to get out of the operating room.
• After that my baby is PERFECT. So I send it off to meet five new beta readers. Not the other ones this time, they’ve been contaminated. They will stare so hard at the spot where the tail used to be that they’ll imagine it is there. The new beta readers won’t think anything at all about that little nub where I snipped it off.

• Of course once again my baby comes back with problems.  His hair sticks up. He talks weird. He walks funny.
• And of course once again I hate my beta readers for just a minute. Why can’t they just see the beauty in my baby? Why are they looking for flaws?! Oh wait – that’s their job. Oh yeah.
• So once again I consider what the bulk of the betas’ said, and I look at my baby from every angle and make the necessary adjustments.
• What I didn’t mention in this endless writer’s to do list, is that I reread my story countless times between each of these steps. I try to fix most problems BEFORE my betas can point them out. I never get them all.
• After my baby has had plastic surgery, I may or may not send it to one or two people for a read, just to be sure. At any rate this is the point where my baby goes off to a professional editor.

• Professional Editors are the Eye of Sauron. Very, very scary. You never know what they’ll say. They might say your baby will never walk right, or that it needs surgery. If you’re very fortunate, you’ll just get your baby back all covered in red, like something the Russian Mafia would leave behind in a cheap motel room.
• The hating time for editors is a tad longer than a minute.
• You will rant and rage. Your dog might run away – or your spouse. This all adds to your writing time while you go find them and apologize.

• Eventually you’ll suck it up, Cupcake, and put on your big girl pants and start cleaning up what your editor did to your baby. It’s a hard job because you’re likely still blinded by a bit of that hate, and you’re not ServPro for pity’s sake.

After you’ve miraculously made your baby look alive again, you will gasp in wonder and amazement. An artist will give your baby something beautiful to wear (called a book cover). Your baby is now ready for its debut, and you will take all the credit for its loveliness, not your betas and editor. Yet all the hate you had for your editor has now turned to undying love, and you’ll spend $40 to send a box of goldfish crackers to your beta in UK.

Your book is now ready. Done. Fin. Well, except for a few little touchups required by the publisher.

S. R. Karfelt

Mostly I’m a takes no prisoners, no excuses kind of gal, but I want my lovely readers to understand the process. It takes awhile to get from:

            “Everyone likes to think rich guys want to marry them.”

To:

            “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” ~ Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice

That’s my theory anyway. Do you have one?