Category Archives: Personal
I’ve noticed a certain phenomenon cropping up in my social media feeds since Thursday. For you on the west side of the Atlantic (those of you on the east were a tad busy with election matters), you’ll remember that Thursday was the day former FBI director James Comey testified before the Senate intelligence committee about the circumstances that led to his firing by President Trump. I won’t recap what was said or the potential impacts of Mr. Comey’s statements, but a very unexpected result of his testimony is a growing number of social media posts, primarily by women, that can be boiled down to, “Is it just me, or does anyone else find Comey oddly sexy?”
If you find yourself thinking this while watching the testimony or interviews with the man, no, it’s not just you. While he may not be cover model gorgeous, he does have even features, nice eyes, and a pleasant voice, his bearing and height are impressive (“He’s so TALL!” one woman enthused), and his forthright determination and patriotism harks back to James Stewart in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” (Disclaimer: my politics don’t align with his and I’m not thrilled with some of his actions, but I can’t fault the man’s probity.)
But I wonder how much of his appeal also has to do with the fact that he, a straight white male, found himself in the same position that so many women have — namely, isolated and forced into a uncomfortable situation where his employer used pressure via insinuation to get him to perform a service. Every woman who’s had to put up with a boss’s inappropriate but not quite actionable suggestions knows how that feels. We watched Comey being grilled by the Senate committee, and we sympathized when he said, “Maybe if I were stronger, I would have” in response to Sen. Dianne Feinstein’s question of why he didn’t tell the president to stop.
Basically, Comey is an Alpha male with a very human center, and that’s appealing to a lot of women. He’s a decent man who respects truth, law, and duty, has had his reputation unfairly impugned, and is now fighting to defend not only his own sense of honor but the honor of his country as well. Speaking as a romance writer, if that doesn’t have “hero” written all over it I’ll eat my laptop. Integrity’s a good look on anyone who can legitimately claim it, but on Comey it’s sexy as hell.
As of yesterday I now have a small but itchy rash on the numb part of my stomach with a couple of outlying bumps, all of them along the affected nerve trunk. But it’s contained and I still don’t have the agonizing pain that other shingles sufferers have reported, so go Acyclovir!
That being said, I’m noticing two weird side effects, and I don’t know if it’s the shingles, the Acyclovir, or a combination thereof. Side effect #1: while I’m still tired and feeling unwell, my ability to focus has gone way up. As in, I am writing like a house on fire. I finished a chapter of Shifter Woods: Roar yesterday and worked on Cross Current, and I also want to go back to work on Do No Harm. This is weird but good.
Side effect #2: no appetite whatsoever. I keep forgetting to eat, and then fifteen hours later my stomach starts hurting and I think, “Oh, yeah, I need to eat. Okay, I’ll have some yogurt.” I sent Ramón out to do a food shop, and he’s bringing back almonds. Those, grapes, and yogurt will do me right now.
And now, I think I’ll go take a nap.
Shingles, to be precise. I developed an odd numb band of skin on my stomach running from my midline to my left side early Monday morning. The area underneath the skin started itching and aching like hell and made sleep Monday night quite unpleasant, so I called the doc’s yesterday morning for an appointment.
Diagnosis: shingles, classic presentation (right along a nerve trunk wrapping around my body from spine to midline). But I caught it early before the rash appeared so with Acyclovir I may not develop the rash at all. And Cecilia Tan clued me in to the use of Salonpas methyl salicylate pads, which knocked out the pain nicely. The biggest bummer is that I have to stay out of the gym until I’m sure I’m no longer shedding virus (people with shingles can give unvaccinated people chickenpox). Guess I can work out at home for a week.
For those of you who have never heard of this, shingles are basically the Son of Chickenpox — the herpes zoster virus remains dormant in your system once you’ve had chickenpox. After you turn 50 certain things can reactivate it — stress, immune system issues, various diseases — and it attacks the nerve roots, creating a belt-like rash along the nerve trunk. The abdomen is one of the most common places for it to appear, but it can show up all over your body (including your eyes), and knock-on effects can include nerve damage, photosensitivity, and a host of other unpleasant ailments. Recognizing it early and getting the antiviral Acyclovir (the treatment dose only cost me $19.50) can greatly reduce the length and severity of the attack, so if this ever happens to you hie yourself into the doctor right smart, if at all possible.
An interesting side effect is that either the shingles or the Acyclovir is making me feel … well, mellow. I’m tired and Ramón says I’m warm, but I’m not itching or in pain and I’m feeling a general sense of Zen calm. Which is kinda nice, considering the current political climate.
So JJ, the 16-year-old black cat with kidney insufficiency, has gotten more and more cranky over the past year, to the point where he yells at me if his food bowl isn’t filled to the brim, yells at me if the other cats’ food bowls aren’t likewise filled, yells at me, when he wants to be petted, yells at me when he wants to be let down, and generally yells at me.
But since I know his kidneys are slowly failing I don’t want to ignore his yelling because I don’t know if it’s because he’s in pain or he’s just being grumpy. So, yeah, I’ve pretty much become his body servant. Cut to a few minutes ago, when he was yelling loudly from the living room. Like the good servant I am, I dropped what I was doing and went in there to see what was up.
Some background: JJ likes sleeping on the futon in the living room. I will occasionally bring him his wet food or water there so that he can have dinner in bed, so to speak. I’d left the spare water bowl on the end table, and because our orange tabby Jeremy is a huge resource hog who will shoulder JJ out of the way to get at any food or water I’d put another bowl of water next to it so that Jer-bear could drink out of that one while JJ drank out of the other bowl.
I go into the living room and see JJ staring at the now-empty water bowls. He then gives me an accusing look as if to say, “How dare you let these run dry?” Please note that we have two bowls of water with the regular food bowls and a big bowl of water on the breakfast nook table, all of which are washed and refreshed multiple times a day. But no, Grandpa wanted his water bowl on the end table, and he wanted it now.
I sighed and refilled them both. After a few minutes he yelled for cuddles, and has just now demanded to be let down. Once I did that he strolled off to the living room again, most likely to snooze until he decides to start yelling about something yet again.
My life, you know you want it.
Yeah. That’s not going to fly here in Casa Cameron (I mean, come ON. You people KNOW me). And right now it is damn hard for me to pick my jaw off my chest from where it dropped when I saw the news that 45 had fired FBI Director James Comey, allegedly for the way he handled the situation with Secretary Clinton’s emails (I swear to God, I go to the gym for one hour and all hell breaks loose in D.C.).
Which is bullshit, and we all know it’s bullshit. But once again it’s very clear that 45 does not know his history, and has never heard of the Saturday Night Massacre, where then-President Nixon fired independent special prosecutor Archibald Cox and Attorney General Elliot Richardson and Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus resigned in protest, triggering the series of events that led to Nixon’s impeachment. Now clearly that particular parade is not going to happen this time, since Smilin’ Jeff Sesssions is AG and is perfectly happy to go along with whatever 45 wants. But with any luck and a good tail wind this is the beginning of the end for the current administration, especially as Comey was supposed to testify on Thursday at the same hearings where Sally Yates became a verb for “handing an overbearing idiot his ass.”
I don’t think 45 quite gets that Comey can still testify as a civilian. This should be fascinating to watch.
Warning: I’m getting political here. If you want to believe that romance writers should be Switzerland, you may want to go somewhere else for the moment.
So I’m trying to work on Cross Current while watching the run-up to the vote in the House of Representatives over the new iteration of the AHCA, and taking breaks to comfort friends who are having panic attacks because this bill passing means that they or their loved ones will lose their health insurance, and wondering how badly this is going to make our own health care costs go up (I have two autoimmune disorders which will be considered pre-existing conditions), and generally being pissed off at the attempts of some very rich people to turn us all into out and out serfs. Because let’s be honest, this country is already an oligarchy.
And man, I really wish there was something powerful and mind-changing that I could say about this, especially since I’m a writer and words are my tools. But I can’t. The Backfire Effect means that people won’t listen to reason and fact if it contradicts their core beliefs, and apparently the core beliefs of those who want to vote YES on this bill can be condensed to, “Screw you, Jack, I got mine.” So instead, I’m gonna tell you a story.
Back in 1998, Ramón and I had just moved to Sweden for his contract job with a major telecoms company that I shall call the Three Blue Sausages. Ramón’s teenaged sister the Generalissima had come with us for various reasons, and was starting school in Stockholm while I started my own new job as a tech writer at TBS.
On the third day of my new job, I went home after work and found our apartment looking like a whirlwind had torn it apart — papers everywhere, the phone book out, just a mess. Grumbling about slob teenagers, I start cleaning the place when the phone rang.
It was the Generalissima. “Nic, I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “Your mum’s dead.”
It turned out that the place was a mess because she’d torn it apart trying to find a phone number for TBS so that she could call and tell me (I hadn’t gotten an office phone yet). I remember thanking her, hanging up, and calling my sister to find out what had happened.
As it turned out, my mother, who had been working as a temp secretary without health insurance, had developed a serious case of cellulitis. She couldn’t afford to see a doctor and tried to treat it herself. It went systemically septic over the course of six weeks. My brother, who lived with her, got scared when the pain grew too bad and took her into the local charity hospital for help. After a day of treatment they sent her home, telling him he could nurse her as well as they could. That night she was sitting on the couch, shocky and unable to speak, writing in notes that she could see man-like shapes hovering in the corners of the room. She sent my brother into his bedroom so that she could change out of the adult diapers the hospital had put her in; he asked if she wanted help, and she silently shooed him away. After a half hour, he came back out. He found her slumped over on the couch, her eyes still open, panties in her hand.
Not the image you want to have of your mother’s last moments on earth, by the way. Not at all.
I flew back to the States the next day, and am still grateful to the kind flight attendant who found me a row where I could stretch out and not upset the other passengers with my quiet crying. Mom wound up at the local mortuary, which was run by a former schoolmate of my aunt’s. He told her that Mom’s legs were in such bad condition they probably would have required amputation if she had lived.
Thing is, none of this happened in a war-torn place or a third-world nation. Mom lived in Whiting, Indiana, within spitting distance of Chicago. She worked all of her adult life, a great deal of it at the University of Chicago. She died because she couldn’t afford to go see a doctor and get antibiotics for a bacterial infection before it turned life-threatening. She was 58.
And I look at all of those GOP representatives in Congress preparing to vote on the AHCA, ramming it through even though it’s incomplete and CBO hasn’t even had a chance to put an accurate price tag on it. And I have to wonder — if their mothers are dead, did it happen because they couldn’t afford health insurance? Did they die while hallucinating and struggling to put on a pair of panties? Somehow, I strongly doubt it. So why are they expecting the rest of us to watch the people we love die in such a horrible way?
I say the rest of us because it’s written into the very bill that members of Congress won’t have to use the same kind of health coverage they’re expecting everyone else to live with. Congressional health coverage is great. They’ll be fine. And their owners will be fine, as well. And the super wealthy who are going to get a seriously juicy tax cut from this bill? They’re going to be the happiest of all.
This has been one fraught week, angels. Last week, Ramón learned that his mom had broken her thigh bone (ironically, it happened in the doctor’s office which she was visiting to determine why her leg hurt). She was taken to the hospital and received multiple scans, after which it was determined that she needed surgery to install a plate on the thigh bone to hold everything in place.
And then a consultant took a closer look at the scans to figure out what was causing the pain in the first place. He discovered a tumor. More were found, and suddenly we went into full “Get Ramón back home to see his mom NOW” mode, which was complicated by work duties and a very welcome house guest who just happened to show up at a difficult time. But the house guest is now on her way, the work duties have been fulfilled, Ramón is packed and I’ll be schlepping him to the airport in a couple of hours, and he’ll be landing in the UK tomorrow. Any good thoughts/prayers/white light/whatever you have directed to a very nice lady in Chesterfield would be quite appreciated at the moment.
In other news, I posted polls on Facebook and Twitter to ask people what series they would like me to work on next. To my surprise and gratification it turned out that Olympic Cove was the clear winner, so I’ve put the Pacifica Rising and Two Thrones books on hold and am back at work on Cross Current (Book 4). I hope to have that off to Evernight by the end of May, so for everyone who’s been waiting for the continuing adventures of the gods, mermen, disciples, and other residents of Olympic Cove and their battle against the Mad Goddess Thetis, you’ve got something good on the way!
Because they listen to me when I’m moody as hell, let me vent to my little black heart’s content, and then I feel better and don’t throw tantrums on social media (because really, nobody needs to see that shit). Serious, L.D., you are a lifesaver.
In happier news, the severe thunderstorm systems that are currently sliding north of Plano are providing me with lots of pretty lightning and no real rain or hail to speak of, which is absolutely dandy with me (especially when I saw the pictures of the ping-pong ball-sized hail coming down five miles north of here). Springtime in Texas — gotta love it.
Okay, enough of that. Back to work on the shifter story.
SC: Sooooo … you’ve been getting kinda whiny on social media about your book sales. You know, nobody likes to be guilted into buying stuff.
Me: *sigh* Yes, I know. I won’t do that anymore. And I wasn’t trying to guilt people. I was just trying to get some word of mouth going.
Me: Oh, bite me. I already feel bad about it. I’m just going to shut up and write more books. If I can.
SC: Melodramatic cliffhanger much?
Me: God, you’re a bitch.
SC: You should know. Okay, fine, why “if I can?”
Me: Because my damn laptop is over eight years old and my desktop is over nine years old. Both of them are failing, and I really need to buy new ones before they completely die on me.
SC: Tell me you’re backing up.
Me: Religiously and onto multiple devices. But backups aren’t going to be of any use if I don’t have hardware to run them on.
SC: So why didn’t you just say that your computers are crapping out and you need to buy new ones?
Me: Well, hell, Chuck Wendig just did something like that for his vet bills and people jumped all over his ass. And I’m no Chuck Wendig.
SC: Verily, that is true.
Me: Also, it didn’t occur to me.
SC: Jesus. You’re telling me that saying, “Hey, folks, my antique computers are on the verge of joining the choir eternal so please buy my books so that I can get new ones and keep writing” didn’t occur to you, but “Oh, jeez, my books aren’t selling, woe is me” did?
Me: Fuck you.
SC: Not anatomically possible but an amusing suggestion nonetheless. Why are you in such a bad mood, anyway?
Me: Because I’m cleaning. I hate cleaning. I always wind up drenched in sweat and covered in cat hair. But it has to be done.
SC: You could be writing–
Me: YES I KNOW THAT BUT WE LIVE WITH FIVE CATS AND RANDY TREES OUTSIDE AND I HAVE TO VACUUM IF I WANT TO CONTINUE BREATHING, OKAY?
SC: Yeesh. Okay. But you’re going to be taking breaks, right?
SC: Okay, then. You can work on one of your WIPs during your breaks. See? That was easy.
Me: I–you– *incoherent with rage*
SC: Do you want a new laptop and desktop?
Me: *grinds teeth and goes back to dusting*
It’s that time of year again when I haul out all the receipts I’ve compulsively saved and start wading through them to find the numbers necessary for the accountant (yes, we have an accountant, first because Ramón was a 1099 contractor and I wanted a pro to help us with deductions, and now because I have the multiple income streams of a creative worker and I need a pro to make sense of them to the IRS). I know this would all be much faster and easier if I regularly entered everything in spreadsheets, but I find going through the receipts to be oddly soothing.
Prepping Ramón’s numbers is pretty straightforward — he works from home so I have to go through and tot up all the utilities for the house so that the accountant can work out the deduction for the dedicated home office. Then it’s my turn. Turns out I didn’t sell that much jewelry last year (not surprising), but I did spend a hellacious fortune on business expenses, mainly travel (also unsurprising, seeing as I attended Wild Wicked Weekend, RT in Vegas, Evernight’s writer retreat in Ontario, and did a research trip to the Atlantic coast of Florida). At least now I know where all the money from Empress of Storms went. And my accountant will be happy because I have all of these legitimate expenses backed up with paper.
That being said, I’m going to seriously rein in the travel this year, mainly because both my laptop and my desktop are on the way out and I need to replace them ASAP with what I make from royalties. So no RT for me this year, and I probably won’t do RWA either which is a bit disappointing but oh, well. On the other hand, if I write my ass off and put out another Two Thrones and two more Pacifica Rising books this year, plus the standalones that are patiently waiting for me to finish them, I should be able to buy the computer equipment I need this year, and go to RT and RWA next year.
Speaking of that, once I get all the papers off to the accountant on Monday I will be spending most of next week outlining Pacifica Rising 2 and Two Thrones 3 (try saying that three times fast). I still don’t have a really solid idea about PR2 apart from the fact that the main romantic focus will remain on Evie and Ben while a rogue bodyguard from the Denali Protectorate shows up and makes Rob’s life difficult, but TT3 is going to feature a Hellan tournament to celebrate Danaë’s pregnancy (thank you, Medieval Times, for giving me the idea) during which an unexpected rival from Matthias’s past resurfaces and complicates things. Oh, and we’ll get to meet the Grand High Magister Aeris, Epilonious, who has decided to take young Luna under his wing and drive her grandfather and step-grandmother absolutely batty in the process. Fun times!