Author: Becky

Questions, No. 8


I haven’t done one of these since March of 2022. Took it from the shelf, randomly opened it, scrolled down the page until a question caught my eye: What is your favorite author whose name begins with the letter R? As my mental search engine kicked into gear, I promised however it turned out, I’d go with the first name that came to mind.

That would be U.S. author Tom Robbins, who is still with us at 92 years old. He was born in North Carolina and is considered a post-modernist, and I have my brother to thank for getting me to read my first of his novels, Another Roadside Attraction. I never looked back.

I’ve mentioned on here before that had I finished my Masters program, I knew I’d either pick the works of Tom Robbins or Larry McMurtry as my thesis subject. That thesis (and a foreign language requirement) are the only two things I didn’t complete. Did well in all my classes. Passed my masters comps. Then somehow it all slipped through my fingers and I moved away without finishing the program. These things happen.

From my bookshelf, his eleven novels:

Another Roadside Attraction; Even Cowgirls Get The Blues; Still Life With Woodpecker; Jitterbug Perfume; Skinny Legs And All; Half Asleep In Frog Pajamas; Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates; Villa Incognito; Wild Ducks Flying Backward; B Is For Beer; Tibetan Peach Pie

 

Tiny Tuesday!

A new smaller skeleton joined the pack at Houndstooth Hall: young Ambrose’s twin sister Amarise (whatever century some variety of plague occurred was hard on this family). Here’s a photo from her first appearance on Instagram, wearing a “Who The Hell Is Ben Cote?” button that I let her claim because, as Lord Cuttlebone explains, “Never come between a girl and her devotion to a guitarist, songwriter, performer, and possessor of great hair.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. For more of my Instagram skeleton Halloween homages to music artists, check behind the cut.

Continue reading “Tiny Tuesday!”

Mindful Monday

In 2019, when I began to rewrite what came to be called the Neverending Saga, I did a lot of research for a particular character who has a tendency toward anxiety, panic, and fear. An intensely private person, she isn’t the type who’d go to therapy or easily express those feelings even to people who love her and who she trusts. Somewhere in my research, I learned ways that “laypeople,” that is, untrained to act as teacher, guide, or mentor, can still help someone through a panic attack. I also found people who use art to help people develop coping skills.

I never anticipated all the ways the larger world, and my smaller one, would change in the years after that. I’m not sure who out there on the big Internet should get credit for the seed of an idea that developed into a self-soothing exercise for my character. It has also sometimes helped me when I have insomnia and my brain goes into overdrive.

You (the vague word that applies to anyone) trace your hands on a piece of sturdy paper, and as I developed it, my hands (with poor fingers misshaped by arthritis) take on two different manifestations. My left hand I connect to my heart and coping words. My dominant right hand is connected to the fears and anxiety my brain can throw at me. I always like color, so with watercolor pens, I gave my left hand colors that soothe me: blues, greens, purples. The right hand colors are the ones that stir me up (and rob me of rest and peace of mind): reds, oranges, yellows.


If I match fingers, my little fingers are “playful” versus “fragile”; my ring fingers are “loved” versus “painful”; my middle fingers are “strong” versus “worried”; my index fingers are “intentional” versus “assertive”; and my thumbs are “determined” versus “anxious.”

Just trying to remember and focus on those words, then process them as solutions versus crises, can pull my scattered thoughts into something either distracting or soothing enough to help me finally fall asleep.

Sunday Sundries

Friday, I purged our living room bookcases. I set aside around 120 books to rehome.


A few are paperback cozies that I took to various Little Free Libraries in or near our neighborhood on Saturday. Do you spy Jack on the right in the above photo?

The rest, Tom will box and take to a reseller. I doubt I’ll get any money for them, but they need to move on to new readers. I listed the titles so that if Jim and Tim want me to hold any of them back for them, I will.


A lot of those books are nonfiction, particularly related to the early years of HIV/AIDS. Maybe if people had read some of them, they’d have a better understanding of so much that happened with COVID. It’s called “woke” to think we should learn what science, medicine, sociology, and human experience can teach us from our history. I think it’s funny that “woke” is used as a pejorative.

Mostly, there’s a lot of great fiction in those stacks. The ones I love most I’ve read more than once; they’re only collecting dust here. They deserve to find new readers.

I also needed the shelf space–too many books were crammed in. They’re better arranged now (still divided by genre, and the two bookcases on the right changed very little). Tom adjusted a couple of shelves to make them look more uniform. Here’s how they are now.

I know I need to do this for the library shelves, too, but those contain literature, classics, and books I know I won’t get rid of for the foreseeable future. There’s really not a lot to rehome.

Little Free Library visits on Saturday:

Easiest for me to get to, but it’s often full, so I mostly use it when I have a single book to drop.
This one isn’t in great shape, but those LFLs may need books even more.
A return visit from when I spotted it a few days ago, only this time, I left books.
I love “The Giving Tree” theme.
This is probably the LFL drop I use the most because I know the person who installed it.
Couldn’t resist leaving some good books at this Astros-themed LFL.

“Sharing”

When I was a young child, and someone would visit our family with their children, I never wanted those children to go to my room. I didn’t want them to touch my toys. When I got a lecture from my mother about sharing, I wailed back at her, “But they always break something!” I didn’t have that many toys to start with. Also, it’s to be remembered that a girl down the street from one of our houses (Army; we moved a lot) stole both my teddy bear and one of my baby dolls. I got the teddy bear back, but never recovered the doll.

Anyway, I hope you can see this reel from Instagram that showed up in my feed this morning. I completely understand this dog.

Pick One, No. 12

It’s funny, but when I look at this book, or the would-you-rather book I used yesterday, I recognize that I’m very opinionated and can easily pick one choice over another. However, what isn’t so easy is explaining why–not that I don’t have reasons, but I don’t always want to discuss them publicly. =) I also like it when I have an existing photo or the ability to take a photo for my selection.

Today’s pick:
Question 1704: Teddy bear or security blanket? (and why…)


Me and Dr. Neil, my teddy bear since I was three, named for the doctor who was taking care of me in the hospital when Uncle Gerald and Aunt Lola visited and gave him to me. He’s still in the cabinet next to me, though this photo was taken by Lynne when I was fifteen/sixteen. I never had a security blanket.

WYR? No. 4


No. 888. Would you rather go back and get to do high school all over again or have all your debt paid off?

 


“GET TO” do high school all over again? I’ve heard there are people who think of high school as their glory days, but I not only don’t think of high school that way, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to return to their high school years. There are dear friends I knew in high school who are dead now, and I wish they were alive, healthy, happy, and only as far away as a phone number. I knew good people in both my high schools and had a lot of fun along with my teen angst, but NO. PLEASE, Magic Genii, if you must yield your power on my behalf, take my debt away. I’d rather live unencumbered by debt now than live in the past. I’m fine with my gray hair and wrinkles.