The other dimension is the reader’s mind. None of us read the same book. Each of us brings her own set of filters and perception of reality to the pages. Successful authors are those who tap into the nearly universal threads of humanity. It follows that my enthusiasm for a particular book says more about me than the merit of the literary work.

I’d rather live in a world of absolute truth where everything make sense all the time. Since my real life is never like that, I adore escapist entertainment. This may be another secret of successful fiction.

What do you think, are there provable facts or is everything subject to perception?

These folks should write. They’re naturals, perfectly willing to pitch to their most intimate fantasies to a virtual stranger.

Alas, story concepts are the easy part. Stories are part of the human DNA, the need to tell them passed on like straight hair, overbites, and brown eyes. Actually writing these tales takes serious work. Lots of it and not a bit of it glamorous.

Strangely, I enjoy the word crafting. I get lost checking the Chicago Manual of Style. This explains why my manuscripts still contain so many errors. Hours elapse while I’m looking for just the right word. More time passes recasting a sentence for stronger impact or smoother rhythm.

What do you like best about your job?

Most of the year we have the same kind of weather, cool, cloudy, and wet. Once in awhile we get hot and sunny or cold and snowy. In either case, we aren’t prepared.

Go ahead and whine about your weather, I’m sure it’s worse.

Am I the only one who’s thrilled with a pair of jeans that fit perfectly? Or a tee shirt that is soft, comfy, but not transparent? These are basics, they should be readily available. Alas, they are not.

In fact, even if I hotfoot it right back to the store (or website) where I found the great jeans or wonderful sweater, within a week or two–I want to see if it’s appeal survives at least one round of wash and dry before I stock up–the style is no longer available.

Share your pet peeves…

What I don’t like are all the enthusiastic neighborhood amateur demolitions. Otherwise normal, well behaved people purchase large quantities of fireworks and various other explosive devices and set fire to them for hours on end. This drives the dog crazy and does nothing to improve my mood.

Maybe someday,, I’ll write a heroine who’s wild about fireworks.

Until then, I’m closing the doors and windows, turning on the a/c and playing Jaws and Independence Day until the mayhem ceases.

How do you feel about fireworks–love them or leave them?

The real revelation was something I already knew, but don’t always remember. I have no idea what’s going one with other people unless they choose to tell me. And even then, there’s lots of room for misunderstanding.

How do you feel about spam? Annoyance or worse?

Ideas flood into my head, for me it’s a painful process of selecting which story to write next. I try to balance practicality, for example the series that is due for another episode, and the story I want to write most. That last one is the critical factor.

After all I am the first reader, it has to be a story that entertains me.

So, tell me about your favorite stories, what story do you want to write/read?

Unfortunately, the weed, like so many of his ilk, was not a single man passing through the garden. He’d already started a family and sent out invitations to his friends and relatives. I rooted out the rowdy interlopers, dusted off my grimy hands and returned to the house where the cursor blinked expectantly. To my amazement, nearly an hour had passed.

Since it takes me an hour to put away the garbage cans, it’s no wonder I’m having a hard time getting my words done.

So what’s eating your time?

He’s sixteen, slowing down and had recently developed a cough. I thought either he’d been hit by a car or he’d deliberately gone off to die. When Katie (the rowdy dog) and I walked around the neighborhood Monday, I feared finding his body. Yesterday, when we came home from the dog park I found him downstairs on the couch. One of his back paws was missing patches fur and skin and was double its normal size.

Though He purred when I pet him, considering how traumatized his leg was and that he wouldn’t eat or drink. I decided to purchase a cat carrier and take him to our vet the next day when they opened. I called my daughter to let her know I couldn’t do lunch on Wednesday, because I was taking Louie to the vet. She offered to bring a cat carrier and drive to the twenty-four hour emergency animal clinic. I hadn’t even thought of the emergency clinic.

Once at the clinic,the doc examined Louie and gave him pain meds and explained the realities of his injury. Considering his age and the extent of his trauma with no likelihood of good recovery, I made the decision to euthanize him.

I am a firm believer in quality of life and not prolonging suffering in animals or humans. I’m glad he was not mangled on a busy street or dying a slow death of dehydration in a nearby greenbelt. And yet, I’m so very sad he’s gone.

All the good things in life I try to be grateful for still exist, but today there’s no celebration in my heart. I ache for a crotchety old cat with disgusting personal habits. Vain, lazy, and a stone-cold killer of rodents and song birds, he also purred like the rumble of coming thunder, and warmed my lap every night.