ALL A-QUIVER: WALKING THE STRAIGHT ’N ARROW

Indie shout out: Ever pondered what the multiverse might be like? Are you looking for a relatively quick read? Then check out The Followers, a twisty e-novella with an intriguing twist-of-an-ending, by indie author Evan Bollinger. (Yes, prepare to abandon all preconceived notions about the tangible world in order to fully embrace this story's surreality. You'll be glad you did!)

Author's note: My "every eleven days on the eleventh hour" pattern will be altered for post #5 (scheduled for December 25th). I'm pretty sure people would like to spend the holidays with their families, not reading some random ramblings by a self-proclaimed mad writ— . . . um . . . er . . . yes. *ahem*

Word of the week: copious \ˈkō-pē-əs\ (hear it!) - adjective: yielding something abundantly; plentiful in number - (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

Infuriating Lines of Four

Time. I hate it.

Always feels like I'm rushed, with never enough time to do everything in. “Pushing” the kids out the door to catch the school bus, hurrying to get dinner on the table, or get the shopping done, or get to work. Shuttling the kids to activities, putting them to bed at a reasonable hour come day's end. Editing, editing, editing—furiously—to reach my self-imposed writing deadlines of nine allotted days per chapter.

Everything takes such copious amounts of time, and the older one gets, the faster time seems to go. Likely a matter of perception, though. So when time ever decided to punch me in the face with some infuriating lines-of-four . . .

11.11

Now, normally I'm one to keep good track of time, so not to be late for anything; I do watch the clock—a lot. But to see:

11.11

. . . every day? That's just silly.

First it appeared on the digital oven clock, and then on the microwave clock, then on my alarm clock, and on the cars' digital clocks, and on my iPhone. From the end of Spring, though Summer, and into Autumn, 11.11 on clocks—everywhere! Believe me, I was neither looking for it, nor expecting it. Ever.

And it didn't stop there!

When time discovered I was ignoring (with some difficulty) this idiotic tap on the nose with ordinary clocks, these vexing lines-of-four began to infiltrate through other means: In forum time stamps and forum post counts; in countdown timers; in Kindle “locations” (to mark where one is in an e-book); once, in some odd percentage I'd glimpsed on an off-hand chance; and even in a Hymnal during my daughter's baptism.

11.11

. . . everywhere!

After four months, I was half-expecting to see it somewhere at least once a day, though I tried not to look for it. Sure enough, it would pop up in some form or another, and my creative mind naturally started to concoct questions: “Damn! Is that the day the world is going to end?” and “Ach! Is that the day of my own demise?”

These, of course, were stupid thoughts.

Seeing 11.11 all over the place was a coincidence; once it happened a handful of times, my mind was keenly attuned to those lines-of-four, and thus saw them wherever I went. Now I look for them, relish them, even giggle at them. And I harnessed them, took them for my very own. (Does the "every eleven days at the eleventh hour" blogging pattern make sense now?)

11.11

. . . the release date for my full-length dark fantasy novel, The Perfect Player.

11.11

. . . of next year, 2013, of course.

11.11.13

Well, it's not quite as cool as 11.11.11 is, but it'll have to do. Unless my son finally manages to build that time machine he's always talking about. . . .

* * *

Speaking of my wonderful firstborn offspring (once voted “class author”) . . . before I end this post, I would like to share something he had written.

As a school project, students in his class were asked to write a free-verse fall poem involving all of the senses. Here's what he had come up with (copyright, my son; reprinted with permission). Pretty darned good for someone who (at the time of this writing) sports one set of those infuriating lines of four!

When I think of fall I see…
Colorful leaves enveloping every bit of grass.
Wild, sour grapes growing plump and juicy on the uncultivated vines near our chicken coop.
Crystalline frost blanketing the ground like the inside of a quartz geode.
The presidential debates airing on T.V.
A thick autumn mist like a descended cloud bank, blanketing the lawn in pearly whiteness.

When I think of fall I hear…
Crunching dead leaves beneath my feet.
Gaggles of Canada geese flying south.
The last songbirds migrating south in search of warmer climates to avoid winter’s chill.
Cold rainstorms pattering to the leaf-blanketed ground, forming endless puddles and overflowing the swamp, creating an impassable biking obstacle.

When I think of fall I taste…
Cranberry sauce on a delicious slice of turkey.
Mashed potatoes enveloped in gravy, a protein packed, palatable root vegetable delicacy.
Scrumptious candy on Halloween night.
Deliciously baked pumpkin and apple pies a la mode.
Well cooked stuffing inside of a tender, delicious turkey at Thanksgiving Dinner, commanding the table like the captain of an aircraft carrier where the provisions left without the crew.

When I think of fall I touch...
The cool, crisp fall air.
The soft body of a caterpillar as I pick it up to show Cathryn.
The cold handle of a fork at Thanksgiving Dinner.
A book cover as I read it outside on the porch swing on a cool fall morning.

When I think of fall I smell…
Crisp apples at a farmer’s market.
The delicious aroma of butternut squash wafting across the table.
The scent of colorful, decaying leaves.
Deliciously scented Yankee candles burning bright on the grand piano as we prepare for Thanksgiving Dinner.