Musings

I’m off to L.A. tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be pausing first to have lunch with the representative of Wasach energy, the company that buys the gas we produce. Then a quick change of hats and it’s time to think television and movies, and convince folks that I’m just so damn interesting and talented and creative.

There may be developments with Wild Cards, but I’ll report more then I’m back. I want to know with what, exactly, I’m dealing. Then there is television. My manager was musing that the networks bought really unusual shows for the 07/08 season, and he wondered if we could use my interest in real space issues, and wed that to something with the feeling of a LOST. I just tickled my brain and soon I had a pilot, a bunch of episodes, the charcters, etc. And Michael loves what I’ve done. Which is nice. He’s been talking it up and there appears to be real interest. So in addition to pitching Wild Cards he ahnd I will be hammering out more details on the series.

Who knows, maybe this will lead to something. But I don’t believe it until the check clears, and I never buy a sofa off a promise. Here are a few homilies I’ve picked up in Hollywood. Always wait for the check to clear. Take your money up front, there is never a back end. Don’t buy a million dollar house on the strength of one job.

I’m sure I’ll think of some more, but these will do for a start.

Melinda

At six o’clock this morning my Nikki starts barking her head off. The last time this happened there was a deer on the ridge to the west of us. This time there were two coyotes about fifty feet from the French doors into the bedroom. I don’t know if they were trying to lure Nikki into following them, or just curious about her, but they were thrwarted by the Invisible Fence. Not for love nor money will Nikki cross that invisible barrier.

I actually find coyotes beautiful with their long legs, bushy tails and silver bodies, and they are very useful critters despite the loss of kitties and small dogs. They eat insects and rodents and given New Mexico’s problems with Hanta virus and the plague (yes, _that_ plague) we like to keep squirrels, and mice away from our homes. Or as the motto for or local con likes to say — “New Mexico, land of the flea, home of the plague.”

Melinda

It was another week spent in Farmington, but I bracketed the trip with stops at the ranch in Regina and it made it all seem bearable. Monday I spent in Albuquerque with the accountant for the company. I then drove to Regina. Sage was there as well as the owner and we had a lovely dinner of beef stir fry and snow peas from the green house prepared with mushrooms and a few chopped up bits of ham. It was fabulous. I had brought up fresh blackberries and strawberries and cherries so we ladled fresh fruit over tiny individual cheese cakes. I kept drifting out onto the deck to watch the sun throw light like golden honey across the valley and up the sides of the moutain. I also saw a red winged black bird which I’d never seen before, and I got the giggles watching an aggressive little emerald green hummer sit on a dead branch and practically spin his head around 360 as he tried to keep a lookout for any poachers on his feeder.

It was damn cold that night (the ranch is at 7800 feet), and I was thinking about what I was going to face in Farmington so I had odd dreams and restless sleep. Fred had been talking about alien encounters so I dreamed about a hover craft/flying saucer except it couldn’t get off the ground very easily and kept tipping over. The oddest thing was the beagel that fell against the inside of the front windows of this awkward ship. I got up at six and watched the sun crest the mountains, and then helped Sage bake cherry almond muffins. After breakfast I headed out for a long walk.

I went around the pond which looked like diamonds were dancing on the surface from the wind gusting across the water. A mud hen tried to convince me she had a broken wing and tried to lead me away from her nest. From there I set out through the woods and then out into a meadow at the foot of the mountains. I found the bones of what I think was a deer out there last May. This time because of the wet winter and rainy spring I found wild flowers. There was a clump of delicate red/pink/purple and white blossoms that looked like tiny snap dragons crossed with trembling little bells. I wandered toward the sound of chuckling, gurgling water and found a stream that was carrying the last of the snow melt down from the mountain. All around the edge of the stream there were wild Iris. They’re much smaller than the domesticated flowers with which we’re familiar. And the color was unique. A pale, dusty lilac. I returned to the house, wrote for an hour or so and then enticed Sage back out with me to see the flowers.

She brought her camera and snapped pictures of the snap/bells, and then we headed for the stream. As we approached I saw a flash of brown among the trees and stood in anticipation of a deer bounding away. Instead what I saw was a totem, a fetish made living flesh. A ginger colored bear ran in front of us on the other side of the stream. The way the powerful muscles played in her shoulders and the dense fur ruffled at the speed of her run was breathtaking. I was frozen with shock and delight, and then realized this could be dangerous if she had a cub loping after her. Sage and I turned and walked well away and then waited for fifteen or twenty minutes before approaching the stream again. The imprint of her paw was in the mud among the Iris. I don’t know why I think it was a female, but that was the impression I had.

I’ve only seen bears in zoos. To see one free and beautiful is a memory I will cherish for the rest of my life.

That afternoon I left for Farmington, did some work until my consultant showed up at 5:30. We worked until 9:30 pm., and then I went to my dingy hotel for another semi-sleepless night. Wednesday and Thursday morning were spent getting out the quarterly checks to my members. I hired a typist to help me only to discover the IBM Selectric III was broken. A mad dash to Office Max scored a cheap typewriter. It was another long day, and this time a really sleepless night. Thursday I finished up a few more office chores and headed off to the bank to investigate the safety deposit box. It was empty save for an envelope containing the keys to the lock on the oil storage tank. A tank which we haven’t owned for fifteen years. As I was standing and waiting to get into the box my eye was drawn to a photo of Bush and his then cabinet — Rumsfeld, Wolfwitz, Cheney, etc. It was an ad for some document security company, and I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Look a picture of war criminals.” Probably not the most diplomatic thing I could say since Farmington is very conservative. Ah well, I despised Bush before it was cool to do so.

I got out of Farmington on Thursday afternoon and returned to the ranch. Sage had gone home, Fred didn’t turn up and for the first time I experienced this magic place in complete solitude. It’s a place of healing. I sat by the pond and watched the sunset. I cleaned the humming bird feeder and made new syrup. I cooked a small dinner and I slept through the night. The temperatures plunged into the high twenties that night and I was grateful for Sage’s electric blanket on the bed. This time I stayed in her little guest cabin rather than the big house. There was a chance Fred would come flying in. (Literally flying. He has a landing strip in the big meadow), and I didn’t want to surprise him by being in the house. I had brought a bottle of red wine and a bottle white wine as a thank you. Fred has given me permission to stay anytime I want. Since this is the only place I’m at peace right now this is a gift beyond measure.

Friday I rose at 5:00 am to watch the sunrise. I wrote many pages on the Wild Card story, and began making notes on a new TV series idea that my manager and I have cooked up. In between writing sessions I took a long walk. No bear this time, but a gray fox. Finally I reluctantly packed up the car and headed back to Santa Fe. The good thing was a call from the manager. I’m off to L.A. next week to try once again not to be “killed with hope”.

Melinda

I’m heading off to Farmington today. I’ll probably be gone the entire week, but perhaps I’ll come back with something interesting to report. One can but hope. Not a big hope given that it’s Farmington, but hey, I might be surprised. I’m going to spend tonight at the ranch in Regina so I’ll be mentally refreshed. I’m hoping I can get some writing done this time in the hotel. It’s been very hectic, and I only managed to do half of an interstitial section. This is the emotional turning point for my character so I need to be clear headed so I can do it well. On the other hand if I mess it up — hey, that’s what rewrites are for.

Melinda

This is just a silly announcement for any fellow cola addicts. Costco in Albuquerque is carrying cases of Coke imported from Mexico. Coke with sugar instead of corn syrup! Score!

Although I am still piously opening a bottle only once every three or four weeks. Gotta stay skinny.

Melinda

Just before I headed off to Farmington I had lunch with my writer buddies — Walter Jon, Sage and Daniel. We briefly talked about my thought of casting the second book in the series in first person, and Walter raised an interesting point — does the personality of the protagonist help indicate which route you should take? The character in the Wild Card story is a cold bastard who’s problem is that he doesn’t feel much of anything for anyone. The main character in the EDGE series is a wildly emotional young man who’s keeping a tight lid on his feelings publically, but internally he’s a mass of insecurities, neurosis, regrets and sadness. Walter thought spending an entire book in the view point of someone who live in such a high state of alt might not be the best choice.

So, I’m throwing the question out to the various writers and readers on my list. Can you write this person effectively in first person? Would readers want to spend time in his head?

Melinda