Fireside Chat

 

From Greg Steckler, my log home designer:

Lesson learned (and a good story) Dept: When we were young (8th grade) we lived at Neah-Kah-Nie [Oregon] and altho’ we had a beach-front home, we were surprisingly poor.  Dad was on the road for weeks at a time and money was non-existent sometimes.  Mom was a beach comber and brought back glass floats, driftwood, even seaweed sometimes.  She would have us go get a few strawberry crabs, starfish, shells...most anything and paint them turquoise, put rhinestone eyes and glitter on them and sell them out of the garage which she called "Restless Winds Studio ''.  To get customers she would go down to the little state park 3 houses away, walk up to a car and say, "Are you the Joneses?  I was supposed to meet the Jones's and show them my Driftwood Studio.”  She would lure them back and sell them something (like dried seaweed, painted and mounted on a piece of driftwood and make enough money so we could eat that day.

Years later when she was in Real Estate in Lincoln City she'd do the same thing.  Go down to the D River park and ask, " Are you the Joneses?  I was supposed to meet the Jones here and show them this cute little beach cabin that just came on the market this week."  She once sold 7 houses in a month and made $35k in commissions for that month (this was like 35 years ago).  Some of those folks became lifelong friends and were multiple repeat clients.  By then she could have all her teeth fixed, had a Cadillac, nice clothes, became a real estate radio personality and prided herself on creating relationships.

 

You never know, do you?

Isn’t it fun when you are looking for one thing and find another?  I found Greg’s letter in my email file from 2023.

Although I was fishing for a sturgeon who lives at the bottom of the river, I found a salmon frolicking on the top.

 

Your life Just Got Better

Passing on wisdom from Gary V. (Instagram)

If you have ever left a NEGATIVE comment on social media ANYTHING, all the energy you have spent, all the judging, saying they are crap, all that, you are only dragging in negativity to you. DO NOT CONTRIBUTE TO THE NEGATIVITY.

Mind your own business and celebrate that YOUR LIFE JUST GOT BETTER.

 

That’s hard isn’t it, to stop the angry retorts when your blood is boiling?

 

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that, because what the world needs is more people who have come alive." --Howard Thurman

 

This week I published a post especially for my other blog The Best Damn Writer’s Blog on the Block (psst, I’m the only one.)

www.bestdamnwritersblog.com/

I wrote to writers about writing, of course, anyone can tune in, I just wanted to address a post specifically to them. And then I had a heck of a time doing it. Good Lord, I mixed tenses, I kept changing the beginning, the middle, the end. It was a mess.  I thought of my grandson writing a novel and how he has changed the beginning about ten times, and I understand that novelists can spend years on one book, but a blog ought to come out regularly, so it’s more like Get ‘er done. The trick is to make it something of value.

 

Sometimes simply letting the thoughts drop on a page works.  Other times, you can’t push the river.

 My husband reminded me this morning that we are removing cursive writing from our culture. I remember in Catholic School (second and third grade only) how we made circles on wide-lined rough paper that still had pieces of sticks in it, and with a yellow pencil, made circles and spiraling loops rather like repeatedly making infinity symbols. All that while trying to stay within the lines. The purpose was to teach our arms the motion of writing.

 I didn’t know how to write cursive in the middle of the second grade. We didn’t learn it at my previous school, and my family relocated from Illinois to Oregon in the middle of my second grade.

 Thank heavens, my artistic eye saved me. I copied the letters from the pages tacked up around the room. Each eight-by-twelve-inch page had a letter, an “a” in print, followed by an “a” in cursive. Letter by letter the alphabet was exhibited around the room.

 Some say that writing by hand connects the brain and the hand. My aunt, a former schoolteacher, told me that writing by hand helps a child read. I didn’t know that, but maybe it better connects the brain somehow.

 Anyway, I wonder what we are losing by dropping cursive from our school system.

I remember, before I learned to write, my mother gave me a book of old checks to play with, and I tried to sign my signature after writing a check for a few million dollars—see, I knew numbers but wondered why my signature was only a scribble. My parents signatures looked pretty.

 Learning cursive wasn’t fun. It was hard to get little fingers wrapped around letters—something akin to patting your head while rubbing your stomach. But both are learnable. Years later, when I used to write fiction by hand, I resorted to scribbling, for I didn’t want the action of writing to interfere with the flow of thoughts. And it took some effort for me to adapt to composing on a keyboard.

 Tell me, how does it work for you?

 I vote to be like the writer who stood in his swimming pool and wrote on a tablet at his pool’s edge.

 But then turning into a prune isn’t a pretty sight.

Hey Writers, Let's Talk

 https://www.bestdamnwritersblog.com

I got caught today. I couldn't believe it. I was attempting to log into my bank account when, before entering my code, I was distracted by something online. I forgot what I was doing. A trap? Did a clever writer rope me in? Did I get duped?

 I was aiming to write about John Strelecky's book, The Café on the Edge of the World for this reason:  his blurb writer described his book as: "When your heart, soul, and story link up in perfect harmony."

That's the sort of book I want to write.

Strelecky's subtitle is "A Story About the Meaning of Life," and in the lower right-hand corner of his book cover is a circle with these words inside: "OVER 4 MILLION COPIES SOLD."

Well, well, well, Strelecky, you did it. Congratulations.  I contributed. I bought your book, read it, and liked it. I was searching for small books with a spiritual bent and a splash of magic, and wanted to see if others were writing that sort.

Not everyone has the time or inclination to read novels, so a short book would give people a boost without causing them to mortgage their house in order to buy them.

The meaning of life—we all want to know about that. You writers know your meaning. You know because that's what you do. You put your heart and soul into a story, all the while trying to master the art of telling one.

We, humans, love stories. Except that now, our reading is more like sound bites, and pictures are a must. Hey, I like pictures. However, that's what a novel does: it describes a picture, and you, lucky person that you are, get to paint it. Where can you find a description, scene, thoughts, and actions of the protagonist, including what they look like, their personality, and voice, all wrapped up in one paragraph? You are inside their head, hearing their thoughts, and you are outside watching their actions.  

Imagine the campfire of Aboriginal tribes in their early days. After the hunters brought home the bacon, the tribe sat around the campfire listening to a tale of how they did it. 

Sometimes the hunter is a great storyteller, (Ohs, and ahhs) but other times the teller, while he was an excellent hunter, was used to silence, pointing and grunting, and he put his audience to sleep.

Enter a bystander (a narrator) who describes the action.  He can weave the tale into description, dialogue, excitement, and wild gestures.  A stage play was born.

Or a different storyteller would soften his voice. The people would lean forward, straining to hear. They would sit stone still and silent. They would anxiously wait, like the puppy waiting for his bone, for what happens next.

A novel was born. (After written words were created, that is.)

The people around the camp fire knew what was real and what was not real. But when a liar entered the village who mixed enough real and unreal together that the people were confused, and when the teller added fear, he made his story stick. Propaganda entered the picture.

A lot was accomplished around a campfire.

Issac Asimov said he writes to think, and thinking is what he likes most.

Steven King said If you don't have time to read, you don't have time to write.

Austin Kleon (Steal Like an Artist) said a good artist knows that nothing comes from nowhere.

The Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz sang, "I could while away the hours conferring with the flowers... if I only had a brain."

The Scarecrow felt he didn't have what it takes. And people often feel the same way. We think we aren't good enough, talented enough, young enough, pretty enough, handsome enough, are too fat, too poor, or too scared to achieve our heart's desire.

 

What are you thinkin'?! You are good enough! ❤️You are a magnificent creation. You are a child of The Source. ❤️❤️❤️ Live your dream. Don’t let anyone tell you, you can’t do it. If you have a dream, there must be a way to accomplish it.  Declare it to be so and aim for it.  ❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️ Nothing is a failure if you learn from it, and it’s not over until you quit. 🛑

What's Your Opinion?

 

Newsletter, December 2, 2025

World Events:

I never thought I would see the day when our military would make a preemptive strike on a fishing boat. (Venezuelan) And then our Defense Secretary would give the order to kill the two survivors in the water clinging to their boat.

This is a war crime.

You can yell all you want that they were trafficking drugs, but you don't know that. And even if they were, you do not go around shooting fishing boats or survivors in the water. They were contained.

Please tell me how we can bring the country together again.

Hey, it’s right, good and desirable to have different opinions—my opinion is: a good leader would bring the people together, would uplift them, would to listen to their complaints or suggestions, and not tear them apart.

I thought we had negotiators among us. Where are they?

Why is our present administration still in control?

And why are we suddenly attacking Valenzuela?  I though our present administration was buddy buddy with the dictator.

Remember the Nuremberg trials after WWII? They sentenced individuals for War Crimes--for invading other countries, and for abusing its citizens. And that was during a war.

 

---End of world events---

Joseph McClendon III writes, "The best thing a leader can do for his organization is to create a culture that laughs."

 

The following is not a belly laugh, but it's the closest I could get:

After reading Robert Fulghum's book What in the World Have I Done? I was inspired to find something funny. So, as I set out for the grocery store with the intention of finding something funny.

First, I asked the solemn-faced kid at the checkout if anything funny had happened that day.

Nope. Nothing funny.

Next, I walked down to the lady managing the self-check-out line, a live-wire lady with white hair and a limp, who was nearly always laughing. I asked her if anything funny had happened that day.

"Not today," she said, thinking, "but something happened yesterday."

"What?" I asked.

"A lady came into the store with no pants on."

"Really?" We both laughed. "Was she completely naked, or did she have underwear on?"

"I don't know. We scanned the store but couldn't find her. Does that story suffice?"

"Great. Thanks. You saved my day."

Thumbs up, I exited the store.

 

P.S. I’m attempting to get Jo’s Newsletter off the ground.       

Thank you to you who checked in.

 

I'm telling God how it is to get old. And we are investigating Getting Happy. 

This will be posted only on Jo's Newsletter. 

To give it a look-see give a little click here:

josnewsletter.com

     

Imagine

 

 

Imagine we are sitting in front of a fireplace. I pour the coffee, would you rather have tea, or a mulled wine, that is warm too? The fire is quietly burning, snapping occasionally, I guess those logs had a bit of water in them.

We settle down with our drinks, prop our feet up, and I explain that I have aired complaints on my blog for the last couple of years; now it's your turn.

So, tell me, is anything bothering you?

I used to have a close friend who would visit for a few days, and we would sit up at night talking. First, we had to get all the frustrations, irritations, and junk, out of our heads, and then about 3 in the morning we would get down to serious, insightful conversation.

It was like a writer's morning pages—write the junk out so the good stuff can come in

Steven Pressfield advises artists to "Sweep your floor, so the Muse doesn't soil her gown on the way in."

But here we are, you and me. 

If you don't want to tell me what's bothering you, that's okay. Write it down; I won't peek. Get personal, not just about world conditions.

(Ah, I have to tell you, a Robin just perched on a limb outside my window, and it's November 24, 2025. I thought winter was coming, and that robins are spring birds. He sat a minute, looked at me, and then flew on. Good luck on your journey, sweet bird.)

Having an interruption like that rather knocks those bothersome thoughts out of one's head, doesn't it? 

It did mine.

Lately, I've been reading and writing about "Get Happy." And I know the idea of "Let's just get happy" irks some people. I have a friend who says she is happy all the time, and she gets flak for it.

But I am investigating the possibility of "Let's Get Happy Now" using Joseph McClendon III's definition of happiness.:

"Happiness is a mental and emotional state of being where your internal focus is optimistic, and the body produces positive energy."

Now that's something I can get behind. It doesn't say, "Just decide to be happy."

It doesn't minimize hard times.

It doesn't say that we will live in eternal joy.

It doesn't say that being grateful will bring about happiness, although being thankful for the good in your life is a splendid idea. 

It doesn't say that your emotions of sadness, depression, grief, or anger ought not to be expressed; it says that "your internal focus is optimistic, and the body produces positive energy."

"Happiness," some say, "comes and goes." It's fun to be happy. But we aren't "ha ha" happy all the time. We laugh at a joke and it fills the happy coffer for a minute. We see a beautiful sunset, an ocean, a beach, or an exquisite alpine forest, and we are in awe. That's fun. We giggle with our children when we see them running in joyful enthusiasm. We love being in love—talk about endorphins. There are many avenues to happiness. But we don't live on the mountain top all the time; that might wear out our synapses, too. However, the idea of living in an optimistic, positive state sounds good to me.

I think when people say, "I just want to be happy," it means more like McClendon has described—being optimistic and allowing our body to produce positive energy.

Those individuals who have lived to be 100 or older, especially those who live in the "blue zones" of the world, probably have experienced sadness, grief, disappointment, anger, and resentment, but that is not where they live.

Generally, those centurions have a full life: they eat well, have social contact, a spiritual bent, and, as they mostly live in a village, they walk a lot.

Most of us don't live in villages anymore; we live in cities or on the farm or in residential areas where often neighbors never speak to each other. However, we can make an effort to create a healthier lifestyle. Joseph McClendon III, a neuropsychologist, says that when people come into his office and he asks them what they want, they usually have a grocery list of things they do not want. When he presses them by asking what they want, they go blank.

Here is an exercise McClendon suggests: Write down your most magnificent day as you see it in your mind's eye.

Or in our case, sitting here in front of the fireplace, we could share how we see our Magnificent Day with each other.

I would love to hear your take on this.

This has been a lovely visit, more on happiness later.

Thank you for joining me.

                        

P.S. I wrote this post for the newsletter I am trying to get going, but decided to also post it here so you will see what I am up to.

josnewsletter.com

Question

 One day, my niece asked me this question:

"Suppose a couple has driven their car out on one of those desolate roads in the middle of nowhere. They come to a four-way intersection and stop in the middle of the road.

What happens next?

Possibilities:

1.     They contemplate a moment and say, "This is an adventure, let's go that way. One points, and they laughingly go on their way.

2.     From out of the blue, another vehicle crashes into them.

3.     A devil appears and says he will give them their heart's desire (Maybe a recording contract), but in return, they must promise to give him their soul.

4.     They continue straight ahead in the direction they were going without much thought about it. They were only stopping for a breather.

5.     Can you think of another?

I'm thinking this is a road trip across the US, so there are many choices along the way.

If you are a writer, you might want angst like the crash. Or you might have been conditioned to expect the worst.

 You might be a person who thinks they must pay or suffer to get what they want.

You might be a person who takes a chance, or one who doesn't.

You might be part of a couple that gives in without expressing your opinion. Or you might be a couple who will argue endlessly and never come to an agreement. One person might give in to the other, then fume for the next 50 miles.

All this came up for me from this picture from an old blog, November 27, 2023

This picture struck me. It's of our yard, a Japanese maple, a fig tree, a St John's Wort. (The one with red berries.) Yet where did our eyes go? To that one little dead leaf up high in the fig tree. That's the way with people. We can't help it, we are built to find the broken, the moving, the different. It has survival value. 

It's the way our mind works.

"My mind is boggled." I wrote on that 2023 post. "I'm frustrated, disenchanted, disappointed, and when I tell my daughter of this, she says that others feel the same way.

"After all my grumbling, complaining, and ineptitude, I couldn't stand the News. And, as I like to keep a novel going most of the time, I was tired of trudging through pain, anguish, and grief to get to the happy ending. I was tired of movies that made me sad and publishers that want tension between lovers and angst in life because, without it, they have no story.

"I remembered a time when we were proud to be Americans, and when GI Joe was a good guy."

That gripe is two years old. That night, divine guidance led me to Louise Hay's book You Can Heal Your Life.

 She speaks of Affirmations. Well, Affirmations and I have a long history. I remember getting assignments to write an affirmation 100 times before bed.

That was penance.

I understand that an affirmation is meant to drum a new thought into our heads. (You never change an old thought without replacing it with a new.) But what if you plant the seed and then leave it to grow? A seed has its own internal guidance system, and that is, given the right conditions, like soil, minerals, and water, it will sprout. Love can help. But do not dig it up to see if it sprouted. (As with repeatedly writing the affirmation which is saying you don't believe it will happen unless you drum it into The Source.)

Trust that the seed will grow.

Think of affirmations this way: Every thought is an affirmation. (I know we have unwanted thoughts; don't beat yourself up. Be kind to yourself. We have a screwy brain. Yep, there are dead leaves, for heaven's sake climb up there and pluck them out, or wait, they will fall.

And remember, every moment is new. If we choose to believe we are helpless victims and that all is hopeless, the Universe will support that belief.

Every cell in our body responds to every single thought we think and every word we speak. Continuous modes of thinking and speaking produce body behaviors, postures, and ease or dis-ease.

Last week, I suggested that we get happy. And I was using Joseph McClendon III's definition of happiness:

"Happiness is a mental and emotional state of being where your internal focus is optimistic and the body produces positive energy."

It doesn't address Ha ha happy. It doesn't say  "Just think happy thoughts." It doesn't say that sometimes we need friction to get us motivated and off our butts. (or buts.)

Neither does it ignore that we read, hear, or see dire things. And we also see beautiful things. It means having the mental and physical capacity to carry us through.

To quote McClendon:

"Inside you is a warrior ready to conquer the world.

"You were wired for happiness, adventure, and abundance. Those attributes were embedded into your soul from birth. You didn't enter the world with a whimper. You entered it bold and defiant!"

Now sit up straight, hold your head up, look straight ahead, and put a big, stupid grin on your face.

Do you feel better? 

 P.S.

Do you have any suggestions for josnewsletter.com/

It is a babe in the woods barely digging its way out of its den, oh no, and with winter coming, well maybe we can snuggle in someplace else. Even Timberline Lodge at the base of Mt Hood in Oregon, has a gorgeous huge roaring fireplace.

 

 

 

Dear Folks,

Monday and Tuesday flew past, and Tuesday is my post day, but family matters took precedence—as they should. So, I'm late.

Yesterday morning, I found my oracle of the day at the Peace Health Hospital in Springfield, Oregon:

"You never drive out hatred with hatred. Only love can do that."

--Martin Luther King Jr.

I needed that.

Last night, as my daughter and I were driving from Interstate 84 to I-5 across Burnside Bridge, we descended into the sparkling City of Portland, Oregon, where everything had been cleansed by spring rain. The lights glistened from the skyscrapers and shone on the water of the Willamette River as though a Fairy Godmother's wand had sprinkled diamonds instead of fairy dust.

It was hard to keep my eyes on the road, for everything was sparkling around me and I wanted to take it all in, the lighted bridges, the tram over the freeway…

I giggled as I drove, thinking that Portlanders have a sense of humor. Hey, when people can protest while riding their bikes naked, they have my applause. A naked bike rider doesn't seem to be much of a threat.

One day, I was driving in Portland near Washington Park when a man ran out of the forest wearing a pink tutu. I did a double-take until I saw that an entire stream of pink tutus covering the behinds of running males and females. They were joining a Gay Parade.  

Now, some folks might be offended or shocked by such a display, but think of it, how innocuous is a pink tutu, and the people were having fun and peacefully expressing themselves.

Now that is cool

On the weekend, I began editing a story I had written some time ago, changed the beginning three or four times, put in an entire chapter on Saturday, took it out on Sunday—well, what can I say, that's part of the process.

Last week I focused on another website, titled Jo's Newsletter. Can you believe I got Jo's Newsletter as a domain? I was sure that name would be taken, but it's mine. On that site, I offer up a ridiculously absurd idea…" Let's get happy." josnewsletter.com/

I wanted to complete the website so I could offer it to you as a challenge to live your best life, for much is accomplished with a glad heart. It's tricky, like licking honey off a thorn, but we can do it.

You know from reading this blog that I haven't been glad most of the time. I've been angry, afraid, and despondent. But then chuckles came from some kind soul via an email.  

She had gotten it from someone I don't know, but the message was, "You bought the wrong plane ticket. You thought you bought a ticket to the Bahamas, or to Nivana, and instead you landed in a place where there are bullies, wars, and unrest.

We are here to clean up the mess and to get a renewed mindset. Know that you have a beautiful life, that you have the spark of the divine in you, and that your job is to make yourself happy.

In Jos Newsletter, I give Joseph McClendon III's definition of happiness, and some of his reasons why it is essential.

Give josnewsletter.com a look-see. Then spread the word.  

I love you guys,

P. S. Another mess just splattered upon my screen. Now my computer screen looks like the circular window we had when we lived in Eugene, Oregon. A little bird could see his reflection in the glass, and he was attacked that strange bird in the window, each time he hit it he would poop a little, thus our window became a mess. 

The Present administration is going after our endangered animals! Laugh that man in the White House out of office! This is ridiculous!! Is nothing sacred? And it's gone on too long.

My solution is for every American  to sue T for mental cruelty. We would be richer, he would be poorer, and he would be forced to leave the Presidency. Maybe that way we could have some peace.

josnewsletter.com 

I'm all Over the Place

 

How about a Newsletter today?

Keep reading or scrolling to the bottom of the page where there is Happy Talk. 

 

I'm all over the place.

 Isn't that what a newsletter is about, many subjects? So, where shall we start?

Rants get more readers —mainly Political rants —so let's begin there and get it out of my system, although that is unlikely.

I see our administration turning back the clock. Yeah, and we're going to eliminate Autism.

One observation is that proponents of the Present Administration go blithely through their days as if the world isn't falling apart around them. Is it because they are on the winning team, or that they don't give a flying rat's ass about things like military action in cities that they clearly do not need, tariffs that are affecting Americans, and goodwill abroad, and, for crying out loud, making an enemy of Canada? I love Canada.

You know, I could go on and on, and then if you try to have a conversation with those on the other side, they say, "You've been lied to." "It's heresy." Yeah, like, are you getting the truth?

Promises of wars ending—didn't happen. Promises of lower prices, yeah —Walmart is selling a boxed turkey dinner cheaper this year than last. BECAUSE THERE IS LESS FOOD IN IT. The previous year it had 25 items. This year 15. Last year, they used name brands. This year, cheaper generic brands.

It hasn't been a happy time.

(I'm reading a book by Joseph McClendon III, Get Happy Now. I will tell you about it later.

In 1978, Comedian George Carlin predicted that these times would come. Well, they can't fire him now, he has joined the Political Commentators and Comedians in Heaven.

Carlin:

"They keep us fighting each other so 'they' can keep going to the bank."

Carlin predicted that we would elect the "dumbest guy in America and use him as a sales tool." Commentators have suggested that for Carlin, T would be less of a villain and more of a symptom of a larger disease—one that involves the manipulation of the public, the consolidation of power among the elite, and a political system that gives people the illusion of choice while keeping real change out of reach."

 

(How much is enough? Is the mentality of "The one with the most toys wins?" Yeah, but they are going to pass on to the next reality just like the rest of us; however, I don't think our present administration knows that.)

 

  

TODAY

"Nature is to be found in her entirety nowhere more than in her smallest creatures."

—Pliny the Elder

I came across this quote online this morning, and I thought back to college days when I first heard of Pliny the Elder. Born in 23 AD—when Jesus was 23 years old?

Isn't it amazing how we categorize time and humans, and yet, no matter how primitive we think they are, a brilliant individual will arise from barbarism and advance the human race? Pliny the Elder was a Roman author, naturalist, scientist, naval and army commander of the early Roman Empire. He wrote the book, "Natural History."

And then came Jesus, and we began to think of Romans as barbaric savages, gladiators, with a blood thirsty populace. Yet, Pliny sent his ship into the toxic fumes of an exploding volcano on a rescue mission with the cry: "Fortune favors the bold."

He died from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD after a friend summoned him about being trapped in a stable during the eruption of the volcano. Pliny was not a healthy man, and he succumbed to the toxic fumes.

Pliny the Elder was instrumental in educating his nephew Pliny the Younger, and it is rumored that he adopted him after his father died. We know the Elder left his estate to the Younger.  Pliny the Younger observed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius from afar and described it in great detail, so much so that modern-day volcanologists have studied his account to gain a greater understanding of volcanic eruptions. They call it "Plinian Eruptions."

Pliny the Younger became a lawyer, author, and magistrate, and helped promote the twice-voting method for Prisoners. One vote decides the accuser's guilt or innocence. The SECOND, what the punishment should be.

Pliny the Younger favored exile.

 

A Little White 'Whine' on the days to come:

Before my birthday in February, I need to squeeze in 30 hours of Real Estate continuing education to keep my license. Although I am not a practicing Real Estate Agent, it was work and expense to get that license, so I ought to keep it. There must be some place for me somewhere there. (Hey, I like people and houses. I came upon some surprises for loans at one time, maybe I should write about them, like how to bridge that time between finding your dream house and selling your present home, or when relocating.) However, my daughter's Brokerage, where I am associated, is not advertised, so people don't know we are here. I became disgruntled with the prices of homes and how hard it is for the middle class to purchase one. I do not belong to the MLS at present, so if you want to buy a house from me, you need to be really serious, as I would need to join all the required agencies to write up an offer. 

 

AI

AI keeps wanting to write for me, but I refuse their offer. Why in the world have writers worked so hard, trying to perfect their skills, trying to get the nuances, the descriptions, the dialogue, the voice, the sound of the rain, the wind in the firs, the sunshine glistening off that one water droplet that is hanging from the Maple tree, to have AI write for us!!!!!

Would you be more apt to read the illustrious writing of AI or the crummy human-driven effort of a human being who is scribbling on a pad of paper?  There is evidence of a beneficial connection between the hand and the brain when writing by hand. 

What can I say?! Are they trying to Make People Stupid Again?

Happy times are below:

 

From Peaches the Pink Party Poodle for Peace.

dogblogbypeaches.blogspot.com/

"My momma says that everybody and their dog blogs. I wasn't writing a single solitary thing, but I'm correcting that right now. When momma got me, she named me The Pink Party Poodle for Peace, now I guess I'm The Pink Party Poodle for Peace Pontificating. My point of view of the day is to tell you that the purpose of life is to have fun, hee, hee, and chase lizards. I love to chase lizards—never catch them though, they taste like rotten toes."

Last post

Dear Momma,

Readers are coming to my page. I am happy, happy. (Still chase lizards.) Time means nothing here. I haven't  posted for four years--your time. Four seconds in my time.

Bear runs like a pup, swims like one too. oh wait, some puppies don't like water, but Bear is a Newfoundland--he looovvveees water.

I see Zeke. Up here we are looking out for him.  Zeke is gift from heaven. RV company paid for his surgery so sister would find him and adopt him. 

I did good huh?

 Zeke at Shelter shortly after surgery to remove right front leg. 

 

Magnificent Zeke at forever home in back yard.

 

 

 Zeke running with toy in mouth, one leg on the ground, two in the air. Zeke, happy dog. 

 

 Bear on the "Green Trail of Bliss, Hawaii.

 

Instagram: Ezekiel's Blessings

Zeke, our three-legged dog, daughter Dear's Instagram.

https://www.instagram.com/ezekielsblessings/

 

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It Boggles the Brain

Well, well, my family had direct experience with the newly applied tariffs.

My grandson was given a FREE T-shirt from a Holland-based company. Because of the tariffs, it cost him 20 bucks to get that T-shirt into this country, plus 7 dollars for some fee to expedite it, so the Free T-shirt cost him $27.00.

I post whatever comes to mind. One day, I might rant about Political Conditions, the next, something motivational. And I am always happy to throw something spiritual into the mix. If anything preachy slips in I deserve a thump on the side of the head.

Internet advice tells me that I ought to have a recognizable brand and stick with it. My blog Wish on White Horses ought to be one. Travel through your life, do your thing, sell, buy, write, rant, complain, do your work, be inspired, be lazy, and then stop when you see a white horse, take a breather, and make a wish.

It will clear the brain.

The white horse Maximus from the Disney Movie Tangled.

I appreciate GaryVee (Gary Vaynerchuk), a motivator and entrepreneur on Instagram, who says to post whatever floats your boat. Actually, he didn't use those words, but he did say to post random stuff. Post and keep posting. What are you interested in? He believes even a Smurf blog will take hold after a year or so.

I have basically followed his advice before hearing of it, for I write of many things, but don't wait for a white horse to give you permission to wish, to dream, but whenever you see one, take advantage of it. Take a drive in the country, where it opens up your possibilities of seeing one. Although after my Train/Trane experience, where I told my daughter while we were sitting in a Mexican Restaurant, that we couldn't manifest a train here, for there were no tracks, a truck with TRANE written in giant letters on its semi-trailer tarp stopped at a traffic light right outside our window, I wouldn't say that anything is impossible.

You might see a white horse in the middle of town, but it might not be as you expected. It might be on a T-shirt or a billboard.

Watch for the magic.

I appreciate all the people who have found this blog, and I am interested in what bloats your boat, so tell me about it. And tell me if you see a white horse this week, that would be a kick.

I'm interested in Horses, Houses, how-to books, People, Animals, the Planet, Inspirational stuff, what's happening at home, and what's happening out there in the world today. I attempted to sell a little book because I wanted to write a series; however, I made a grand total of 42 cents from it on Amazon. And after offering a free ending from the excerpt I posted, nobody asked for it.

If you have thin skin, don't be a writer.

I could say that I'm a crummy writer, but I don't want to put that in my consciousness, and I'm the one who decided I wanted to be a writer in the first place. A writer writes. Period.

I feel that my days, months, and years are limited, and why in the heck am I here except to make my voice heard?  

I have grown increasingly impatient with sites that go blithely on rattling about mundane things. I fear I'm getting crotchety. These are critical times, with important issues. And letting AI do the work for you is just plain lazy. For crying out loud, AI writes entire books for people, makes their Table of Contents, and their cover. Are those better books? And why in (I'm trying to find an appropriate word) do we all have a creative spark if not to use it?

I have a poster that says:

"Darling, a beautiful thing is never perfect."

—It has no byline.

Recently, I read about a Snowshoe rabbit. A naturalist took a couple of friends into the forest, told them there was something in the bushes, and asked them to wait. Soon they saw a white Snowshoe rabbit, a rarity in those parts. When the rabbit saw them, he stood stock still. It was winter. He was white. He expected to be camouflaged by snow, but there was none. He was standing exposed on brown ground, expecting his camouflage to save him—a sitting duck for hawks.

The winters are shorter than in the past, but the rabbit still has his instincts, which evolved over a millennia when he lived in a white winter, and he learned to stand still and think he would not be seen.

How can we not speak up?

Look at the Snowshoe hind leg on this little fellow.