the World of Webmistress Ming

Hello old friends!

If you can read this, you're a good buddy who just happened to remember this old blog. I've put it back online ONLY so that I can generate archives from old stories.

I've begun a fresh new blog here:

http://cynthiaewer.me

Come see what I'm up to these days!

Cynthia

Such a long, strange winter it's been.

Holiday-season travel, I've decided, is like everything else that happens that time of year: far more disruptive and involved than if you'd simply nipped off on a cruise in March or September.

Between getting ready to go (while cramming all holiday chores and most holiday celebrations into the same timeframe) and coming back (to add "take down decorations" to the laundry mountain and the work catch-up), it's more akin to moving than it is to vacation.

Friday morning at dawn, I will roar out of town on a 2700-mile, two-week solo driving trip, so what is Ming doing today?

Packing. And I am NOT packing light.

The trip will include a stay at a St. George, Utah, health spa (and temps are in the 101-degree range there all week), visits with relatives in Arizona, a side trip (maybe) to meet with a prospective literary agent (about whom I have great, GREAT vibes), another family visit in San Jose, and a final stint (yes, please) in my beloved Mt. Shasta retreat center.

I plan to enjoy myself.

The more Drupal I do, the more Drupal I love.

To wit: string overrides. A marvelous little module that lets me replace the generic "access denied" message with one more, well, Ming-like.

From here on out, it's invitation-only.

Today, I am thankful.

Eyes are "stable". Whatever was growing in the blind spot a year ago looks like testing variation. I still have to be followed, but with no new change, we can stick with the original diagnosis: just a quirk of anatomy.

I can't say I feel reborn--both eyes still feel as if they were sanded. Funny, too, that I'll have to have a passport photo taken today, and with all the swelling, it will match what I look like post-air travel quite nicely.

It's going to be a vulnerable week, and the day is Thursday.

Simply put, my ears have already checked out. On Thursday, I find out whether my eyes have decided to follow them.

It's a diagnostic mystery. Three years ago, I had a single, unexplained episode of visual blurring. My eyes were poked, prodded, dilated, lasered and examined ... and the process found an area of blindness that was symmetrical to both eyes in my peripheral vision.

And the tale unravels.

No answer from publisher for 24 hours. When it does come, this morning my time, yesterday afternoon their time, it professes "disappointment".

Well, yes.

So far, the exchange is mild, and thankfully, emotions are muted. Publisher wants to the end of the week to look at the budget and see if adjustments can be made.

I wrote back, making matters clear: there's simply no time to do the job. Let's hope that's an end of it.

I did some reading online this afternoon. If the tenor and tone of my research is to be trusted, NO WRITER EVER TURNS DOWN AN OFFER FROM A PUBLISHER.

Tomorrow, therefore, I goeth into battle. Or, more properly, battle may (or may not) come to me.

It is going to be an interesting day. Just about five hours from now, my "no thank you" is going to hit the fan.

In 12 hours, I may or may not have a reaction.

So now that Martini Boy has gotten the martinis out of his system from Thursday night (and had a nice morning with me at the yearly crafts show AND a nice afternoon with the neighbor men playing poker), we move on to the next step in the great Book Two disaster: DO I have a price?

Idea being that once my "no thank you" hits where it hurts, do I have a duty to listen to more?

Where I want to leave it? I AM NOT AVAILABLE.

Sorry to depress you all, but if I can't vent here, I can't vent.

Today was a significant, substantial, red-letter day. And what happened?

I make a decision that is ballsy, brave, self-affirming, yada, yada, yada. And within three hours, I am reminded of My Place.

Friends write to find out why I haven't RSVP'd to a political fundraiser disguised as a fashion show. "But I thought it was junk mail!" gets me nowhere.

My volunteer activity? THEY write to say, "Where are our computers?" As if I have them up my sleeve?

And my spouse.