Overthinking: Dragons, Fingers, and Math

When most people world build fantasy tales, they try to follow in the footsteps of Tolkien, Le Guin, and other great world-builders. They invent landmasses, history, languages, and art.

Meanwhile, there's me. My dragons have math.

All math starts with a counting system. In the real world, this comes from by counting fingers on the hand. We have sets of five, ten, and twenty (for when you add toes). From there you develop digit symbols - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 0. Through out history, humans have favored ten-digit systems. It appeals on an instinctual level.

In a fantasy story, people use assume that everyone uses the same math. Typically, it's not something that matters in a plot. Nevertheless, I overthink everything.

An elf or even a centaur has the same hand as a human does. They likely use a similar system with different symbols. Meanwhile, dragons are decided not human or human adjacent.
To complicate things, there are multiple types of dragons in Mundus. One of my draft notebooks has a scribble that dragon in Mundus treat gravity and other natural laws as 'suggestions.' Celabramar is a a massive quadruped with wings. Madam Vircroc is biped like a velociraptor with vestigial wings. At the end of the story, yet another dragon uses the knuckles of their wings and short hind legs to walk like a bat.

All this biodiversity means that there isn't a standard set of twenty digits on a dragon. A dragon with wings and two back legs would only have digits on their feet. That number of digits could also vary from dragon to dragon.

If the feet are built like a bird's for grabbed and perching, there would be three forward and one pointing back. (There could also be just three or just two.) If they are more like a dinosaurs, say a sauropode, there will be five. Some dragons don't even have feet. The dragons of Mundus need a counting system that works for them, not for humans.

My solution was to have them use a base-five system. Four-toed dragons count your claws – 1,2,3,4. Most other dragons will count the longest four fangs. If you have more than four toes, the short extra acts like the zero when you write ten '10.' Short fangs also fill this round. Two long and one short means one group of four plus two, our six. (Base-five, the quinary number system, is a real thing. It used in Astralian First Nation languages like Gumatj.)

The biggest difference is that dragons won't name all the numbers that humans name in a ten digit counting system. For example in English, we have unique names for the first twenty numbers and then name the groups of ten up to hundred – thirty, forty and so on.

My dragons name their numbers up to sixteen and then name groups of eight digits. Numbers five through nine don't have special digit symbols just like our eleven is written as '11.'

So what does this mean from a storytelling angle? Well, in Mundus, it means that some people foolishly think that dragons are stupid because they 'don't know what twenty it.' However, it's really a translation error. Dragons have math, advanced math even. It's a necessity when you are a nation of large carnivores managing wild food sources. Averages, perimeters, rate of change, and probabilities- these aren't just things in a textbook for dragons. Dragons are scary good at math.

In my W.I.P., Celabramar converts volume from square feet to bushels without a reference table or calculator. He also converts pounds of silver to the market price of sheep. He also reads and corrects Leon's math, which was written in human numbers. Celabramar lives in a cave, can't hold a pencil, and can do algebra in his head. 

Leon is a Wizard. He's basically the guy who went to college and finished a Master's Degree. That doesn't stop him from making mistakes because he is tired or focusing on the wrong things. 

I did this on purpose. It's been in my notes for years. I wanted the reminder that technology and culture isn't a sure indicator of education and intellegent. If you judge only the surface level, you miss so much of the world. 

On a lighter not, the story has yet another dragon math Easter-egg. Through out the story, Celabramar uses several techniques to mange his temper – deep breaths, shredding a tree, and self-talk. Celabramar stops himself from yelling at a bigot by counting in his head.

He counts to eight, not ten.

Commitments, Hobbies, and a Quote by Mark Twain.

 

Around the time I decided to make another stab at being a professional novelist, I also decided to pick up a new hobby – model building.

No, I'm not building dioramas of Mundus and scenes from Don't Fireball the Neighbors. (I don't have near the skill level.) What I'm doing is bribing my brain.

I'm not very good at building new habits. Unfortunately, being a serious, professional writer means getting into the habit of writing even when the creative 'flow' is slow. I'm supposed to write something everyday – story, blog, social media, or even in person journal.

Now, I DO want to write professionally. I DO want those better habits. My inner storyteller looks as this the way an athlete looks at a training menu. I'm committed to this journey.

My inner six year old looks at this and whines, “Why'd you have to spoil my fun by making it a chore?”

The six year-old has a point. Commitments bring a certain level of stress and self-critique. Also, building a habit is mental work. Work takes effort.

If I was a sensible, responsible adult, I would just muscle through with positive self-talk. “Every session builds your skills.” “Five people interacted with your last post. That's a good start.” “Readers will see the passion and though in your world-building.”

However, I have a very loud inner-six-year-old. She isn't good at big picture thinking.

So, I've taken a page out of my mother's parenting hand book – reinforcement via bribery.
I started model building, with the condition that I can't work on them unless I've worked on writing that day.

For the most part this system has work very well.

Building and painting models is fun and uses a different part of my creativity. It's more about color and picking the order to build and paint things. My progress is also literally tangible. I go from a box of plastic bits, to a gray figure, then to a displayable piece. It provides short term gratification.

There is the community element. I picked models that are part of the 'war gaming' niche. After you build and paint them, you can simulate battles at the local hobby shop. It's also surprisingly easy to get feedback and tips about your models. (Getting helpful feedback from fellow writers is like like pulling teeth. There's a reason I'm playing for an editor for look over Don't Fireball the Neighbors.) Visiting the game shop is also another 'carrot' I can use.

Yes, there have been slip ups. Days where I hobby first and them write while I wait for the glue/paint/clay to dry so I can do the next round. However, this is not the really danger.

In addition to the inner six-year-old, I have an inner CEO who 'over promises' what the work force can produce. In simpler terms, I have trouble setting realistic timelines.

The most glaring example of this is “Tanksgiving.” Last time I was at the hobby shop, I got caught up in the hype and pledged to bring a newly painted model to a battle royale event. I severely underestimated how long it would take paint my tiny little 'attack tractor.'

I let the pressure of the deadline push me off writing rhythm. It took slightly over a week of multiple painting hours a day. I didn't even make a token effort at writing. My tunnel vision was stronger than my budding habit.

I finished my model the day this post went up. (Pictures to follow when I find a light box.) The trimuph is tainted with the regert that I didn't keep my writer's goals. Regret can quickly be as heavy weight of commitments. Yes, I enjoyed myself. However, there's the nagging feeling that I could have found something else to blog about if I had just slowed down and recentered myself. Also, painting on a deadline, it just is too stressful.

As Samuel Clemens, pen name Mark Twain, put it.

“[H]e would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.”

Dugeons and Dragons, and Mice and Men

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry"

To a Mouse, Robert Burns

This Halloween, I had ambitious, nay, insane plans.

I would run a horror Dungeons and Dragons one shot for my sister, my brother, and my mother. The source material, Curse of Strahd is a popular module. It's set in the Gothic Horror inspired lands of Barovia, a land of tragedy ruled by a Vampire Lord who seeks the reincarnation of his lost love.

As is the case with most of my ambitious plans, things got out hand quickly.

Now, for those who are not familiar with Dungeons and Dragons, setting up one play session game is tricky. The DnD is part collaborative storytelling and part chess with dice. The players are directing the choices of their custom designed character. The Game Master, that's me, is in charge of everything else. Yes, literally everything. Set design, villain motives, weather patterns, and spreadsheets that translate the words 

“My barbarian goes into a rage. I attack the werewolf,” 

into dice rolls and numbers that tells me how badly the target is hurt. I then translate those results into a narrative clip, 

“Your hammer smashes into his knee and there's a crunch. However, as you whined up for another hit, you see the flesh twist and the bones snap back into position. What would have been a crippling blow is an ugly bruise.”

There is a lot of setup that goes into any Table-Top-Role-Play Game. I did not slack. I spent the better part of September cherry-picking and trimming down the source material to fit in the playtime. The original game can easily become a year long commitment with over 100 hours of play time.

I kept it simple. Well, I tired to keep it simple. My goal was three hours of playtime. However, as I trimmed content, I found myself having to create content. This because a huge undertaking.

For example, I had to cut the 'ominous temple to dark powers.' In the base game, this temple provides lore about the vampire and meet the Dark Powers who will offer the character risky deals for their favor. It's a good way reward characters taking the time to learn about the vampire. It also takes multiple play sessions just to explore the area.

Because the players could no long travel to the Dark Powers for those boosts, I had to design a way to bring the Dark Powers to the players. The solution was delightfully twisted. If a character dies in the game, their soul goes to limbo were something offers them a deal.
This mechanic works because it allows my players to stay in the game after they fall in battle. It also work with the narrative themes of power corrupting and that running from death has consequences. The Dark Powers are evil. Their favors have downsides.

However, this tweak only solved half the problem cutting the temple causes. I still needed a way to give the players a way to learn about the vampire's history. Most importantly, I need a way that was 'show not tell.'
The simplest way would be for me to design and act a monster hunter character. However, they downside is that if the players miss or have their characters make a bad impression on this hunter, they can't get the backstory. Also, Game Master run characters can easily take all the oxygen out of the table. The players essential get baby-sat through the story. That's not collaboration.

So, I put a spin on the monster hunter. I killed him. As the players explore, they hear rumors about gruesome fate of the hunter and his companions. If they investigate, they can find caches and notes about the hunter's plan to weaken the vampire and then kill him. However, it's obvious something went wrong.

This method give the players a choice on how much or how little exploring they feel like doing. Maybe the think they can salvage the hunter's plan. Maybe they feel they have a better plan and ignore the hints. Maybe they hear the rumors and decide that opposing the vampire is a waste of time.

The removing the temple was just two of several modifications I made. There was also some flavor and thematic modifications.

First, there was the infamous Vistani problem. The original Curse of Strahd game is old - really, really old. There are some toxic racial setrotypes about Romani and other Nomadic cultures. This is a leftover from Stoker's Dracula novel in which a 'tribe of Gypsies' serve as the vampire's willing minions. My source book doesn't make more than a token effort to hide the fact that all the Vistani are con-artists and spies for the vampire.
Classical horror trope or not, that had to go.

Secondly, and just as pressing, the book described the vampire's castle as a ruinous mess, broken ceiling, rotten furniture, and swarms of rats, bats, and spiders. This is fine, unless one of your players has a phobia of spiders.

I spent two hours going over the narrations notes line by line, checking for spiders and spider webs. Gruesome displays in the dungeon? No problem. A midnight parade of the ghosts of fallen adventurers? Also good.
A belfry with a nest of giant spiders living in the bell? That drop down onto the players? If that stayed, my phobic player might pass out, or set fire to the game table.

By Halloween day, I had put several weeks of my creative writing time into this game. My computer screen looked like a math textbook and a public speaking class had an eldritch baby. The session ran smooth as butter.

Sadly, I failed in my original plan, run the game in one session. Even with cutting 75% of the material there was just too much too do. There was also the human element.
My family can't stay seated for three hours straight, especially not my mother. During our two and a half hours of playtime, we took multiple stretch break that somehow always turned into house tidying breaks.

We even had to stop short of my three hour mark. My sister got a migraine attack. Yes, I'd spent ages building this, however, if you are in pain, you are in pain. My options were to reschedule for when she felt better or try to cut and re-balance the entire game on the fly for Mom and my brother.

Nevertheless, it was a good Halloween. Before the migraine attack, everyone was having a blast. Even my mother, a complete novice to DnD was able to enjoy the story. She actually killed a vampire bride by using a long-sword and an alligator.

It will be interesting to see what kind of story unfolds.

Overthinking: Crickets, Cotton, and Colonialsim

Bugs are not part of the modern Southern diet. Most of the locals go happily through their days without considering eating them.

Most locals don't have a stupidly sensitive stomach and a restricted diet. My protein sources are limited to animal products and less than half of the commercial available seeds and nuts. I have next to no 'shelf-stable' proteins.

I've been strongly considering eating bugs, cricket specifically.

Unfortunately for me (and fortunately for my family who shares the kitchen) crickets will not be added to my menu any time soon. The only crickets for sale were novelty snacks on Amazon. Everything else would require international shipping.

This didn't make sense to me. Less than ten years ago crickets and 'cricket flour' rose in popularity as a superfood and a less environmentally damaging protein. What had happened to the crickets?

I dug a little more and found part of the answer on a U.K. supplier's site. “No Arsenic” they boasted. Apparently, there had been a big recall of cricket flour after a quality tester found multiple brands containment with arsenic. The bad PR pretty much killed the cricket's popularity.

A normal person would have given up at this point. “Too expensive. Too risky.”

I, however, reverted to my environmental science brain. “How the heck did that happen? Arsenic is not naturally occurring in crickets. It can't be like cherry pits and cyanide?”

Obviously, the crickets had eaten the arsenic at some point in their lives. How had they gotten access to it?

This answer was easier to find than edible cricket. The farmers had accidentally fed arsenic to the crickets with their food supply, cheap rice. The rice had arsenic.

Finally, all the pieces fell into place. The U.S.A has long had a problem with arsenic contamination in the soil.

Ironically, we can blame the Southern cotton industry. Arsenic was historically used to protect the plants from...bugs. The toxin then leeches into the fields and water supply. As the fields were repurposed, the new plants uptake the arsenic.
Rice is a thirsty plant and can easily become too tainted for human consumption. (Despite producing over 20 billion pounds of it per year. The U.S.A. still must import food grade rice.)

So, the cricket farmers must have bought the cheaper, local, low quality rice to feed their stock. However, unlike traditional livestock, the crickets can't be butchered. The arsenic stayed in the insect bodies even after roasting and milling.

“Yet another victim of colonization and industrialization,” I sighed to myself and began scrolling through examples of cricket cuisines in other countries. Little did I know my hunch was dead right.

“They eat all the snakes, and lizards, and spiders, and worms, that they find upon the ground;

so that, to my fancy, their bestiality is greater than that of any beast upon the face of the earth,” Diego Álvarez Chanca

This wonderfully dehumanizing quote is from a companion of Christopher Columbus, (im)famous European explorer who launched the colonization of the American continents.

Colonialsim depends on viewing the indigenous populations as primative, stupid or any number of justifications to treat them as lesser beings. In the European mind, insect diets were yet another excuse to justify supplanting the locals.

As the Europeans brought their own culture and values, native populations became shamed out of eating bugs. The few who weren't shamed would find the once bountiful food source dying off as insecticides and invasive species were introduced.

Land became converted to cash crop production. The goal wasn't local biodiversity. It was how much cash crop you could produce. Even animal protein followed this trend: cattle, swine, and sheep. Why bother with bugs?

Colonialism is the stage for many injustices, slavery, racism, genocide. In comparison, a white gal with a tender stomach not being able to buy crickets seems not worth mentioning.
However, that's the thing about toxins, there is not a single generation of victims. The consequences of poisoning the land and ideologies are long lasting. It impoverishes the future – whether through limited dietary options, families living near pollution become trapped in poverty due to compromised health, or using food to mock and belittle people.

In a better world, I could eat crickets.

Overthinking: I'm a Writer?

 

In August 2024 , I finished the second draft of Don't Fireball the Neighbors (Title Pending). My next challenge was to figure out how to turn my manuscript into a published novel.
One of the first things I did was met with Janice Buswell, a local novelist. I bribed her with lunch at a Thai resturance to pick her brain. It was a productive meeting.

I didn't walk away with ten step plan to grow a platform or a agency contact. What I got was advise on finding an editor and restructuring my time management. Basically, it was time to stop treating writing as a hobby and take it to the next step.

“Introduce yourself as a writer,” She told me “When you walked over, you mentioned your petsitting business.”

She continued to explain that introducing myself as a writer directs the conversation to my work and writer's platform. It's good advise from a self-promotion stand point. (It's the many reason I use “House and PetSitter” in my intro's. I find new clients and good booking that way.)

As with all good advise, it's easier said than done. Can I call myself a writer?

A large part of my mental block to claiming "Yes, I'm a writer" is that is was never my career focus. In college, I tended to the other half of the brain - WatchMaking and MircoTech and then later Environmental Engineering. 

I also lack the hallmarks of 'serious writers.' My membership in writer's groups has been patchy due to distance and my various side-jobs. 

More damning, I've never published anything. I wrote essays for my humanities electives, made modifications to some Dungeons and Dragons games I hosted, but never submitted anything since a church poetry contest in my late teen.

Writing fiction has never been a professional focus in my life. Why call myself a writer?

After stewing the question over, I used my old stand-by for decisions – A “Why?” and “Why Not?” list

Surprisingly, the Why List was longer and had heavier point values.

The first thing that jump off the page was a counter to my lack of literature background. I've been working on the Lands of Mundus for 2/3^rd of my life, since I was thirteen. I've been writing, rewriting, and looking for feedback constantly. I'm not just throwing words into chat-bot. I practice and try to strengthen my skills.

A hobbyist writer is still a writer.

In a similar vein, I am a storyteller. The written word is my strongest method of telling stories. Spend 2/3^rd of your life practicing something and you will improve, even if the practice was not the most efficient or structured.

My storytelling skills are specialized around writing.

Finally, I selfishly want to be remembered as a writer. Good books enrich people's lives. I want to create something that does that. (Pet-sitting is service, and a valued one. However, after the first two or so bookings, my clients' honeymoon phase is over. I'm enriching their lives the same way a house-keeper or yard service might.)

Weighing all the pro and cons, I realized the many thing stopping me was overly specific standards for 'what a real writer is,' a habit of undervaluing my own efforts, and the social phobia of having to listen to the follow up question “but does it pay?”

I have nothing to lose but false modesty by introducing my as a writer (my social status is non-existent as a disable adult co-habituating with family). What I gain is the chance to talk about my passion – writing stories.

Calling myself a writer is a truthful description. It's not like I'm claiming to be 'future best selling author' or “Newbery Award Winner.”  I write stories. 

Do Mermaids use Wheelchairs?

My least favorite classic fairytale is "The Little Mermaid." I hated the original ending and felt the mermaid had a stupid death. The Disney animated film gave me nightmares.

Despite that, merfolk provide endless fuel for my overthinking imagination. Why make a deal with a sea witch when human have options for getting around without legs?

The Ipswich Mermaid, George Courage, Acrylic on canvas 8"x10".

The idea of merfolk using a wheelchair is not original to just me. In “Roverandom” by J. R.R. Tolkien there is an underseas adventure that ends in a wizard and his merfolk wife getting banished to the surface. The wife becomes a small business owner and very famous swim instructor. She is described to go around in a horse drawn 'bath-chair.'

As charming as that character concept is, I am not Tolkien. He made a living as an English college professor and ploy-linguist. I have an incomplete environmental engineering degree and chronic health issues. My creative approach takes another angle.

Overthinking

When I imagine merfolk in wheelchairs, my first instinct is “I hope wherever they are going is ADA compliant.” While I don't yet need mobility aids, my dodgy joints and low blood pressure make like accessibility toilets, ramps, handrails and rest benches a boon. Unfortunately, many space designers forget or outright sacrifice those features. Smaller bathrooms means more floor space for making money. Ramps and comfortable benches are never seen as 'bold artistic expression.' You can have the best wheelchair in the world, and there are still places you can't go.

If a merfolk uses mobility aids on land, they have to deal with all the accessibility issues that we humans face.

Another thing that comes to my mind with any mobility aid – chair, cane, brace – is long term comfort. I have friends and family who have used all of them at one point or another. Each comes with a unique set of challenges. Chair and braces can cause bruising and circulation issues from long use. Double crutches require training so your wrists and shoulder can take the pressure. Even a walker or a cane requires a degrees of mindfulness.

This is all assuming you're a human whose used to living on land and in the air. Merfolk live in the water. The buoyancy and resistance change is going to be as tricky learning to swim is for us.

Merfolk also have the complication of having *just* a tail. Human do have tails (the tiny bones at the base of our spine). However, we sit on our hip bones. Aquatic mammals like whales, dolphins, and manatee, lack hipbones and the pelvic bone is all but identical to the surrounding spinal vertebral. If a merfolk where to 'sit' upright like a human, all that weight and pressure goes onto a handful of vertebral. (This doesn't begin to touch on if the mer using a lateral tail flick like a shark. That spine isn't going to bend into a chair posture.)

Merfolk would not be able to use a standard mobility aid comfortably. It would take training and modifications.

The last element to consider is cost. Good mobility aids are expensive (especial in the U.S. where making a deal with a sea witch is a less daunting process than dealing with healthcare industry, insurance companies, and out-of-pocket costs.) Even if you use magic to 'cheat,' land mobility aids are going to be more of a tool than a toy. You aren't going to spend all that money and time training unless you are serious about making it part of your life.

All these elements will shape what kind of merfolk can afford or want to spend time on land. Yes, transformation magic is always an option, but that means giving up the sea. Most people are not bubble-brained princesses willing to give up their family, culture, and body over a man they met for a few hours.

One of the core guidelines when I put fantasy beings in my stories is that people are people no matter their shape. People are curious, people are creative, and most of all people find ways to overcome obstacles. Humans want to explore the sky and sea, because it's there. Merfolk want to see what's on the land. Finding other people and sharing ideas is part of how we grow. The land and sea would not be separate worlds. People learn from and inspire each other.

In Mundus

I imagine that merfolk communities do business with the 'terrestrial' neighbors. It's common to see a floating fish market or pods of off duty pilots and divers by a riverbank or city docks. These mers do leave the water for short periods of time, business meetings, trying a meal at a local pub, rolling over to the next stand for a bit of hot gossip. However, tourist merfolk are rare.

Merfolk curious enough to travel on land sort are more akin to people going on a long vacation with curated experience packages. They travel up a water channel and make group trips to see famous on-land sights. The most luxurious trips use magical aids like levitation rings or transformation potion for the live on land experience.

It's expensive, and some foolhardy mers have gotten themselves in debt over those trips. However, the general consensus is that if you want to go have a look at how the people up top live, you can.

Migraines and Radioactive Eggs

 

“Write everyday” “Protect that time slot” “Set up your schedule to maximize your creativity.”

Every writer who aspired to become a published novelist gets told this, repeatedly.

However, there is an fitting phrase “Easier said than done.”

My current writing goals are to have two to three long writing sessions per week with small daily journaing. (I'm rebuilding my brain's stamina after a long stressful hiatus.)

Now, on paper these are reasonable goals even for a full-time working adult.

I am not a full-time working adult. My side hussle is house and pet-sitting. It should be super simple to write when I'm paid to live in someone else's home, right?

Unfortunately, my life is a bit more complicated.

I have several chronic health condition that regular throw my 'reasonable' expectations out the window and into the bin. Even when I'm not at a job, there is always some energy hog that leaves me struggling to protect my precious creative energy and time to write. The most frequent foe is migraines.

For example, this last Tuesday, I planned to write out my blogs rough draft in the morning, then run errands in the afternoon. Wednesday morning would be a medicine exam (just a few scans of the stomach) with updating my social media and polishing off the blog before posting.

Life and my health had other plans.

Tuesday morning was a wash as my mother had a very dear, very deaf friend over for a visit. They speak very loudly. I'm not deaf. Also, the unfortunate design of our house means my room is a natural amplifier.

After about ten minutes into hearing all the latest drama and woes, I left the house for a walk, a long rambling walk.

This kept my stress levels down, but also ate into my physical energy. I wrote it off as my lower body PT. After company had left, I had to eat lunch and do my afternoon errands. One of these errands was my chiropractor part of my P.T. for my upper body.

I was exhausted with the start of a migraine when I got home at 3 PM. Mom had more company coming that evening, so I went to my room for a power nap. The new plan was to recharge my batteries, help with the house, and quickly journal or something before company came.

Unfortunately, I was so tired, I left my phone in the car. Blissfully, I slept through the wake-up alarms, my evening medication alarms, and all my other alarms rigning away in the garage. It was two hours before my body decided the recharge was finished. The migraine was lingering

I had just enough time to medicate, compliment Mom and Bro on the quick house prep (they cleaned the kitchen, cooked taco meat, and did an all purpose tidy while I was dead to the world), and then company arrived.

Now, in a reasonable world, the food and medication would banish the headache, I would make some token socializing with Mom's friends, and then retreat to finally get the writing done. That's not what happened.

My migraines are terrible, stubborn beasties. It was all I could do not to fall asleep again. This was not an option tonight. If I threw off my sleep cycle the next morning, Wednesday would be miserable. So I stumbled through the motions and pecked away at my key board. (None of what I wrote was suitable for a blog update.)

Wednesday morning started very very early at 5:45am. Also there would be no breakfast or coffee this morning due to my upcoming medical test.

Mercifully, I had someone to drive me to the procedure 20 minutes away. Once there I was served a small breakfast of toast, a single dixie cup of water, and slightly radioactive eggs. (I felt cheated that they were not green or glowing.) Next four hours was spent waiting for the eggs to disgust and getting pictures of of my stomach taken. (Hence the radioactive bit. It makes it easier for the camera to track them.)

Four hours! you might be exclaiming. That's the perfect time for writing!

Well, no actually. I was in the MRI center waiting room. In addition to poor connection due to big honking magnets, it's hospital waiting room. It was busy and not a good place to leave a personal laptop, even without the big magnet issue.

For the first hour I made paper notes for future blogs, but had nothing for this week except a picture of my not-green-eggs and toast. At the second hour, the lack of water was giving me a headrush every time I turned my neck (It's a chronic blood pressure issue). Third hour, I had to stop myself from reflexively going to the water fountain after a toilet break. Forth hour, I was lightheaded, hangry, and very grateful my driver hadn't abandoned me to make my way home in this condition.

Lunch was egg drop soup and rice so as not to overwhelm my stomach. Then the migraine broke like a storm front. An afternoon nap later (with an alarm this time), I rose like the unholy union of a vampire and zombie. I hunted down more liquids and easy to disgust nutrients, while stumbling over my own feet.

After two days, I had maintained my unreasonable body through several mid to high level adult interactions. I was exhausted come Thursday morning, which held yet another doctor's appointment. Writing-goals wise I had scribbles that need converting and also posted a picture of my radioactive breakfast on Facebook by not anywhere else.

This was actually a good week. Yes, the blog would be a day late and the social media needed a tune up, but fingers crossed, I could (and did) knock it out by Thursday evening.

Friday, I plan to shift into full recovery mode. Sleeping in, eating leftovers, more PT. My journal will likely be a illegible cursive line of 'sore and sleepy. sleepy and sore.'

Time management looks different when you live with chronic migraines and assorted health issues. You can make reasonable goals and plans. However, the reality is there will always be something you have to either catch up or let go.

There's no magic time table or weekily planner that will guide you to better writing habits. There no way to schedule appointments for dealing health problems, friends and family in need, all of life's vaugities.

When you try to build habits or develop a discipline, you will fall short, especially if it's for something 'simple.'

Ironically, the solution is yet another 'easier to say than do' directive. Don't give up.

I may fall, I may retreat, I may take a new approach, but what I won't do is give up my love of creating and sharing stories.

Migraines and radioactive breakfasts are passing events. Upsetting, yes. Challenging, yes. However, it not quite enough to stop me.

My Troubles with Naming Dragons

 

As I continue rewrites on “Don't Fireball the Neighbors,” I've made several tweaks to the plot and characters. One was the dragon's name.

The dragon has lived rent free in my head since I was thirteen and had run out of books with dragons to read aloud to my younger brother. I named him 'Celebramar' because it sounded like a high fantasy name and was easy to write in cursive.

The trouble was they way I write that name and the way I have said that name don't match.

This is not a unique problem in my life. Despite being an early reader, English was the ban of my school day. I had solid grammar and composition skills. My spelling skills on the other hand brought back lots of red ink.

I could read and recognize words. However, if you asked me to write out those same words five minutes later, you'd get back a mess. I passed several tests by single points and would write the lists until it was muscle memory. Spelling orally like you see in competitions was impossible.

I don't know if this is a brain issue or just confusion from growing up in a region were you can hear the word 'pecan' said three different ways in the same town. “Just sound it out” doesn't work for me, not in English.

The Latin classes in grade school and the Spanish classes in highschool complicated my issues. When I saw I word I didn't know, my poor brain would switch phonetic systems.

'Champagne' 'defenestrate' 'legumes' I knew what they all meant and how to use them. However, if I heard them on the street, I would have thought it was a different word with a similar meaning. Like 'cool' and 'cold.'

First time I tried to read out loud to some who was not my brother, I got repeatedly corrected by a child five years younger than me. Cimorene, Kazul, Gollum, Smaug – all the names were wrong.

Needless to say, creating original names runs into the same issue. The way someone reads a name's spelling don't always match how it sounded in my head. 'Leon' was short and safe. The same held for most of the characters name. The troublemakers were the dragons.

The current draft of "Don't Fireball the Neighbors has three dragons, each with a unique name. Madam Vircroc, the diplomatic liaison of the Dragon Nation. Mahgister Wodigee a dragon of few words and a short role in the plot. Finally, Celabramar the co-protagonist who is trying very hard not to start a diplomatic incident for the other two dragons to clean up.

The 'vir' in Vircroc's name was taken from Latin meaning green or living. However, Vir in English reads more like 'Vur' than 'Vear.' I let this be because it makes a fun growling noise.

Wodigee gained an extra 'ee' to avoid confusion on if the 'i' was long or short. Their title 'Mahgister' also gained an 'h' to make the first vowel sound good and breathy.

And of course, there's my dear problem child who started this all, Celabramar. It took listening to recording of myself, checking with my now grown little brother, and a page of scratched out combinations for me settle on the new spelling. 'Cele' to 'Cela.'

Over all, I am happy with these changes. However, one little issue remains.

My muscle memory has had years to program the old spellings. When writing 'Celabramar,' I regularly catch my self typing or moving through the pen loops of that second 'e.'

I Ain't Dead Yet

 

Typically, when a writer makes a comeback, they have some grand story or explanation of why they disappeared from public spaces.

The few loyal followers wonder “What happened? It's been nearly five years?”

Well, it's easier to say what didn't happen.

I did NOT get kidnapped by the Fairy Courts for my penny-whistle playing.

I did NOT catch the Plague.

I did NOT get turned into a frog, raven, swan, etc by a jealous rival.

I did NOT travel to Narnia.

I did NOT embark on a perilous quest to retrieve a cup of the Water of Life for an ailing loved one.

One the positive side
I did NOT forget my logins.

I did NOT loose my manuscript, despite an overly complicated computer situation.

I did NOT give up my dream to be a published author. This hiatus was more like setting your best hat in the closest while working storm clean-up.

No, I will not be posting a 5,000 work history of what all happened. A lot of it involved family and friends. I step away (more like ran screaming) from social media because there was a very real risk of me word vomiting private issues on a public forum.

I'm just aspiring novelist who wears a hat and overthinks everything. I don't have any public relations instincts. Look through my pre-2020 Twitter history and you'll find at least three instances of me thoroughly sounding like a over-privilege ignorantly bigoted white chick. (I also got a nasty shock when I looked-up the history of the word 'trilby.')

I apologize if I worried anyone. However, I felt that my family's privacy and my stress level made an unsafe combo. Letting my small writer's platform wither on the vine was painful. However, I took a page from Ecclesiastes (not literally).

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

The beautiful part of this proverb is the reminder that seasons are a cycle. They don't last forever. The 'perfect moment' may be gone. However, life will someday bring a chance to try again.

This is me, trying again five years later.