A bit of this and a bit of that and a song about birds.

You know you were cut out for a life of luxury when nature creates you with a built-in sleep mask.

Last night I dreamed that I got to see the cover of my book. It looked like a Dr. Phil book -- a red background with a photo on the front, and the title at the bottom in a very conservative gold/brown print. I immediately freaked out and started suggesting changes. In my dream, I even explained the Photoshop techniques for achieving the end I had in mind. It was probably a pretty cool cover.

My title is probably changing, but more on that later.

I am off and writing on the next book. This one is different; I was trying to decide third person or first, and I settled on first person present tense. It fits the character and her situation, I think. I feel like I'm writing without a net, but I think that's how I always feel. I am also going to do a little more mapping out of this book than I usually do, but that will come in the near future. I need to get inside the character's head for a while first.

Dog show is in progress once more. It's funny, because there are other shows at my company, and some producer from another show said something jokey about the dog shows. This person was immediately shut down (as the tale was told to me, at least). The thing is, doing something 20+ times does not make it easier -- not if you want every show to be better than the last. It makes it more challenging. You are always setting out to conquer your previous effort.

Thanks for all the bird sympathy. A friend at work, on hearing about the birds, said, "Oh, I have a great quote for you." I thought it might be something like Spring is a time when life renews, and new life faces adversity and triumphs etc. etc. etc. No, her quote was something like Spring is cruel to the weak and unfit or something. It made me laugh.

I think the Indigo Girls actually said it better.

Fly Away

Fly away little bird
Any place in this open mouthed world
Begs to be fed like a bed that beckons you, but you won't rest
Everyone's got a need to go
Most of us stick with our row to hoe
But not you, you're the black crow
With a straight line, and no time
For the birds of prey who wreck your nest
Twice your size steal your best
They set you on this course of your collision

I am a stop along your way
I am the words you'll never say
I crossed the great beyond of fear
I opened my eyes and saw us there, what a view
You went there too

Fly away little bird
Find the song in you that no one's heard
Strenghthen your wings as you sing your solo flight
Through this short life
Everyone's got a deep regret
We try to ground ourselves to forget
But your race to the end is neck and neck
You love them, you love them not
The birds of prey who wreck your nest,
Twice your size steal your best
They set you on this course of your collision

I am a stop along your way
I am the words you'll never say
I crossed the great beyond of fear
Opened my eyes and saw us there, what a view
And you went there too

But all along your chosen path are
Window panes and sheets of glass
That you won't see
You fly too fast
One day it will be over

Fly away little bird
The saddest song I ever heard
Was the one I wrote you in my heart
That never made it to the world.

The secret comfort of the writer.

I spent much of Saturday afternoon involved in gnashing teeth and tearing hair. A scrub jay (yes, it is blue, and it is a jay, but it is not a blue jay) got my baby birds. My precious little tweets. I was not a happy camper. It was not a good day in my house.

I won't start categorizing events in terms of how tragic they are or aren't. The fact is, a lot of baby birds don't make it to adulthood, and a lot worse things happen in the world. They have even happened to me. Over the past few years, I have lost some optimism about the nature of humanity.

But here is the exquisite and terrible secret of the writer:

That while the mind and heart are overwrought, the keen observer backs away and observes. And it is impossible not to think, at some point, "What can I use this for?"

Which character will inherit this pain? What situation will grow from this betrayal? What shocking moment will be rendered with more truth because I have hurt today?

And like the badbadbad good feeling of giving up and scratching a mosquito bite, there's a squeak of something -- not gladness, but maybe a pessimistic smugness. Maybe it's a kind of hope. Because if you are the type to assign meaning to the things that happen to you, what is a more impertinent reply to pain than to steal from it immediately and use it for your own devices? What better way to tell the universe that you are still standing?

It was only a quartet of nestlings, but something in their sudden absence hit a nerve.

But something burns on, yes?