In my travels around the universe of blogs, there is one thing that is on all our minds, the economy.

For writers and readers, the big question is buying books. All the authors I know are ferocious readers and many of my none writing friends are big readers too. With gas pushing in the direction of $5.00 a gallon, with no sign of slowing down, those of us who love to buy new books have been left with the question, “What is going to be sacrificed to fulfill our addiction?”

The price of books will be going up. It is in the cards. Gas goes up and anything moved by a truck will go up with it. We’re already seeing it the price of groceries. It’s a matter of time before it hits the local book stores, if it hasn’t already.

I’m retired, with a comfortable income. Still, it is all I will get for the rest of my life, until I sell a book. So I have to think about what I don’t need in order to fulfill my addiction for books.

I’ve taken a good look at what I spend money on, and how I spend it. I’m not really an emotional buyer. I usually think carefully before I make a purchase. Do I need it or not? That’s the standard question, most of the time.

Unfortunately, when it comes to books, I’m a straight-up, no-doubt-about-it emotional buyer. I’ll buy another book, even if the stack of books at my bedside is causing my small end table to lean precariously to the side, threatening to collapse under the weight of my TBR pile. The problem with the pile, it will take years for me to get through it at the rate I keep adding to it. Soon, I’ll have to make a path just to get to my bedside, and/or into my office. My husband has proclaimed that if there was ever a fire in our home, my office and our bedroom would go up like kindling.

We’ll I’ve found a solution, used bookstores. I love them. I bring a punch of books I have managed to read, turn them in for credit, and get a punch more. These books are a bit used, with bent spines, but hey, my pile hasn’t been reduced a bit, much to hubby’s great disappointment.  

Going to a used bookstore is fun. I find all my favorite authors, not always their latest releases, but often ones I haven’t read, or hope aren’t buried under the TBR pile. I find it doesnt’ take long and the new releases show up in the form of used. 

Because the books are used, I let go of them much more easily. No emotional attachment in form of a piece of my income, that amounts to a ¼ of a tank of gas, or lease. So they go back to ye ole used bookstore, for more used books.

Question of the Day: What are you doing to keep up the book addiction in these times of economic stress?

 I spent the morning trimming my roses, cleaning up around their base, and just in general enjoying them. Even with the thorns sticking me, as I battle aphids, I love the infamous flower. They’ve been apart of my life, my entire life. There isn’t a female blood relative of mine, that doesn’t have roses in their yard. It seems to be engrained in our DNA. It’s the marker that reads, “Must have roses.”

After I trimmed my dozen or so plants, I cleaned up, and sat down to try to figure out what I was going to blog about. When I heard some voices outside my den window. They were young voices, male and female. The male voice was framed in adolescence with a depth that isn’t sure of itself. The female giggled, which gave away her age.

I realized, from bits of conversation, the male was trying to pick my roses, without getting stuck. A task I haven’t achieved yet.

This is nothing new to my roses. They sit on the side of my house near the public sidewalk. Even today, I found broken branches from those who just couldn’t resist them, and tore them off the stem. It always makes me hurt for my dear plant, because of the damage. But today, I decided I’d save my plants, and commit a random act of kindness. I grabbed my clippers, and confronted the young couple. Who looked scared witless when I rounded the corner, with clippers in hand. I’m sure the young man was imagining all sorts of torturous things I was about to put on his young person. In short they looked not only very guilty with one broken rose in hand, but just a bit terrified.

I asked the young man if he was picking my roses for his girlfriend, who stood clinging to his arm.

He nodded, speechless, readying himself for the assault.

“Okay, let me cut some for you. I’ll give you a nice big bouquet.”

Now they looked completely speechless. He nodded again.

So I went about the business of gathering a nice bouquet of my beautiful big roses of various colors. As I clipped I chatted, and told them about the damage it does to the plant to just rip the rose off. The young girl responded that when she had her own house, she wanted roses. I was thrilled maybe she was a convert to the love of the ancient flower. Wrapping the bouquet in newspaper, so as not to damage the fair maiden’s fingers, I handed it to her knight, to give to her.

He looked at me, still a bit dizzy, and said, “Thanks, this is so cool.”

He gave the flowers to his very thrilled and adoring girlfriend. As they left, I told them they could knock on my door when they wanted another bouquet.

I work hard on my roses, and I love to share them. They are one of the greatest symbols of romance and love in the world. And they can brighten any day.  And yes, the roses in the picture are from my yard.  

I feel my flowers are like my writing. I work hard at making it beautiful, and want nothing more than to share it with outsiders.

Have a wonderful 4th, be safe and stop to smell the roses.

Question of the Day:  What random act of kindness have you committed recently?

California is burning. The air is so thick with smoke I can taste and smell it in everything. This afternoon it was reminisant of a glouish nasty yellow fog I saw in a Stephen King movie. The advisories said to keep small children inside, especially those with asthma.

Four of my grandchildren are staying with me for this week.  And one has asthma. So we have to stay inside, or go to enclosed play areas.

What this means is I can’t write. I’m spending almost every waking moment of the day, trying to keep a 12, 5, 3, & 2 year old busy with indoor activities. I’m spending a lot of time settling their little skirmishes over just about everything, large or small, that suddenly takes on great life altering importance to them.

This has given me a new appreciation for the writing mommy. I have put them on a pedestal to turn them into my new hero. How they manage to get any type of creative writing done, is something short of a miracle. I mean really, canonization to sainthood, might not be good enough. Promoting them to Goddess is more like it.

How do they find not only the time, but the energy! When my little scamps go off to bed, I’m absolutely exhausted. All I can think about is sitting down long enough to watch a single television program straight through, without having to jump up and do something for the kids. My brain is dead, and I can’t even try to write a single sentence about anything other than the beauty of sitting down for one hour uninterrupted.

I raised my three kids as a single parent. I know what it takes to keep sanity in the house, or at least something that resembles organized chaos. The difference, I wasn’t writing. I barely had time to  wash my face before bed, let alone sit down and plug out a couple of pages of a story floating around in my head. Survival took over any desire to produce a book. Writing was off in the distant wasteland called, ’Things I’d like to do someday when I have time.’

I know writers who work full-time, have children, a husband, and house. How they managed to get published or even complete a manuscript worthy of publishing, I can’t find the words to describe my awe. New York Best-seller, Allison Brennan has five kids, and is a BEST-SELLER! When she first sold, she had a newborn, worked full-time, and had her other children to take care of. We have two writing mommies right here at CH. Virna works, has three kids and writes. Misa has five kids and is published. I have my grandkids for a week, and I think my writing has disappeared into the abbess of never to be seen again. I have trouble writing and taking care of my husband and one small black cat, let alone my grandchildren on occasion. The sad part, neither the hubby or cat are very demanding.

All the writing mommies, both non-published and published, my hat is off to you. I don’t know how you do it. You are my hero.

As I write this, across the hall is the bedroom where my grandkids are supposed to be sleeping. From the darkness I hear the tiny voice of my 2 year old grandson.

Jaren: Nana?

Nana: What is it, Jaren?

Jaren: I done.

Nana: Done with what?

Jaren: Sleeping.  

Nana: Sigh

Question of the Day:  Who do you admire, who would be the most unlikely hero?

 The great-white screen is staring at me. Now it’s yelling at me. Nope its gone into a very high pitched howl. And I don’t know what I want to write about. It’s not so much that I don’t have anything to write about. It’s a bit like knowing you have plenty of subjects to write on and just don’t want to bother with a one of them.

I also do that with my current WIP. I know I have a goal I’ve committed too, but then suddenly I notice the den needs dusting, underwear needs bleaching, and I’ll even clean the cat box, before I plant my butt in the chair to write. Sometimes I start to tear the house apart to just avoid the great-white screen. In the end, I have a very clean house, and no new pages, and I’m behind on blogs and other commitments. Then I have to play double-time to catch up, and rush. I don’t write rushed well. Knowing this about myself, for some very strange reason I still get involved in recreational avoidance and procrastination.

The mystery to all this, I like to write. I do struggle with it. I know my weaknesses, and am constantly working to improve. But cleaning out the cat box isn’t an exercise in writing. Admittedly, for the cat to have a clean potty is beneficial to my household.   

Still, I’ll make up excuses not to do something I love to do. Like writing, telling a good story, and creating the world my characters find their adventures in. The process is exciting, (especially in the beginning) and can be very frustrating, all at the same time.

So then why am I avoiding my characters?

If we love our craft, then why are we running away from the blank screen screaming waving our hands, to lock ourselves in the bathroom with a paper bag. This usually isn’t long lived. Eventually we come out, at least for food.

Question of the Day: As authors why do we avoid writing, when we love to write?