Chances Are

Stop trying to scare me! I am fed up with news stories and advertisements designed to freak me out. Everywhere I turn, monsters lurk in the shadows. Cybercrime. Extreme weather. Economic disaster. Road rage. Housing crises. Someone wants to rob me. Something wants to kill me. Someone wants to be me.

I have no idea when the rules changed, but in broadcasting school, the first one was to keep my tone optimistic. One day while on the air, the weather forecast predicted an 80% chance of rain and I reported that we had a 20% chance of sun. It rained that day, but not the entire day and I dunno about you, but I appreciate a break in the drizzle.

In my mid-thirties, after passing a particularly stubborn kidney stone, the doctor warned that I had a 30% chance of having a second one. At first I thought, crap. Then I thought, wait a minute. The odds actually favoured a happier prospect. I had a 70% chance of not having a second one (and so far, so good). But why didn’t he say so? Why did he emphasize the lesser chance? It couldn’t have been to give me hope. We can’t have people believing that all will be well. There’s more money and more power in keeping people fearful.

Cancer is everywhere and has been everywhere for seemingly ever. But since it executed a hit-and-run on my mother that still has me reeling, I am particularly sensitive about it. I haven’t been driven to donate money to the related charities, though they’ve certainly upped their fundraising game. October is awareness month, after all, and I am more acutely aware of it than usual.

When I hear that one in sixty-four women will develop breast cancer, it’s hard not to panic immediately that I will be the one. Or that Ter will. Or my wee sister. Or my poet laureate. Or my office roomie.

Wait a minute. One in sixty-four will means sixty-three in sixty-four won’t—and I’m not jamming my head into the sand on this. I’m just deciding to be positive. To protect myself from manifesting a fearful intention. Thoughts are energy, positive and negative. Like attracts like. I’m certainly not saying that someone who fears cancer is doomed to be the one in sixty-four, but isn’t it more hopeful to focus on being in the healthy majority? Isn’t it more hopeful to focus on the positive side of everything? Contrast is a fact; there is no light without dark. If you flip that somewhat negative thought, however, then there is no dark without light. Life happens according to plan. That is also a fact. But we choose how we live it, be it in love or in fear.

I choose love. I choose to be positive. I choose optimism. I choose to deflect the negativity wherever possible, whenever possible. Of course I have off days. Mood swings and massive occasions of WTF? Contrast, right? Human. Things I must live with because living with them is why I’m here. I will not, however, allow myself to be intimidated by a society bent on intimidating me.

Being positive takes effort. It takes conscious thought. It takes persistence and courage and a host of other things that escape me right this second – but it can be done! And because for most of the time I live in a friendly, generous and loving universe, it works. Try it sometime. When you think or hear something negative, flip it and see what you get.

I bet the odds end up in your favour.

With love,

Me and My Shadow

You again. My old friend. Stealthy and silent, biding your time, waiting patiently for your moment. You’re so good at being unobtrusive that I forget you’re always two steps behind, lurking at my shoulder, skulking by my side. I lose my focus and suddenly you’re right in front of me. If you had a face, you’d be smiling because once in front, you refuse to step aside and let me pass.

Everyone has a dark side. It’s part of the package we bought when we signed the papers on this existence. Call it what you will: shadow self, alter ego, super ego, it’s the human part of our mortal makeup.

And it loves to be miserable. It revels in reminders of how hard life is, and how precarious our position is within this big scary world. Fear is its driving force, and boy does it know how to play the head games required to immobilize you.

I normally choose happiness and love over fear and anxiety, but when life demands to be lived on its own terms, i.e., when the poo hits the propeller, Shadow Ru pounces.

I didn’t even realize she had done so until the day I finally looked up from my feet. There she was, and had been for weeks, fixed solidly in my path.

By then I was so immured in the funk of loss that pulling myself out of it was like pushing the proverbial elephant up the stairs. I’d been crying nonstop since June. Taking tea and tissues into the Ocean Room had become a nightly ritual. From one loss, a list of others had sprung in a dismal domino effect that made the rest of my life look pretty grim. What’s the point, anyway? Can we start again, please? I knew I had to flip my focus to abundance instead of loss, and as soon as I saw Shadow Ru, I understood it was time to put her back in her place. But how to do it?

According to the law of physics, you get back the energy you put out. If you’re operating from the fear-based position of loss, you’ll find yourself losing more, thanks to the generous nature of our obliging Universe. Conversely, if you look for the miracle, you’ll see it—and you honestly don’t have to try that hard.

But Shadow Ru was relentless. “You think that was bad?” she asked. “What about this? And this? Or what if this happens? Wouldn’t it be terrible?”

“Well, yes,” I replied, “but it hasn’t happened.”

“But what if it does? Best be prepared for the worst.”

“Oh, move along!” I burst out, fed up with the negativity.

She refused. Worse, she persisted with her pernicious fearmongering until I thought I’d lose my mind. She wouldn’t let me see past her. She deliberately blocked my view of the good things in my life, of the little miracles and everyday blessings that sustained me through this summer. I was frazzed beyond endurance, trying to elbow past her, when my smarter self—Spirit Ru—calmly made a brilliant suggestion:

If your shadow is in front of you, then the sun is at your back. Just turn around.

Huh. I shoulda had a V-8.

Shadow Ru is still with me, of course, but now she’s back where she belongs: behind me.

With love,

Know Fear

Hello, fear!

It’s okay to be surprised, for I’ve either ignored you completely or been at war with you for most of my life. I had no idea what was going on. I thought you were a demon, something to be conquered, but even when I beat you, you were never really vanquished. You were always there, whispering in my ear, telling me stories of what horrors might happen if my arthritis came back or I kept that dental appointment.

You’re a pro at stirring up my imagination.

I know now what you were doing—what you are doing—and I’m not angry about it. You’re only trying to protect me, to warn me of potential danger and thus keep me safe. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but I can also tell you it’s not necessary. I’m fine right now and I’ll be fine down the road. I’m not saying we won’t cross paths again. I know we will, and when we do, I’ll say the same thing I’m saying here:

Thank you for coming by. I see you and I hear you, and I understand your intention. It’s okay. And now it’s time to part ways, so I am going to tuck you into this pretty silver box, tie it with a big pink ribbon (’cause it’s hard to be a badass when you’re tied with a pink ribbon), and set you carefully into this bubbly little stream. I’ll stand on the bank and watch you float away. I’ll even wave as you disappear around the bend, and then I’ll continue my journey alongside the same stream. I might come upon you washed up on the bank at some point, and I’ll do the same thing. I’ll acknowledge you, I’ll reassure you that all is well, and I’ll send you on your way.

With love,

Bump in the Night

I think I’m dreaming when I hear someone screaming for help in the dark. Strident, desperate, truly panicked. Once I know I’m awake, my next thought is that the girl downstairs is in trouble. She’s pregnant and her filmmaker husband is out of town; they moved in two days earlier and if something is wrong with the baby …

The screaming gets louder. Someone starts hammering on our door. “She’s going to die! Help me; help me; why won’t you help me?”

Oh, God, it is the baby!

Ter is awake by now; I’m already dressed and flipping on the lights. Still confused, I blurt that it’s the girl downstairs and what the—

A shuddering sound: wood splintering as if a door is being kicked in, glass breaking, and the screaming in a voice gone hoarse. Ter beside me at the top of the stairs. “What is going on?”

I’m thinking, Great, the new neighbour is bipolar and having a seizure. I’m shaking with adrenaline, my mind racing in circles: call 911, go downstairs, see what the hell is happening in our building fo—

There’s an almighty BANG! and the voice receding as the owner takes her screaming back out to the street. Still shaking and moving by instinct rather than common sense, I take my phone and descend the stairs to our front door. There’s a jagged hole in the stained glass at eye level. “Oh, my God,” I say, “the window is broken.” I open the door and find that the foyer has been trashed. Glass shards are strewn across the carpet. The floor lamp that stood in the corner is bent in half and the shade lies in pieces. The building’s front door has been flung wide open and one of the porch chairs blocks the exit. The SOS sounds like she’s heading toward the point.

The door on my left opens cautiously and standing there in her jammies is our new neighbour. “Was that you?” I ask, stupidly.

She shakes her head, half-numb.

To help with the picture, our building is a five unit strata – two suites on the main floor, two on the second and the penthouse up top. The foyer is square, the main floor doors across from each other, the second floor doors side by side. This night, the folks in the other main floor suite are in Toronto, and the fellow who lives above them only emerges when our voices wake him. He’s as gobsmacked as the rest of us.

The screaming outside continues toward the water. Ter is on the porch, listening. “Ruthie,” she says, “time to call 911.”

So I make my first ever 911 call. I describe the events and give directions as best I can. Within seconds of me disconnecting, the cops arrive, a fleet of them, lights and sirens galore, accompanied by two ambulances, a fire truck, and what appears to be a marine rescue boat offshore. Whatever it is, its lights are aimed at the beach. By now I’ve called the folks in the penthouse and they have joined the rest of us on the porch. “Welcome to the neighbourhood,” someone says to the new girl. “This never happens here,” someone else says, but she is adding security to the top of the agenda for the strata’s annual general meeting this weekend. (She proves to be a force of nature herself; when all is said and done, she and hubby are likely to be a super addition to the community.)

Eventually, half of the vehicles depart and an officer makes her way over to the house. Turns out that a mother and daughter have gone on a drinking bender and something went wrong. The cops found them in the water, and if they can get a confession, does anyone want to press charges? A conviction is unlikely, we’re told, given that there are no eyewitnesses or video surveillance to support any action taken. Names and phone numbers are exchanged, the officer leaves, Ter helps to clean up the lobby while I stand with the men and ponder the insurance portent. None of us gets back to sleep before four that morning, but we retire as a group more strongly bonded than we were before the incident occurred.

Since then, we’ve heard that the malcontents apologized to the police but they have no priors so no charges are recommended (to which I reply, how does one go about getting a prior unless charges are pressed?). The broken glass in three of the four doors is presently being repaired, and I presume the strata’s insurance is covering the bulk of the cost. Ter and I have an advantage here: being renters, we just comply with whatever work must be done and don’t worry about the finances.

This does not spare us the slings and arrows suffered by the owners, however. Since we moved in, we’ve been embraced as members of the family and have weathered the same storms as everyone else—everything from an upstairs water leak soaking our carpet to street parking wars to disgruntled neighbours foiling our recycling collection, not to mention the summer of constructing the Trump Tower out back. There is no dissention among the residents, I’m relieved to say, and now that the kids have moved in downstairs, we’re hoping for a warm and peaceful winter.

There’s no place like home.

Dumber Than My Phone

What with navigating around F***book (I’m still a bit … okay, a lot boggled) and surviving fiscal year end, I’ve not done much writing of late. I miss it, but that’s okay – I have a week’s vacation coming soon and a project in mind. That, however, is another post.

As part of my ongoing plan to become a social media savvy celebrity author, I turned in the old flip phone and bought a Smartphone last weekend. It’s a basic model compared to the iPhones and Samsung Galaxies floating around out there, but I have a pre-paid mobile account and didn’t want to commit (there’s that fear again) to a contract with my upgrade. So this little fellow is a Motorola E (or something), powered by Google Android, which freaks me out because the androids on Star Trek thought they were better than humans and, if not for JT Kirk and Co., would have taken over the world … I digress. Mr. Moto is less a phone than it is a tiny computer. Once I figure out how to drive it, it will check my email, keep my appointments, snap photos, upload said photos to FB, send and receive text messages, reflect my scintillating personality by way of varied ringtones and desktop wallpaper, stash any apps I accidentally download, and probably cost me way more than the thirty dollars per month I’ve budgeted for the privilege of ownership.

Yes, I’m totally lost. Well, not totally. Ter found the user’s guide online – via the big computer rather than the “mobile device” – so between us we deduced how to answer an incoming call after the first experiment failed. The device started ringing … actually, it started to play a boogie tune that had me grooving until I saw our landline number on the screen. Whoa, call display! How cool is that? But once startled into action, I couldn’t figure out how to connect to the call! So off it went to voice mail, and off I went to consult the manual.

Handy things, those manuals. Too bad hard copies don’t come with the product; switching from the computer screen to the phone screen can start a migraine faster than cheezies with a chocolate chaser. I’ve yet to delve much deeper into it than skimming the basics, but at least I can answer a call or choose to ignore it and then retrieve the voice mail. I was able to record an outgoing message by remembering which buttons to push once I call my own number; it helps to have a similar VM system at work. And the camera … let’s be truthful here. I bought it for the camera, for spontaneous pics and fast uploads; again, part of Ru’s cunning Media Savvy Plan. I adore my little digital Canon, but I don’t carry it with me every day and I have missed golden weekday photo ops, like the streetlamp lying on the boulevard. It looked like the eye of the Martian spaceship in the Gene Barry version of War of the Worlds and I would have taken a picture if only. So I guess I’ve really bought a camera that has a phone rather than a phone that has a camera, so does it matter if I can’t get Mr. Moto to play Darth Vader’s Imperial March when my father calls?

In this intellectual game of chicken with my phone, you bet it does.

Fear Less

Life is about contrast: light/dark; yes/no; happy/sad; naughty/nice. We have no choice in that, it’s a physical law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Nothing is constant but change. This too shall pass. Bad/good things happen to good/bad people.

Yaddayaddayadda.

The empowering thing about contrast is that we can choose which way we’re facing. When it’s all good, we can enjoy the moment, or waste it by dreading its inevitable end. When it goes pear-shaped, we can wallow in piteous despair, or seek the contrast and overcome.

We choose how we respond.

I’m saying this out loud because a) it’s true and b) I need the reminder. I have a lot of fear—or I could, if I chose. Fear is like a water leak; it starts small, so small that you may not know it’s happening until the ceiling crashes into your living room. Then, as is completely natural, you’re immobilized.

Fear is housed in the biological unit’s disk operating system. It’s not the same as the little voice that warns against getting on that particular bus; the little voice is your wiser self, and often dismissed by an intellect so insecure that it will endanger itself by refusing to accept the help. Fear is part of the survival package that comes with this mortality gig. Fear is a good thing—until the filtering mechanism malfunctions. That’s when all manner of mental anguish results. We start spooking at shadows and suspecting infamy at every turn. We begin to believe when we are told we should be afraid, and of what. We then actively seek things to frighten us. The law of attraction gets very weighty in such cases—the more you fear, the more you have to fear.

Nicole sent me the pendant in the picture at Christmas last year. I wear it when I need the boost. Courage is not defined as being unafraid. The bravest souls are still afraid; they simply refuse to be ruled by it. “Courage” has pinged on my radar of late, showing me that I am working through some of my issues. It’s also confirmation that I’m on the right track, because I’d already identified the problem but wasn’t sure how to resolve it. How does one conquer fear, especially an irrational one?

With courage, that’s how. Look the monster in the eye and say, “You’re not the boss of me!”

It’s a start, and there might even be a fight, but persevere. Fear is a bully and bullies are cowards at the core. Be brave. Stand your ground. Trust that all will be well … and it will be.

With love,

Bullies

A lot of people are angry after what happened in Ottawa last week. Angry, afraid, and awakened to a horrible global truth, that we as a nation are no longer safe on our own turf. It’s taken me a few days to figure out how I feel about it.

I’m sad.

Sad that Canada is no longer exempt from the venom of radical terrorist groups. Sad that Corporal Nathan Carillo’s destiny was to be the death that woke us up. Sad that I sat in a sunny open courtyard the day after he was killed and wondered what would happen if one of the passersby suddenly pulled a gun and opened fire. Sad that guns, despite the laws that control them, are showing up in these formerly unheard of situations north of the US border. Sad that it’s finally come to this, that the least offensive country in the First World has lost her status as a safe place to be.

Sad, sad, sad.

Anger is a uniquely human response, always born of another action, deliberate or not, that threatens or offends. In no way will I plead the case of the individual who did this—he’s already moved on and discovered how horrendously misguided he was to buy into the propaganda of hate. What I will say is that I believe terrorists are, at their singular core, little more than jumped-up schoolyard bullies, so wrought with their own misery and self-loathing that they seek to empower themselves by victimizing others—usually those who are weaker than themselves, but in the case of ISIS or whatever they’re called, those whom they perceive as would-be oppressors. Canada got onto the hit list because we’re allied with the big boys. Guilt by association.

Seriously? Attacking us is like kicking a puppy. We don’t play the aggressor except on a sheet of ice, but we do heed the call for help in righting wrongs committed against innocents, and what terrorist groups do is wrong on so many levels I can’t begin to list them all. Yes, the Middle East is a hotbed of conflict and yes, if they weren’t sitting on the world’s oil supply, few governments would likely bother about them, but still. Be honest about it. Show your face and state your name. Openly recant your citizenship. Be proud to scorn your family, your nationality, and the religion you claim to revere. Man up to the consequence of your decision. If you believe what you’re doing is right and true, then have the courage to own your actions.

America does. Britain does. So do the Palestinians and the Israelis. Heck, so does North Korea. And, if you push us, so will Canada.

The world is run by ego, ambition, fear and hatred. Peace is a concept, and misunderstood at that. Peace is perceived as “not at war” and is therefore unsustainable.

Warring to stop war is insanity at its finest, but we’re in it now and there’s no going back. We’ll be forced into battle against this gang of miserable outcasts whether or not we believe it’s the only way. Millennia of history tells how this will end.

Badly.

But I won’t live in fear of the bullies. I won’t accept that people are inherently evil and unworthy of my trust. I will get angry, but I will release the anger without acting on it. Every one of us was born to love and be loved. We are what the world makes of us.

And that may be the saddest thing of all.

Happy Feet

Be it sugar, chemicals, fatigue, or a combination of all three, my frame of mind has hung a little crooked this weekend. I woke up well enough this morning, but it didn’t take long for my mind to seize those 17 seconds and drive me to the brink of tears over unfounded fear and imagined obstacles. It’s nothing if not thorough in its anticipation of the worst.

Fortunately, Ter was on an even keel when I got up. We had our tea and a little discuss of plans for the day, then I had a tiny meltdown. She got me through it with sympathy and a reminder to set aside those prevalent thoughts of the car blowing up or my teeth falling out. Neither thing is likely to happen, and certainly not right at this moment, so let it go for now and stay focused on what’s real.

I love her for that. I love her for many things, actually, but her ability to steady me when I falter may be the most valuable commodity not on the market.

So, after being shored up, I chose these socks despite (or perhaps because of?) the fact that their flaming neon colours clash madly with my jeans and Def Leppard hoodie. Ter happened on me in the living room, and laughed out loud when she saw my feet on the coffee table. “I’m glad to see you wearing such cheerful socks,” she said.

“Yeah,” I replied, wriggling my toes, “they make me happy.”

And so does she.

No Fear

“When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently.” – Eckhart Tolle

Is the world a scary place?

Sure.

Is the world a scarier place than the one we remember as kids?

No. We just know more about it.

Fear is a terrific tool for keeping control of the masses; if properly applied, it can be deadlier than any weapon of mass destruction. How many of us were terrified we were going to die for pinching a cookie off the cooling rack when we were kids? Ever wonder why there’s so much bad news on the nightly broadcast? It’s not because there’s more bad stuff out there; it’s just that bad stuff is “more interesting”, it garners more ratings, and ultimately makes the commercial purveyors of paranoia rich beyond our wildest dreams.

One of those annoyingly ubiquitous telemarketers whose technology has nullified the point of having an unlisted number recently managed to snare me into hearing the spiel—she was hawking an internet security service that would monitor my personal information and alert me to anyone attempting to steal my identity. This service wouldn’t stop the theft; it would only warn me that my info had been compromised. All I had to do was pay a monthly fee and regularly check my email for any notification of nefarious doings. To get off the phone, I agreed to the 30 day free trial and the brochure arrived by mail a few days later.

I looked it over as a matter of interest, certainly not with any real intent to sign up. As I read, I realized (duh) that a company cleverly associated with my financial institution was hoping to incite a paranoia of something that, yes, is happening elsewhere and may happen to me … but is it likely? Am I going to live in fear of a possibility? Heck, I live in an earthquake zone that’s 100 years overdue for the Big One!

I didn’t wait for 30 days before calling to say that I wouldn’t be buying the service. When I was asked why, I politely replied that I refuse to live in fear of my own email account. Imagine, checking every day for a notification, not seeing one, breathing a sigh of relief for the stay of execution, then having a heart attack when one day I open the inbox and …

I do admit to a slightly paranoid regret after the call. I imagined being red-flagged and thus given preferential treatment for a security breach.

See how clever they are? Be more clever. Don’t buy in. Live your life without fear. See the world for the wonderful, beautiful, magical place it is. When scary things happen, trust that all will end well because it will. You’ll get through it and somehow, even if it seems unlikely or impossible, you’ll be all right.

We all will.

With love,

Gum-ga-gum-gum

Gum surgery on Tuesday. Varying reports assure me that it won’t be pleasant, but I’ll live through it. The specialist prescribed an oral sedative to get us both through the 2 hour procedure – the bonus is that I liked her right away, which makes it easier to trust her while I’m tripping out on Triazolam – and I’m armed with antibiotics and painkillers for the post-game show, but once it’s done, I might be offline for a few days. I’m thinking about treating myself to that coveted bottle of dark spiced rum as a medicinal aid. 

As with most people, my pathological terror of dentists began in childhood, with a particularly traumatic episode occurring when I was twelve years old. I’ve never truly gotten over that incident, but given my desire to keep my own teeth for as long as possible and the benefit of dental insurance through work, I’ve been good about regular visits. I’ve even breezed through fillings and a few crowns, though I will die happy if I never need a third root canal. I’d rather have another kidney stone than another root canal. Before I arrived for my last cleaning appointment (on Halloween, of all things), my little voice hinted that something might be amiss and sure enough, the hygienist found some decay on the root of a molar that’s holding up one end of my bridge. It’s in an awkward spot, with too much gum in the way, hence the specialist. A consultation was booked for the following Tuesday and the long wait was on. 

Given my dental phobia, this sort of news could have flung me into the pit of despair and ruined my weekend. A few years ago, I would have let that happen. A few years ago, I was unaware of my power to control what once would have controlled me. 

My mind. 

Right away, I felt myself spiralling into the paralyzing hell of fear, dark memories, and anxiety of what will surely be a grisly procedure in the hands of a complete stranger. Ter, who had somehow managed to get a parking ticket the same day, was tempted to funk out with me, just when we were planning to have a magical Halloween weekend! Yep, it was bleak at our place for a few hours. Then we decided to put Tuesday aside and focus on the immediate weekend – to be present in each moment, to find joy, and to have the weekend we’d planned. Our strategy worked. We had a marvellous Halloween experience, the weekend was great, and my consultation went swimmingly ... except that gum work really is required, of course. 

I’ve learned, though it’s not yet second nature, that worry is a waste of energy. Prepare, yes. Worry, no. There’s absolutely no point in foreseeing the worst. It’s unproductive and interferes with one’s potential for joy in the moment. Besides, the worst may not happen, and if it doesn’t, how disappointing to have put all that effort into ... nothing. 

If the worst does happen, I’ll deal with it at the time. I’m not saying the gumby appointment hasn’t crept across my mind. It has. It’s even tried to disrupt my sleep once or twice, picking at the fear in hope of immobilizing me. I’ve recognized it, acknowledged it, then sent it on its way. Talk to me on Tuesday and I may give you a different story, but at least I’ll be freaked out closer to popping the pre-surgery sedative and have spent the weekend doing what I planned instead of lying cornered in the fetal position ... unless the Flyers were on Hockey Night in Canada, in which case I would have been fetal anyway. Until Tuesday, however, I am being here now.

 

And this moment looks pretty good.

Bus Rider

It's Not a Bus; It's the Community Limousine

For years and years, I plotted to avoid taking public transit. It’s not as if I suffered some traumatic encounter in childhood or anything, city buses just made my toes curl. It might be genetic: my two sisters share a similar reluctance to ride with strangers and have subsequently overcome that reluctance for one reason or another – though my younger sister confided that she continued to drive her car 100 kms every day for six months after receiving her transit pass through payroll deduction. Road rage was her downfall, though she’s never said whether it was hers or someone else’s.

I was lucky. Ter and I worked in the same office for a dozen years so we commuted together, and when I moved to my current job, the office fell within easy walking distance of home. It got sticky when we moved to the ’burbs in 2011. Ter’s office lay to the north and mine lay to the south … and she has free parking. It was time for Ru to face the transit demon.

When I was a kid, I never turned my back to the closet door at night. I figured that the monsters wouldn’t come for me if they saw I was ready for them. So the best way to beat the transit monster was to face it square-on. For a whole year, with clenched teeth and clammy palms, I rode the No. 24 to and from work. It took a while to get comfortable with ringing the bell for myself alone (I started by hopping off at the nearest stop to mine that someone else wanted; I couldn’t make myself interrupt the flow to let me off where I wanted – roll your eyes here), but after that, it became, well, less uncomfortable. Now that I’m living back in town, Ter drops me at work in the morning and the No. 3 gets me home. The best I can say is that, at this point in my life, I’ve adapted to riding “the community limo”. I’m pleased to add that I have even opted to use it on the occasional day off!

A few weeks ago, I was on the distribution list for an email joke titled “25 Reasons Not to Ride the Bus”. It was sent in good faith with absolutely no offensive intention, but before I automatically opened it, I stopped to consider what I was doing. I’m a recovering transitophobe. I need 25 Reasons To Ride the Bus, not 25 More Excuses to Avoid It at All Costs. Knowing my history and where I am in my recovery, and while I appreciated the harmless sentiment, I did what was best for me. I deleted the email, unread.

Fear is a bully. It’s best not to encourage it.

Next!

It’s true that creativity breeds creativity. Halfway through anything, I’ll be struck by a spark of something else – a voice, a scene, a plot portent or a title that has nothing to do with what’s currently underway. I generally spend the last half of a story fighting to finish it. I’m a pro at starting something new, but my computer is like a quilter’s shop: lots of scraps lying around that could each contribute to a greater whole if only the quilter could stick with it until it’s done.

I spent three quarters of last weekend dithering. Once I’d polished “Between the Storms”, it was time to let Jake go and decide which thread to follow next. I had three options:

1) go back to volume 7 of “Fixed Fire”, presently on hiatus because a bunch of short stories were clamouring offstage ... and I’d written myself into a corner from which I could not readily extricate myself. However, I have waited for ten years and six volumes to write it and it deserves to be attended;

2) pursue the urban vampires and see if my plan to update it as per “Finis?” gets traction; or

3) confront the angels.

Hm. Option 1 is peopled by characters I’ve known for a decade, who are as beloved as my own family – foibles and all – in a world where I’m very comfortable.

Option 2 is peopled by characters I knew before I started FF, and the vampire lore employed by that series is also familiar. Plus, I’m excited at the notion of reworking it to fit the present day.

Option 3 is peopled by total strangers in a world I know nothing about, whose pasts and futures involve a whole lot of unknown. When I consider option 3, I freeze like the proverbial deer in headlights.

I chose option 3 because it scares me to death. An entirely blank canvas. A whole new world. Strangers in my head. A continuous bout of who, where, what, why and when? Yup, I’m terrified, but I’ve rarely felt so inspired. One thing I can say for sure is that this one will be as twisted with passion, conflict and darkness as all that’s preceded it.

It’s my style, man.