Just one of those days.

Yesterday's lack of sleep, followed by the numerous activities, took its toll today for sure.
I am sore all over, mostly due to the cold, and by the time my alarm goes off I barely manage to peel my eyes open when every single fiber inside me screams for more sleep. I hurt, I ache and most of all I feel too blue to even think about getting up and go about the day's schedule. This, of course, is no valid reason to stay in bed and be lazy for a few hours more, no matter how much my bones protest against rising, for the dogs have no pity for the weak limbed.

Crazily they bounce up and down around the bed, Trin Trin and the giant Dane tugging relentlessly on my blankets until I finally mutter a curse, roll from the mattress -catching myself on the nightstand, just barely- and straighten while whimpering like an old woman.

The alarm still screeches, my mind too much of a blur as I try to make my way around the exuberant pack, now certain of their eminent release. Struggling with the monster Boxer is par for the course on any given day, but now, as I stumble to the door for their noisy release into the yard, I am a hair's breath away from wrapping my hands around her thick throat so I can return to bed. Hah!

I suppress that particular urge, since no matter how much trouble she is, I love her dearly, and force my eyes open just wide enough to go through the morning rituals and head down to the house. Food doesn't appeal this particular morning. As a matter of fact, thinking of it, it hasn't been appealing for days since my stomach is upset for some peculiar reason. But, remembering that I haven't eaten properly in 48 hours, I stuff a sandwich down my involuntary throat and after a little while sit down behind the computer, the way I always do.

I swear that I consider placing matchsticks between my lids, noticing that every few minutes or so they've lowered until I am gazing somewhat dazedly at the words swimming on the screen in front of me. Today doesn't carry the promise of much productivity for me.
The arrival of big brother sends Knight II into a wild frenzy of excitement, forcing me to grab his collar and drag him to my side where he can't hassle the dogs that come pounding down the stairs around big brother's feet.

Forced by my own promise and small measure of guilt at having done nothing in the time I've sat there, I switch to the dreaded synopsis from yesterday and start rereading and polishing the dratted thing. Finally after several hours, we decide that it's as good as it is going to get.
A personal query letter needs to be written by then, since for some reason publishers all request a personalized note from the "pleading" author, while they in turn stick to a standard message of receiving your hard work, and often a standardized rejection several weeks later time and again.

Why is it that these publishers are allowed to make this demand of the struggling author with the accepted explanation that they are simply too busy to respond personally to every submission they receive? Oh wait, I know. Because they offer a service and without them a writer cannot reach an audience.
It is not like I have time to spare to write these dratted queries and synopsis. I assure you that I have other, often time far more important things to do that need to be put aside while I try to oblige all the set rules that I am supposed to follow if I want to have a remote chance of being accepted.

Admittedly, I don't understand that one demand, most, if not all, publisher place on their sites. "Edit and reedit your story until it is perfect before submitting it."
What on earth... Like I would send something that I hadn't edited time and again to make it as perfect as I possibly can, before I finally delude myself into thinking that it's good enough? What self respecting author wouldn't? It is such a redundant demand that it makes me shiver every time I come across it.
Don't they understand writers at all?

And then I'm not even talking about all the alterations that have to be made to any given manuscript for practically every different publisher.
There appear to be no set rules (as in one set for all) as to how a manuscript has to be sent. Everyone has their own personal preference and if a writer wants a chance, then said writer better follow it, or else... which is basically what all the submission facts state.

This company wants the margins to be thus, the other wants the exact opposite... I can never just prepare one manuscript, but need to clutter up my computer with all sorts of different versions so the requirements are met.
One requires genuine dashes and em dashes, while yet another won't even consider a script that has these in them.
Seriously, after going over the variety of guidelines of what feel like thousands of different publishers, my mind is bordering on complete and utter insanity.
It'll dishearten any passionate writer first starting out. Heck, I've been trying it off and on for years, and the sending alone is a hurdle I rarely manage to conquer.

But besides this particular, rather annoying part of sending out submissions to publishers that actually admit to often not reading more than the first page of the several hundreds I have slaved over, there is also the one that really gets my hackles up.
It goes something like this: "We don't accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors without an agent."
It sounds reasonable enough since there are a multitude of writers out there all knocking at their door trying to sell their "product" but you have to be in this particular world for a bit to understand that getting an agent is just as hard as finding a publisher.

They (agents) have the same set of rules to follow, each one slightly different once again. Added to this is another fact that comes into play: On the most part it is rare that an agent wants to take chances on an unpublished author. It is a nasty little truth that after spending months, if not years on finding an agent that dares to take a risk, the author has no guarantee whatsoever that said agent will actually succeed in finding a publisher.

It is a vicious circle. The one won't take the eager applicant without the other, bringing the fledgling author absolutely nothing in the end.

No wonder more and more writers (myself included) are leaning towards independent publishing, if for no other reason than finding an open door in what appears to be a closed off industry is getting practically impossible.

But I'm drifting off course again, the way I always do. Where was I. Ah yes. Preparing my manuscripts.
After several hours of more tedious fine-tuning, big brother is finally able to gather all materials together and send the package off to what we both hope will be an interested party in the near future.

I do admit that the entire process is a lot less taxing now that big brother has decided to come to my aid, at long last. In the past I faced this frustrating part of being an author on my own, and it was never an easy task. It still isn't easy, but better at least.

That done, along with some more searching for a different publisher for yet another book that we intend to start sending out sometime in the following weeks, I finally decide to cease my battle against drooping eyelids and shut the computer down for dinner- once again prepared by the younger sibs.

Though my stomach is still upset, I manage to choke it down and actually enjoy it while slouching in front of the TV and trying to follow the humorous episode of Hotel Babylon and its loony patrons.

Feeling suddenly restless -by the time the show comes to an end- I get up and decide to make pie. For some reason I have a sudden hankering for something sweet and fruity, and since the cupboards are emptying now that the last trip to the grocery store is more than a week ago, I rummage through our meager supplies until I find what I need.

Some boring cookies, smashed into a fine powder are heated in a pan with some butter, sugar and spices, make for a wonderful base, and some vanilla pudding powder, the last two bags stuffed in the back of a drawer, will make a nice creamy layer once some yogurt is added to it.

For the toppings I decide on the only fruits we have at this time. Canned cherries, peaches and pineapple are chopped and mixed as the liquid is heated along with some orange juice. The last few bags of gelatin join the wonderfully fragrant potion, along with several spoonfuls of apricot and raspberry jam.

Putting it all in a dish, the thin base followed by vanilla pudding and then the fruits, I'm most pleased with the end result and shove two large pies into the freezer so the hardening won't take as long as it would if the cooling is hurried along.

I love making treats that don't require an oven. These two pies take less than half an hour and allow me to once again drop into my seat by the TV and wait impatiently for the pie to be ready for consumption. It is delicious and I manage half a serving before I decide to leave the rest for tomorrow, in hopes that my stomach won't revolt at the mere thought of food landing in it.

Not the best of days, but in the end some things got done, and I can try to get some shut eye... on time hopefully.

That's life... or something resembling it.

It was a long day, one that followed a particularly short night of just five hours since I didn’t manage to hit the sack until after six AM and woke, without chance of falling back to sleep when it was still two hours before my usual waking time.
My dreams were troubled, remnant memories of events from past and present mixed up with enough realism to make me wonder if they were dreams at all, or actual occurrences, instead.

I was restless for some reason, edgy too, and rather than wallow in it, I decided to use the energy instead of doing nothing. Fifty minutes of intense exercise followed; involving jumping about, gyrating to music, lifting weights, punching the boxing bag full force and then continuing to kick it until every single muscle in my body ached and whined in protest. Wonderful, though admittedly I almost tore a muscle somewhere when Knight II, the Great Dane, decided to slip past my rising leg and proceeded to make me change course mid-movement, lest I hit him in the ribs, full force.

Drenching in sweat, and more than ready for a hot shower what with the chill cooling my skin until it feels frozen, I head towards the patio, where a choir of screaming dogs welcomes me on my way to the bathroom. I soak up the warm water for a good ten minutes, before returning to the living area and booting up my computer for the day’s first session.

Hot coffee does an excellent job of making me warm, inside and out as I go over the messages of the day. That done and with big brother’s arrival we start to work on the latest book project, concerning the preparation of the next manuscript submission of my “No Escape from Rising Sun” series.

A detailed synopsis is required for this particular publisher we’ve decided upon, so while he gives me the necessary stats of each chapter, I try to write down something legible and basic, without losing the magic that makes up the actual story.
I dislike writing these things; as a matter of fact I detest it. Writing synopses and blurbs are one of the few things I despise about being an author. Just the basics really don’t do any story justice, but it is what the TPs want so that’s what they’ll get.

Hemming and hawing about which little detail is more important to include, we’re working on the dratted synopsis for a good two hours before the time arrives for our studies, that are to prepare us for the evening’s agreed upon lesson in town. Time is passing way too fast, allowing for only forty-five of pounding information into our brains before it is time to get ready and depart.

We just barely make it out the door for said lessons around five in the afternoon. We are most relieved to find the class rooms practically empty and spent two hours behind the school’s computers to fill in test after test until my brain feels like mush from multiple choice questions. I hate those things, especially when it involves trick questions where all the answers are basically right, but only one is the answer that is required. In all honesty, my fingers itch for a rewrite of the lesson material every time I read them.
I sometimes wonder if these lessons are specifically designed to drive me crazy.
The sentencing, the prose… it makes me shiver just thinking about it. I’m not a spelling freak, but this really drives me bonkers.

But that’s okay, this lesson comes to an end the way it always does, allowing me to put it aside by the time we get home and eat a simple dinner prepared by little sister.

The rest of the night is spend fine-tuning the synopsis… or as I like to call it, “the fine-tuning madness”… leaving me feeling completely empty and barely able to form a single coherent sentence for today’s recount. So I’ll leave it at this for now and hope that tomorrow will bring some inspiration for a proper blog... I should be able to come up with something a little more original than just prattling on about "just another day".
Personal messages need to be answered and some basic fun is waiting before the night comes to an end… hopefully sooner than it has for the past week or so.

Sunday busyness.

Apparently I am still A. Klutz, my nose is slightly swollen from yesterday's mishap, my vision a little sluggish and my fingers are covered with band aids, but no matter, today was a busy day on which quite a bit was achieved. This makes it all worth it.

I awake to a combination of the alarm going off, and the two monsters bouncing up and down beside the bed while a distinct dry chill fills the cabin. Bright sunshine beats down through the trees surrounding my place, making me squint as I let the dogs out of the house and mutter a disgruntled; "yikes, sunlight" under my breath, as it pierces straight into my vision. Vampire tendencies die slowly, if ever. Even after four months of day time living, my eyes still haven't adjusted fully, and I doubt they ever will.

I am running late, what with the alarm having been set half an hour later, but I needed that extra time for sleeping when last night's business kept me up 'till the wee hours of morning. My head is pounding dully, but for now I decide to circumvent doing something about it in hopes that it'll ease with time.

A glance out over the valley, still semi-clear this day, shows a vague tip of white on the mountain across. I'm surprised at the sight. This time of year snow is not at all normal around here, and none of us have seen it in all the years that we have lived in this most southern part of Spain. When, but mostly if, snow falls in these parts it happens in the end of January or February, but never this close to October... a month that in the past really still belonged to summer- temperature wise.

I shrug the unfamiliar sight off to global warming and urge the dogs towards the courtyard and in effect the house where none of the family have yet arrived. I love these few minutes of relative calm, and use it wisely as I snap the leash on Trin Trin and give Chaos and Mosha a quick pat on the head before putting on the coffee machine.

What with the rain stopped at long last, laundry of the past few days is dry. This is the first task of the day for me and since I prefer to get it done before the rest of the household is up, set myself to taking down and folding what is dry, and hanging two new batches.
With a light breakfast consumed and my hot coffee beside me, I do a quick check of the messages, to my chagrin finding out that the latest project that I have sent to a publisher, had the wrong file attached. It was the unedited version, blast it, and after a series of words not suited for rehearsal, I resend it, hoping that they will overlook the error and still show some interest. It's unlikely, but I figure I won't know until I try.

When at last everyone is up, and the consumption of a painkiller against the pounding in my head is a fact, big brother and I head up to my cabin -without my dogs- to make permanent repairs on my roof, when the patch we did a few weeks ago proved to be insufficient during the night's deluge.

The sun is still shining when we go up, but clouds are steadily drawing near, starting with a slow drizzle by the time we are halfway through removing the aluminum plates. It is not at all easy to keep our footing as the drizzle rapidly turns into a downpour, causing big brother to temporarily lose his footing before he manages just barely to grab hold of the ledge.
We finish the chore asap, and then take our gear with us with a sense of job-well-done.

Feeling somewhat bolstered with the success of the roof repairs, we decide to take the Katana moped to the house, to see if we can do something about the persisting problem of an exploding lid of the cooling tank. The dratted vehicle has been to the repair shop time and again, but the problem persists each and every time.

While a quick dinner of fries and salad is being prepared, little brother and I set ourselves to the kitchen plumbing. The drain has been clogged for several days now and we're all annoyed by it enough for us to dive into the cupboard and take apart the tubes. After some examination we remove a foul smelling clod that has somehow lodged itself within, and after some trial and error manage to get all the tubes in working order without leakage. Plumbing is mostly dealt with by big brother, but since he is the one hauling the moped into the house -where it is nice and warm- we figure this is the least we can do.

By the time dinner is ready, the sink is functioning the way it should, allowing little sister do some proper cleaning after the meal has been consumed on the fly. Both big brother and I are determined to start with the moped before the day comes to an end, so time for a leisure meal is dismissed.

For a while we mess around with the plastic casing of the moped, slowly but steadily dismantling it until at long last most of the vehicle's frame is exposed... and with it, the disaster area below.
Rats have managed to find their way into the casing, or so we find, muttering our displeasure at the sight of exposed and cut wires that go every which way once the debris have been cleared away.
This is the campo, and though one would think that rats would think twice about coming anywhere near our vigilant dogs, they are a constant problem that simply won't go away no matter how hard we try. I have made my peace with rats, though. As long as they keep a low profile, and we catch a generous amount of them with traps, we can coexist.

Looking at the damage it seems like an unsurmountable task, but resigned to necessity we set ourselves to it nonetheless. The last repairs at the shop -which turned out to be unsuccessful- had cost up to 300 € in man hours alone. The budget at the moment simply won't allow for professional help.
Preliminary examination of the dismantled "body", shows that two tiny wires, that appear to be cut rather than gnawed upon, are neatly hidden within the steel carcass, and upon following them we decide that these wires might very well be the reason for the exploding cooling tank.
Two ends are attached to the cooling device of the engine, and since they lead nowhere this is the most likely assumption as I squat down to strip the wires and reattach them to their floating better halves.

What follows is the spark plug -it takes some searching before we are able to locate it- but in the end it is found hidden in a spot where I can just barely wedge my hand inside to screw it out and hand it to big brother for closer examination. It appears to be fine, and a quick check of the plug's functionality, confirms that assessment.

A second band aid joins the first on my hand -applied during the plumbing incident- by the time I finish screwing it back in place, and turn my attention to the next problem. My klutziness obviously hasn't passed yet, when throughout the entire adventure, a total of five appear on my poor left hand, which seems to bear the brunt of my present klutz status. Still, it does not negate the fact that headway is being made with what is slowly becoming a genuine project.

Determined, we move on to check for further damage- since the rats have most definitely messed everything up while trying to create a nest of sorts for the duration of the mopeds immobility.

Meticulously we take note of a multitude of different colored wires and plugs, removing what is damaged and replacing each and every single one until close to eleven PM the main wiring in the steering wheel is complete again.

After several failed attempts the engine starts up, with the pedal, rather than the battery, sputtering sluggishly before turning into a steady purr that allows us to check if all functions perform as they should.
I hold my breath as one by one each switch is turned and flicked. Buttons are pressed until, after at least three readjustments, everything appears to be in working order.
Headlights go on, warning lights flash -at the third try, admittedly- and brake lights shine a bright red. We actually cheer at our success of the day.

Winding some extra tape around each replaced wire, we slowly set ourselves to reapplying the plastic casing of the clunky steering wheel, leaving only the chest of the moped open, since the cooling tank will need a new lid before we can place it back in there.

Both big brother and I are tired by the time midnight has passed and the majority of the damage has been dealt with. Still we take in half an hour of studying while we allow our bodies to let go of some of the strain in the comfortable office chairs that flank the kitchen table.

Jokes are being tossed around between my four sibs and I, creating a wonderfully lighthearted atmosphere that really makes such a busy day worthwhile when at long last the evening has come to its end and the trip to my cabin is made, just like all the nights before.

The early morning's chill is fierce, making my fingers numb and skin itchy as I brew a quick cup of tea, read for about half an hour and then switch on the computer for a final couple of hours of relaxation on the net.

Sunday. It rarely passes with a feeling of content. Today it did, and I'm glad for it.

Accident prone for a day.

Call me Klutz. A. Klutz, hah.

Well, the day arrives with gloomy rain pounding down on the roof, while once again the mountain is cloaked in clouds.
There are some dreams lingering in my mind when I get up, but, as dreams tend to do, they fade as "reality" catches up with me, forcing me to face the day head on.
It is strange, the way of reality, really. The familiar phrase "reality catches up on you" does indicate that some wariness towards it is warranted, as it is known to sneak up on you when you least expect it.
Reality in life, I think is most certainly a living entity of sorts that leers around every corner, waiting to make your life miserable, especially when something good has happened. It seems to revel in "catching" you unawares, and setting you in in your so-called rightful place, and I sometimes theorize that reality is actually a cruel creature, forever haunting us.

But I get distracted, as usual. Back to the recount of the day:

The path from my cabin is terribly muddy, my shoes sinking in a good inch while I make my way to the main house, and skid occasionally when keeping a weary eye on Trin Trin, the Monster Boxer who is more than eager to pounce on the Labs, keeps me from watching my footing. A large stick in my hand keeps her entertained. While wiggling it enticingly for the Boxer, I end up with a large splinter that embeds itself in the side of my palm just to annoy me, I'm sure.
Today promises to be more than a little challenging.

The house is damp with the night's chill still lingering, so after lighting some lamps I proceed towards the gas heaters and fire them up to dry and warm the place before the rest of the dogs and family members join me.

Though quite futile on days such as these, I hang a batch of laundry and then have a quick breakfast ere checking my messages of the day and settling down to do some serious writing...I am fully prepared to dive in, too, right up until it becomes apparent that more pressing matters demand attention.
Our tenant -who was hospitalized several weeks ago- will be returning in just a few weeks and before that time arrives we are going to have to make some adjustments to her bungalow. She'll be bound to a wheelchair for at least a while until her rehabilitation starts to take root, and for that reason alone, accommodations have to be met.

Together, big brother an I head up the mountain, with the rain coming down full force and drenching any uncovered part of us in just seconds. Once there, we take stock of what needs to be done. Measurements for the new flooring that will need to be put down are taken, along with a quick list of other things that have to be repaired. And while we're there anyway, we decide to move our tenant's closet in favor of creating easy access to her bathroom.
The closet isn't all that heavy, and a quick look assures us that shifting it with its back against the wall won't be much of a problem on such short notice.
Together we grab it on both sides, pushing and shoving it back when suddenly a whispery sound overhead makes me glance up, just when we've pitch the large piece of furniture slightly forward.

I am barely in time to catch the flurry of movement overhead, when I tilt my head back to locate the origin of the sound, wondering for only a moment whether to dodge the white plastic bag sliding straight at me, or trying to catch it instead. A full frontal collision with the bag... and the gleaming black plastic box it contains, decides it for me.

Whap! A noisy crack echoes through the space as for a full three seconds I try to decide whether it hurts or not. A blinding flash of something very much like belated pain pounds through my skull, originating from the bridge of my nose, stabs deeply into my brain.
I mutter a few choice words as the object that caused it, thuds to the concrete floor with a crack and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as darkness swirls around me.

Flaying around in a rather inelegant fashion, with the startled outcries of big brother and my honorary grandpa who have witnessed the entire thing, coming from both sides, I grab for -and miss- big brother's sleeve. Momentum makes my back slam against the wall before I sag through legs that suddenly feel like jelly.
My vision is alternating between complete black and flashing lights at that time and my butt is rapidly soaking up wetness from the floor while I try to decide whether to hold on to the wall behind me or nurse my pounding face, instead.

Involuntary tears that have little to do with the pain, and everything with the automatic response of my protesting eyes, roll down my cheeks when I finally raise my hands to my face and carefully probe nose and forehead. No damage so far, and a few deep breaths follow when slowly the pounding begins to subside.

"What the heck was that?" I manage to ground out, uttering a few more choice words, just for good measure, as big brother, little more than a bodiless voice to me at this particular time, explains that it was and old clunky cassette recorder from the early eighties which had made the unfortunate introduction to my face.

Though my eyes are a bit blurry, and turn around in their sockets a bit before I am able to focus, no skin is broken and no blood flows, assuring me that however startling the event was, no lasting damage is done.
After a few minutes of recovery, some noisy sniffs and a helping hand from big brother and grandpa, I scramble to me feet and play supervisor to the remainder of the measurements being taken.

Once done, we return to the house, discussing what all needs to be done and share a wonderful meal prepared by the younger sibs while going over supplies that we'll have to get for the modifications to the bungalow.

During most of the evening that follows, little discomfort or even thoughts are spared to the event, as dishes are washed, pans scrubbed and cupboards are cleaned in pursuit of the meal we have shared.

A slight pounding finally resurfaces by the time the day comes to an end, rewarding me with a generous headache now that the time for rest has arrived.

Klutziness... it is much like reality: It'll hit you when you least expect it.