We're in Trouble, BUT -- essay

image from usnews.com

We’re in trouble. As a nation. As a society. As a culture. 

We are undereducated which makes us susceptible to the worst of the charlatans selling snake oil to make us thin, beautiful, and long-lived. Susceptible to the worst of the schemers promising fool-proof investment strategies that will make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. To the worst of the politicians offering lowest-common-denominator solutions to poverty, crime, and terrorism. And to the worst of the promulgators of conspiracy theories. The Moon-landing hoax. Who killed JFK? Anti-Vaxxers. You name it. A group of shady someones somewhere are threatening our “good life.”

This blog post is not a conspiracy theory about how we got undereducated. And how our children are continuing to be undereducated. Ignorance has been with us since the beginning of time. You could argue that it’s human nature. BUT, to quote one of my favorite movie lines, "Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.” (Kathryn Hepburn as Miss Rose Sayer to Humphrey Bogart’s Charlie Allnut in The African Queen.)

Our various news services have announced the 2013 rankings, state by state, of our high school graduation rates, touting the overall average of 81%. BUT those various news services go on to say why that 81% may be misleading.

Each state has its own requirements for graduation. Each state has its own method of counting those students who do not graduate. And not all states were required to report. My natal state Oklahoma was one of the states given an extension. No numbers from there were figured in the 81% average.

One way we can compare the success of the education of these graduates is the ACT exam. It is the same for all who take it regardless of where they received their high school diploma or what kind of diploma they received. Some states have more than one kind of diploma

Iowa came in at Number 1 with a graduation rate of 90%. Iowa offers one type of diploma and does not require any exit exam to graduate. In 2014, 68% of Iowa’s graduating students took the ACT exam.

Of that 68%:  75% met the ACT benchmark for English, 52% met it for Reading, 48% met it for Math, and 47% met the ACT benchmark for Science. 

ACT benchmarks are “scores on subject-area tests that represent the level of achievement required for students to have a 50% chance of obtaining a B or higher or about a 75% chance of obtaining a C or higher in corresponding credit-bearing first-year college courses.” (ACT) 

The State of Texas came in 2nd with a graduation rate of 88%. Texas offers eleven kinds of diplomas and requires graduates to pass exit exams in algebra and English. 40% of Texas’s graduating students took the ACT exam in 2014. (62% of Texas’s graduating students took the SAT exam, 33.9% of whom met the SAT benchmark score.)

Of that 40%: 60% met the ACT benchmark for English, 42% met it for Reading, 47% met it for Math, and 36% met the ACT benchmark for Science.

My home state of Colorado came in 36th with a 2013 graduation rate of 77%. Colorado offers two types of diplomas and requires no exit exams. 100% of the graduating students took the ACT exam in 2014.

63% of all graduating Colorado students met the ACT benchmark for English. 43% met it for Reading. 39% for Math and 36% for Science.

For me the most damning of these statistics is the very low percent of graduates who meet the ACT benchmark for Reading. Remember, those percentages are of percentages of percentages so the ACT exams can confirm only that slightly more than 29% of the Number 1 state’s graduating students meet the benchmark for READING. We’ve no way to tell what percentage of the 32% who didn’t take the test would have done. Not to mention the 10% who did not graduate.

Okay. So a person graduates from a less than admirable secondary school without an acceptable level of Math and Science education. If that person can and will READ, he can fill in the holes. Self-taught doesn’t have to mean substandard.

I could indict our national education system. But we don’t have one. Or our abysmal failure to support the fractured education system that we do have. We don’t support it by setting high standards. We don’t support it by firing subpar educators or respecting competent educators or rewarding the exceptional educators. We don’t support it financially.

BUT these failures can be corrected. We can work on correcting them at the local, state, and national levels. Expect quality and be willing to pay for it.

In the meantime, we can do what we can at home

I know if you’re reading my blog, you are a reader so I’m preaching to the choir. BUT us choir members can do something. We can read to the children in our lives. We can read around the children in our lives so they see reading as a good and desirable activity.

We can donate our books and magazines to places where they’ll be read again – schools, churches, libraries, medical clinics, rec centers, day care centers, nursing homes. And a whole bunch of places you can think of.

Give kids books – for their birthdays and Christmas. (Try to avoid giving that special nephew the same book two Christmases running like I did.) Drop a book in their Trick or Treat bag. How about giving them a book just because it’s Tuesday? Take them with you to the local public library so they learn that it’s their library.

And, while you’re at it, do these things for the adults in your life, too.

Obsolescence -- flash fiction

image from forbes.com

“Ms. Phister, will you come into my office please?” He spoke to her through their new phone system.

“Yes, of course,” she said hitting the wrong button. “Just a minute,” she said hitting the same wrong button.

“Ms. Phister?”

She found the right button. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

She patted her hair. A bad hair day. What an appropriate term! Celebrities say it, and the woman meteorologist on channel 8. They were all wearing their hair long and swooshy. Not appropriate for a woman of my age. She gathered her steno pad and a pen and made the ten step trip to the boss’s office. Though I’m not all that old. Just past forty.

She rapped on the door. She looked at the back of her hand. Maybe a little past 50. Sunspots, not age spots. Mother told me to be more careful in the sun.

“Ms. Phister, thank you. Please come in and close the door.”

“Yes, sir.” Uh oh. Why close the door? There wasn’t anyone in reception and she really needed to be able to hear if someone came in.

“Ms. Phister, please sit down. As you know, our merger with Futures, Inc. has been approved and we’ll need to make some changes to accommodate their administrative staff.” He sat in his chair and looked at the mirror on the wall behind her.

This doesn’t sound good.

“They’re young and enthusiastic. They’ll make a big difference.”

This really doesn’t sound good.

“We’re also going to have to make changes in our tech support to improve information management. Our computer system is badly outdated.”

“Sir?” It and the coffee maker are the things I have no problem operating. He’s already gotten rid of the Xerox and fax machines.

“Obsolescence, Ms. Phister. That’s what we’ve got to get rid of.”

“Oh?” Fifty-seven’s not obsolete. Is it?

“Our new telephone system is designed to sync with the new computer system.”

“Sync?” My Nook is constantly trying to sync with something.

He turned around and gazed at the gold and red company logo hanging on the wall behind him. Global Prospects in clear Helvetica letters slanted a little to the right. A black arrow underlined it. 

Like a speeding train.

“What do you think of our logo? Of course it’ll have to change to include Futures.”

Old Mister’s barely gone. Less than two years. And Young Mister is wanting to change everything.

“But I like it,” she said. “It’s clear and recognizable. A brand the public is used to and trusts.”

“Hmmm.”

He looked at the steno pad she held in her left hand.

“Speaking of,” he nodded at the pad. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of those tablet things?”

“Tablet, sir?”

“You know. Those little gismos. You could use it to make notes. Google things. Use it as a GPS.”

“GPS?” She looked at the steno pad. She’d always used a steno pad. It felt right in her hand. She could doodle on it, if a meeting got boring. She could tear whole pages out and dispose of them. No record of what he’d said or done to be retrieved by some gee-whiz computer geek. Not that he’d ever done anything actually illegal. Sometimes he seemed to be just ruminating on it. His father would never have considered it. And she’d never have gone along with him anyway.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“A long time, sir,” she said.

“Pretty much since Dad opened shop, haven’t you?” He looked at the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.”

“You were with the firm when he bought this building, weren’t you?” He studied his hands.

“Yes, sir.” And, until this morning, I was planning to be here until retirement.

“The building’s old, but it’s solid and this is a good location. Uptown.” He picked something from his sleeve.

“Yes, sir.” I might be old, but I’m solid, too. He can’t even look at me.

“We need to update our look. You know, new furniture. Maybe a change in our color scheme. A total makeover. Obsolescence. We don’t want to be it. We don’t want to look like it.” He gazed out the window.

I’m out. He’s trading me in for a younger model. A member of the tech generation. Trade the old end-of-the-line Baby Boomer for a millennial.

“You got this place set up and running when Dad first moved in.”

“Yes, sir. I did what I could.” And I’ve been doing what I could ever since.

He put his palms flat on his desk and looked her in the eye.

“I need you to do it again.”

“Sir?”

“I need you to do this for me. You’ll have to work with this old building. I really don’t want to move."

“No.”

“No? You won’t do it? Do you want me to get someone in to help you?

“No. I mean, of course you don’t want to move.” She reached across the desk and touched his hand. “I don’t want to move either. Let me consider what we’ll need.”

She made a note on her steno pad and left the room.

She stepped back through the door and asked, “Would you like coffee?”

At the Dentist -- Flash Nonfiction

image from usatoday.com

I spent three hours in a reclining chair in a modern dental office this morning.

A bit more than a week ago I lost a filling and broke a tooth. Pain ensued. They would have treated me sooner, but I had too much to do to go to the dentist last week. Including a birthday party for my 90-year-old father. (See the blog post about the birthday party). I took ibuprofen.

Today, after x-rays the dentist explained that he thought the tooth could be saved. It would require a root canal and a crown. Saving my tooth sounds both reassuring and frightening at the same time. 

Save it from what exactly? Being struck by lightning? Going to hell? Most likely – drowning. If I remember right, something about having my mouth full of dental utensils and dentist’s hands always makes me feel like I’m drowning. I can never remember how to swallow. And there’s lots of water and I can’t breathe.

And nitrous oxide costs extra. I don’t care! Give me GAS!

Excuse me a moment while I breathe deeply and calm myself.

Oh, yes. From what unspeakable fate are we saving my tooth? Why from being pulled indecorously from my mouth and subsequently discarded among all the rest of the bio-hazard waste collected today in the dentist’s office.

It hurts, if pulling it will make it stop hurting, then pull the damned thing.

We, together, made the decision to save the tooth, with the understanding that if when we got down to it, that was not feasible, he would pull it.

Here’s what I learned today.

The chair is actually more comfortable than they used to be.

There is no sink with running water for you to spit in. They have a vacuum hose to suck up the water they put in your mouth and the spit your mouth liberally generates. (It’s still hard to figure out how to swallow – indeed, whether or not to swallow – and how to breathe.)

The dentist is no older than my son. At least he’s not as big and brawny as my son, so if I decide to get out of that comfortable chair and leave, I can. I don’t think he can stop me.

They still drape you with a lead-lined cape. Which reminds me of Superman and kryptonite and makes me a bit anxious. And they still ask questions as though you can answer them orally. I think not. And the idea of nodding or shaking my head while there are sharp and whirring things in my mouth is out of the question.

They now have a monitor mounted above the chair so I can watch Netflix. This is supposed to relieve anxiety. I suppose it does, if you don’t mind looking between the right (his right) upper quadrant of the dentist’s face and the left (her left) upper quadrant of the assistant’s face, assuming the dentist is right-handed. And both wearing protective masks. I guess I might be the kryptonite.

Okay. I watch Doc Martin, a British TV show about a high-functioning autistic GP in a small Cornish village filled with barely functioning, but highly humorous locals. I never tire of watching Doc Martin. But as it turns out I spend most of the morning with my eyes closed. I listen to the TV show via large headphones. I think it does relieve anxiety. At least until Netflix pauses streaming and asks if the viewer wishes to continue viewing. The dentist and his assistant are quite unaware of the pause because they’re busy in my mouth. Which is as it should be. I point at the monitor. The dentist hits the correct button and we’re on again.

Someone has invented a special oral appliance for root canals since last I had one. No matter that it’s not the most comfortable thing, it does provide support so you don’t have to consciously hold your mouth open. It also corrals you tongue so you don’t have to wonder where to put that unruly organ so it’s out of the way.

All went well. Arrangements were made to return for installation of the permanent crown. They made me a temporary one today. They warned me against eating anything hard or sticky. Which, of course, reminded me of my cousin Martha June and the Slo-Poke sucker she tried to eat with a new partial plate back in the mid-fifties. But that’s a different story.

By lunch time I was home and the local anesthetic was wearing off. Discomfort returned. A root canal removes the nerve from the root of the tooth, thereby eliminating sensations from that tooth.

But it still hurts.

I think the most important thing I learned today is that yes, the broken tooth needed the work. But it was the tooth next to it that hurts.

Now where did I put that ibuprofen?

Daddy's 90th Birthday

This is my Dad.

Yesterday was his ninetieth birthday. He was born in Oklahoma County in the State of Oklahoma on May 30, 1925, Decoration Day.

Decoration Day had become a traditional holiday in the United States to commemorate the war dead following the Civil War which ended in 1865.  The name gradually changed to Memorial Day, not most commonly used until after World War II. It wasn’t officially called Memorial Day until 1967.

Daddy was born at home. He weighed just over ten pounds. His mother, Emma Mae Jarvis Weber, was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall and not much more than 100 pounds.

His father, Lawrence Leland Weber, farmed with mules and took pride in his teams and his saddle horses. If he hadn’t already, and Daddy can’t be sure he hadn’t, he soon acquired a Model T Ford.

Daddy’s sister, Leland Mae was a toddler.

And Daddy was duly named Lawrence Alvin, making his initials LAW. Grandma felt that having initials that spelled something would be good luck.

Speaking of luck, his astrological sign was Gemini which holds that he’s supposed to be energetic, clever, imaginative, witty, and adaptable – all of which he is, plus courteous and kind. I’ve never observed him to have any of the negative characteristics Gemini are supposed to have.

Chinese astrology says that Daddy was born in the year of the Ox. People born under this sign are said to be hardworking, discreet, modest, industrious, charitable, loyal, punctual, philosophical, patient, and good-hearted individuals with high moral standards. All true of my Daddy.

In the real world that Saturday, the moon was in its first quarter. The high temperature that day was 87^o, the low was 68^o, and no precipitation. The Stock Market was closed for the holiday, but ended the day before at $129.95. That’s very low by today’s standard, but it was robust for then and on the rise. More importantly to Daddy’s family was the price of cotton – $19.62 per hundred weight. 1925 would be a good year for cotton producers.

There would be two more sisters, Virginia Ellen, and Thelma Grace.

Daddy grew up during the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. His experiences were as a white child in a segregated community where most of the white people were related to him or related to someone who was related to him. His circle of friends came ready-made from birth. They were kith and kin.

In 1943, in the midst of World War II, he left school to join the Navy. He became a Seabee and served in the Pacific Theater of War. 

As with many young men of that time, it was his first experience away from home. Those young men were from all parts of the country, big cities, small towns, and the countryside. They were all there – young men from the Northeast, the Upper Midwest, the Deep South, the Great American Plains, and the West Coast.

They were farmers’ sons and factory laborers’ sons, longshoremen’s sons, doctors’ sons, bakers’ sons, and preachers’ sons. Some were single. Some were married with sons and daughters of their own. Each had joined the navy for his own reason, but all were there for the duration – until the war ended, whenever that would be. And again, Daddy’s circle of friends was ready-made.

When he came back into civilian life, he returned to Oklahoma County and his rural roots. He married a local girl, Peggy Hrdlicka. His Aunt June who was married to Momma’s Uncle Ray complained that she hadn’t gotten any new relatives out of the marriage. It was in fact the third of four marriages between Daddy’s family and Momma’s family.

Daddy farmed for a while and they had me. Then almost two years later they had my brother Matt. Each time the cost of our delivery was paid for by the sale of a cow.

Daddy was constantly on the lookout to improve our lot and it was pretty clear that he wouldn’t be able to buy his own farm so he went to work for the Rural Electric Co-op as a lineman. Then to Oklahoma Gas and Electric.

Then he bought a service station. For those of you too young to remember, that was a place you stopped at to refuel your car. You would stay in your car while an attendant came running out to fill your gas tank, wash your windows, check your oil, take payment for the gas (cash or credit only – no credit cards existed then.) He wished you a safe journey, thanked you, and invited you to come back.

They also took care of your car’s maintenance and repair – everything from washing and vacuuming to new windshield wiper blades to engine overhauls. These were where they made their money, not the gasoline sales. Those were basically come-ons to get your other business.

The service station didn’t work out, primarily due to Oklahoma’s “gas wars.” In today’s climate where you’re glad to get $2.50 plus gas, gas wars seem like a myth. The stations – and like today, there was one on almost every corner – would undercut each other on gas prices. This went so far as to get gas down to nine cents a gallon. That was cheaper than Daddy could buy the gas.

So he went to work for Sears, Roebuck selling household appliances. That was the first and only time Daddy dressed in a suit for something other than church. And from there to the City of Edmond’s Electric Department, then to Edmond’s Water Treatment Plant, then to Edmond’s new hospital as their Executive Housekeeper where he supervised the entire housekeeping and maintenance staff, then to Oklahoma Christian College where he again supervised the maintenance staff and grounds crews.

And finally, he retired.

He left the farm early on, but it was always with him. He gardened. He bought an acreage and gardened on a grand scale. He raised goats for milk, chickens for eggs and meat. He raised rabbits and two or three pigs, and a couple of cows at a time for meat. He had bees for honey. All before retirement. And after.

In all this time, he left Oklahoma County only for vacations. With the exception of living a short time in Payne County when he first went to work for REA. That’s about fifty miles away, an easy car trip home each weekend.

He added work friends and his family regularly added family friends to his circle.

Then after caring for Momma in the last few years of her life and living on his own in Oklahoma County, he and I joined our households. Three years ago we moved to Lakewood, Colorado, for my husband’s job.

Lakewood, a suburb of Denver, is more than half again as big as Edmond, the town we called home in Oklahoma. Denver is twice as big as Oklahoma City, population-wise. And we didn’t know anyone here. No ready-made circle of friends.

We have care-givers from Visiting Angels help Daddy five mornings a week now and we go to an exercise class Mondays and Wednesdays at Carmody Recreation Center. So when Daddy’s 90th birthday was approaching, I didn’t consider throwing a party because “who would we invite?” We didn't really have friends or relatives here.

Daddy’s close friends and relatives who are still living, live a long way away.

But Carol, one of Daddy’s care-givers, wanted to know what we were going to do for Daddy’s birthday and I told her I hadn’t planned anything. Well, she said she was going to do something anyway. And Yolanda, Daddy’s primary care-giver, said I should have a party for him and invite the people from our exercise class.

So that’s what we did. My husband, our daughter, her fiance, and Daddy, too. They all helped get ready for the party. Daddy and his care-giver Richard peeled and chopped apples for Daddy's famous apple pie. I baked -- cookies, the pies, a chocolate cake.

Daddy and I wondered who would come. How many would come? Would the sun shine or would it rain? Did we have enough food? 

They came and we had enough food. The sun shone. The house was full and guests spilled out onto the deck. Three of his care-givers (two with spouses in-tow) and lots of people from the exercise class came. Relatives from all over called to wish him Happy Birthday. He had a very good time. We all did.

And, you know what? Daddy has a ready-made circle of friends wherever he is. 

 Richard from Visiting Angel, Daddy, 

and Louise from Exercise Class.

Bernhardt's The Game Master -- a review

Let’s start with full disclosure.

William Bernhardt is my writing guru. He’s a brilliant, tolerant, and persistent teacher. If you have a book in you, he can help you get it down in black and white. And it matters not whether your book is fiction or nonfiction, a memoir or a cookbook.

Also thrillers are not my cup of tea. I find real life to be tense enough. Thrillers are generally too disturbing for me.

Having said that, I just completed Bernhardt’s new thriller. The Game Master is fast paced and intense enough that I need it set to music like an Indiana Jones movie, so I’ll know when it’s safe to look.

It gets off to a rocky start with someone I don’t know being treated most unkindly. In fact, if I had known when I started what I know now, I’d have started at Chapter 3. That’s when BB, the Game Master shows up playing in the final round of the World Series of Poker.

Then an FBI agent shows up and the chase is on. Paired with his ex-wife Linden, BB must escape from almost every conceivable (and some inconceivable) threats to life and/or liberty which then lead to one breath-taking dash after another to the next threat.

Until BB comes face-to-face (so to speak) with my favorite character, Alex. Alex has the endearing innocence of a curious child while he wields unlimited and amoral power. Like a baby rattle snake – kinda cute, but completely lethal.

It’s a global scavenger hunt with the obvious end-prize being BB and Linden’s kidnapped daughter and the survival of humanity.

Games abound – some ancient, some modern, some for children, and some for intellectuals – all bearing clues to the next step. The games were interesting in themselves. The twists and turns kept me reading and guessing.

Now it’s time to take a deep breath and get back to cozy mysteries!

Edit, Edit, Edit -- an essay

image from simon-read.com

Editing -- this is my soap box and I’m gonna climb on.

You’ve got a great plot with an exciting opening line. Your characters are well-developed and recognizable. They are real. They elicit either admiration or scorn. Your setting is so natural and essential that the story seems to have grown there from roots to crown.

The sun is shining, your cat is happy, and your book is finished.

Well, no it’s not. Now you need a really good editor, or several reasonably good editors. And a whole raft of beta readers. Why? Because none of us is infallible. There’s grammar to check, spelling, and words, words, and more words.

Word processing programs mark questionable spellings and grammar. Don’t just ignore those markings. Consider them. If you don’t agree, look it up or ask someone who knows. Be sure you have a sound reason for choosing not to “correct” them.

If you use any kind of esoteric language at all, chances are your spell check will respond with alarm. That’s okay. Look it up. Be sure you’re right and add it to your dictionary. Then the next time that word shows up, it won’t be marked. Unless it’s misspelled. Then you’ll be glad you added it to your dictionary.

Then there’s continuity -- names, places, times, and who-what. Maddie Jenkins, who has eight children and lives in Farmerville which is northwest of Monroe, should never suddenly become Millie Janson who is driving north to Monroe with her ninth, red-haired child. Facts should be consistent even if they’re fiction.

And heaven forbid Miss Maddie’s husband should die in the war in the third chapter then in the seventh chapter she’s found dining at a posh restaurant with him. Unless, of course, you’ve established that she only thought he’d died and they were joyfully reunited in the fifth chapter. Or there's something paranormal going on.

Little facts often make as much difference as big ones to the believability of a work of fiction. How do you load a muzzle-loading gun? Do the pupils of a poisonous North American snake's eyes differ from those of a nonpoisonous North American snake? Does a woman’s blouse close right over left or the other way round?

These particular facts will be of no importance to your story, but your story will be salted with facts that do make a difference. And somewhere in your vast readership will be someone and, more likely, lots of someones who know if your facts are right or wrong. It’s important to get them right.

It’s always nice to have editors and beta readers who think you’re wonderful. It’s even nice if they happen to love you. But “nice” ain’t what makes you a good writer. Your editors need to either have broad enough knowledge bases to cover your weaknesses or they should be secure enough to recognize when they don’t know a subject well enough to confirm your description’s accuracy. They should look it up or call someone with expertise in the field. Or they should tell you that you need to look it up or call someone. Be friends with a research librarian.

Most importantly, your editors and beta readers need to be tough. They should believe that you want them to find your errors. Find where the story goes awry. Find that missing Oxford comma and the noun cum verb. They should bleed all over your manuscript, so you can fix it.

If you grew up wearing homemade clothes instead of the fashionable brand names, you’ll know how important it is that your book not look homemade.

Errors, inconsistencies, and confusion are not hallmarks of top quality. Original, handmade, and attention to detail are. 

Your name is going to be on your book.You may never wear a suit by William Fioravanti or drive a Maserati Ghibli, but people who do and everyone else should know that a book with your branding is top quality.

Not a Loser -- Flash Fiction

image from animalia-life.com

“Wake up, dear lady.” He touched each of her eyelids.

She batted him away.

He dodged her open palm and touched her nose with his. “It’s breakfast time.”

She covered her head with a pillow.

“You’re not a loser,” he murmured.

“A loser?” She struggled to the surface of consciousness, shoving the bed clothes aside and him with them.

He sat on the floor, his tail wrapped neatly around his feet. “No, dear lady. You are not a loser. At least, you don’t have to be.”

She put on her glasses to see him more clearly.

“The cat is talking.” She shuffled toward the bathroom. “Cats don’t talk.”

“It is breakfast time,” he said quietly, insistently, and clearly. He followed her into the bathroom. Then into the kitchen.

“Cats don’t talk,” she mumbled and hit the start button on the coffee maker. She popped open a can of cat food and dumped it into his bowl.

He wound around her feet. In and out, humming his approval.

Coffee cup in hand, she pushed the start button on her laptop. He jumped to her desk, walking between her and the computer, caressing his back with her chin. She blocked him from the laptop and entered her password. He turned his back and sat an inch away from her left elbow. She knew she was being ignored.

“Just because you live here alone with me, doesn’t mean you’re a loser.”

“Of course, I’m not a loser.” She pushed him off the desk. “I’m a writer. And cats can’t talk. Leave me alone.”

In one smooth movement he bounded back to the desk top and sat flicking the tip of his tail. He looked at her screen.

“Playing solitaire isn’t writing.”

“And what I do isn’t your business,” she hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “It is. You’re my lady and when you’re not happy, it is my business.”

“I look at that screen and nothing comes,” she said. “I’ve lost the words.”

He slipped into her lap and gently touched her chin with his paw.

She stroked him, a tear sliding silently down her cheek. She reached across him to her keyboard while he settled into a rather big ball and closed his eyes.

“You’re not a loser,” he purred.