The comma has always, always given me problems. Where, oh, where to put that itty-bitty squiggly line of a hook within a sentence. That's why I love writing simple sentences, where the commas I generally need are for a series. Series? Yes, as in red, white, and blue. Or, if you're one who withholds the last comma, then: red, white and blue. I don't know what they teach in English these days, but back in my day (hahahahaha, back in my day, as if I'm sooo old, but to someone younger than 60, I suppose I am), I was initially taught the series (or serial or Oxford, if you prefer) comma. That's the one where you place a comma before the conjunction: red, white, and blue. That all changed in 10th grade. The English teachers, as well as the journalism instructor, were marking me off for following the series comma rule and demanding that I drop the comma before the conjunction: red, white and blue. Me, being a sheep, followed suit. From day one, I thought a series wit

I had completed a post for today several days ago. It featured a photo that I hooked up to a photo meme. Then I decided to hook up a photo on my other blog -- Take 25 to Hollister -- to the same meme. So, off came the finished post for this blog. You'll see it later this week. Certainly, I could've posted both, but I didn't want to think about how to handle my visits to bloggers participating in the meme. Should I comment under one blog or both? If done individually, which blogs should I visit as The View from the Top of the Ladder and as Take 25 to Hollister . I just make things more complicated than they need be. Seeking Oompah My goal for 2015 is finding my creative groove again. That is why I'm rambling on the blog today rather than seeing if there are any Modern Family  reruns on TV. Posting on my blogs daily is part of the plan to finding my creative groove, mojo, hoodoo, voodoo, fancy, desire, and plain old oompah.  Of course, once I do my thing for toda

"Here we go, Su- siee ! Here we go!" claps my internal cheerleader. "Come on, Su- sieee ! Mac!" encourages my internal coach, "You can do this!" Where am I going? What is this?  Beats me. That's untrue. I do know. I've been reluctant to say it aloud. For quite a long while. Deep breath. Another deep breath. Another. And, another. Here I go. Here I go. I shall not be afraid of the words. I shall not be afraid of how they may combine. I shall not be afraid of writing. Forget the baby steps. A giant step is what I need to take.   The only permission I need is my own. Here I go! Here I go!

Today,  begins NaNoWriMo , which is short for National Novel Writing Month. Thousands of writers from all over the world commit themselves to completing a 50,000-word novel by the end of the month. That's about 1,666 words a day. That is not easy! Last year, I signed up to give a try. My enthusiasm lasted one day, which, for last year, was pretty good as I was feeling quite burnt out. I just didn't know it then. Once upon a time I wanted to write a Great American novel. Do I still? Dunno. I do have my unfinished novel, The Mystery of Sweet Fat's Ballroom , on my computer. The story takes place in both the present and in the mid-1930s. Lately, I think I should rewrite it. Keep the story in the 1930s, with flashbacks, if any, going back to the early 1900s. Okay, writing that got me excited. I might just go immerse myself in the past to get the imagination juices rolling. But, I know, for sure, I won't be writing 1,666 words today. So what got me thinking about Na

Okay. So, I changed the name of the blog, from Don't Be a Hippie...Then and Now to The View from the Top of the Ladder . Will a new name get me to write regularly, or just write? We shall see, dear Readers. I haven't written in a long time. Anything. No, that's false. Occasionally, I write short articles for moolah, and  I post at Take 25 to Hollister , with the goal of doing it everyday for a year. But, until this moment, I haven't said anything about my intent there. I just post. I'll know on January 7, 2015, if I have accomplished my goal. A second time. This is the fourth blog title change for me. The last three times, I started a new physical blog. This time, I realized whatever for. My writing voice hasn't change. Neither have the topics that I  write about because there is nothing new under the sun, including my "writer's block" that has been going on  for more than several months. Possibly years. Some would say that I don't ha

Sometimes, it feels like this when I'm working: Herding sheep (which are the words ) into a pen. The sheep, however, are not being nice about going into the pen. Sheep there. Sheep over there. And more sheep way, waaaaay over there. Then, of course, I must not forget the sheep that are hidden from view. Or, those sheep that have made their way to a meadow I had no idea existed. Where's Little Bo Peep when you need her? But, wait, she lost her sheep. I wonder though if sheep is the best animal to stand for the words . How about a horse? Gallop. Trot.  Nostrils flaring, head tossing back, foot stamping. Such attitude. Neighhhhhhhhhh . Maybe the words are more like cattle or milking cows. Mooooooooooo . Definitely not cats. Be nice if the words were more like dogs. Woof-woof . Here I am. How ya doing?  I'll hang out with you. Can I do anything? You need a nuzzle. Give it a rest. Let's go for a walk. Yeah.

It's time for a pretty picture. Just because I feel like it. Last Saturday, the Husband and I ran away to the beach for the day. We all need to do that now and then. To forget wearies and woes, figures and foes, as well as everyday routines. When was the last time you did that? A few weeks ago, I decided to participate in the A to Z Blogging Challenge that takes place in the month of April. Participants blog through the alphabet, Monday through Saturday. This is another Doing 60 thing for me. You're welcome to drop by one day, some days, or all days in April.  To learn more about the A to Z Blogging Challenge, please click here .

The theme is still the inability to get started. That is, the brain of my mine.   Plutter... Pletter... Splutttttt... .The sounds that the brain of my mine has been making. So, on Saturday, I tried to jump start the brain of mine by snatching up the camera and going outside. Some of the Mama's roses are in bloom. Take that cold weather, they seem to say. And, yes, the roses, the snapping of photos, the doing of something creative seems to have sparked something in the brain of my mine. Of course, dear readers, I must share with you the Mama's roses. © 2013 Su-sieee! Mac . All rights reserved.

  The words unfold themselves in my head. The hands though won't jot them down on paper or key them onto a blank document. That's not an excuse. I have no excuse. The Daddy accepted no excuses from me when I was a kid. If I did something stupid, then I did something stupid. I suffered the consequences. I learned quite early what the consequences were so I did my best not to do stupid things—or, at least, not to get caught. For a man with a gentle voice, the  Daddy gave very stern scoldings. So stern that it brought on the tears. And, should I cry, the Daddy said, "No crying." The longer the crying, the harsher the scolding. The Daddy used his belt for the dumbest decision-making acts I did. One or two quick slaps on my legs. The sting of the leather brought on the tears, too. "No crying," the Daddy said. Sucking up the tears just gave me the hiccups. I only recall two instances when I got the Daddy's belt. Both times I was no where to be fo

I'm doing something completely different today. I'm linking up with Just Write , a weekly writing prompt hosted by authors Rebecca T. Dickson and Laura Howard. Want to try it yourself, click here . This week's prompt is "What if I just kept driving?" Sheila drove into tomorrow. It was much easier than she thought it would be. Her present was purgatory. Maybe if it was just hell, she would've stayed. Hell was bearable. It had borders. It had form. It had shadows in which she could find relief. But, purgatory. Damn. Purgatory. Such wishy-washiness. Such enabling. Such obscenity of humanity. There she said it. She lit a match to it all. Sheila looked over the desert floor, warming with each second of the rising sun bursting itself into the new day.

What's the word I'm thinking of? Damn. What's the word? That's my life these days. And, that's not good when you make your livelihood as a writer. The word I'm trying to think of is usually a simple word, too. Forget about asking for an example, because I can't remember any one of my 500 million+ instances at the moment. All I know is that the word I'm trying to think of just dangles ghost-like in my mind. I really dislike the way a word plays hide-and-seek with me. If the Husband happens to be nearby, I'll ask him for help. "What's the word that means  blah blah blah." Most often, thank goodness, he knows the word I'm seeking. Some times, he throws out a bunch of words. None of which fit what I'm wanting to write. Other times, well, let's just say that I just type in blab blab blab and move on to my next thought, choosing to believe that the word will show itself. Eventually, it does. So far. Thank goodness. This troub

The Republican candidate for President—whose name shall not be invoked—thinks I'm a victim. Ha! Talk about projecting and being judgmental. No, no, come back. I'm not going to muse about politics today. Bleah. Today, I give you a look into this writer's belfry, as in bats in. The other day I found a file on my desktop with the title 88888...8887.doc. Of course curiosity got me and I opened it. Ha ha! on me. The Word file was my writing journal, the one I had started a few months ago with good intentions. Uh-huh. I was fishing around in my head for a story to latch onto. It had (and has) been a long while since I tried. The narrator a woman in her late 50s. A lot of ways I could go with that. A lot of ways. Did I? No. Will I? I don't know.     See. This became a post. Ha! Sorry for the blurriness of the photos of the scribbles. Hmmm, maybe that's a projection of my imagination right now. What you read is actually less than 855 words. I left out

This morning, I read that a local farm needs a driver to deliver CSA boxes to its distribution points in several cities. Only twice a week. Only 15 to 20 hours a week. $12 to $14/hour, depending on experience. I would love that job. Yes, I would. Those are not long hours at all. The pay is definitely a living wage and it would be a nice monetary supplement for this nonstarving writer.  The lifting and hauling? I may not be in the best of shape, but I can manage the up to 40 pounds per item. I truly believe that within a few weeks my strength and stamina would be greatly improved. I would be hauling boxes with the not-quite nonchalance I used to do when I was quite younger. (Hey, it's my daydream.) Besides, the Husband says he would do it with me. Just think, the farmer would get two for the cost of one. If only I didn't have this writing project right now. And, those other responsibilities that I can't walk away from for two days a week. I know my limits—and my

Some days are better than others when it comes to my memory. Who am I kidding? It's really down to moments. Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was 17, I memorized all of Horton Hears a Who! by Dr. Seuss for a public-speaking competition. I recall stumbling once or twice. Maybe trice. Ah, I had a strong memory back then. My long-term memory is still rather good. I just related a tale from over 40 years ago, didn't I? It's the short-term memory. Sigh. The other day, I was telling the Husband how many states allow employers to pay their workers who receive tips far less than minimum wage, as long as the combination of their tips and hourly rate (let's say $2.13/hour) totals up to either the federal or state minimum wage, whichever is the higher amount in the state. Yes, I know. The Husband could not believe it either. I'm glad to say that California does not have that law. I told the Husband that I learned all this from research I had done the day before f

I've been dragging my fingers across the keyboard right now, and pressing the delete button a lot. I just don't feel like writing. So, why try, you may ask. It's not like my boss will scold me if I don't offer something up to the blog today. Well, yes, the boss will scold me. The boss is me. When I started Don't be a Hippie , I committed myself to publishing a post every Tuesday and Thursday. A job commitment is a commitment, regardless of whether it's to myself or to someone else for a fee. Blogging wasn't always like that for me. It was mostly comme çi, comme ça.  But, a few years ago, I went through a rather bad bout of what I shall just call writer's block. I used the delete button and stared at a blank computer screen more than quite a lot, and that's saying it mildly. The only way to keep that from happening again is for me to meet my self-imposed deadlines. It truly helped that I made myself do a daily post for one year on my Take 2

Some of the first books I wrote and edited at Janus Book Publishers . Thirty years ago, I began my first day at work in the publishing industry. It was actually my second day of employment, but the first day was a holiday. I still think that was (and is) definitely a great way to start a new job—and a new career. I had not planned to enter the publishing world . Back then, my goal was to get at least five years of teaching under my belt so I could eventually become a high school counselor or a curriculum developer in a school district. So, what happened? Simple. By the time I earned my teaching credential in social science, there were few teaching jobs. I was in another bout of unemployment when I saw the newspaper ad for an assistant editor position at a small educational publishing house. I figured it was a long chance, but heck, what did I have to lose. Throughout the whole job selection process, I had a good feeling about the job. I had to do a writing sample, and as I work

Update : May 20, 2013 Today, I decided to merge the old and new blogs. There are just too many posts from "This and That. Here and There. Now, Sometimes Then" that I want to keep alive.  ~Su- sieee ! Mac  It has been over two months since my last post. I have mumbled several times to the husband, "I'm going to stop blogging This and That . Each time, he replied, "I thought you already have." Yeah. Well. I finally am. This is it. My last post. For this blog, that is. I've decided to start another blog. The husband  will be surprised. The new blog is called Don't Be a Hippie. . . Now and Then . Its focus is more selfish. I shall be revealing as much as I dare about myself through my memories, stories of my elders, and everyday experiences. At least that's what I think. Thank you Dear Readers and fellow Bloggers for your kindly visits and generous support. I hope you'll stop by my new blog. ~ Su- sieee! Mac

Really? It's been almost a month since I posted a post. Wish I could say I was traveling or wandering in wonder lust. Nope. Just getting on with life. Dusting and vacuuming a bit more often to keep my facial eczema from flaring so awfully awful that my eyes become swollen. How swollen? The recessive epicanthic folds of my eyelids show themselves. An advantage for me. Nobody thinks anything is wrong with my eyes. Celebrating the husband's 60th anniversary of being born. Every 60-year-old child should have a birthday party complete with bubble wands, darts, and other games. And lots of his favorite food. Finishing a deadline and starting another one. Sigh. I'm boxed in until 12/12/12. So, by golly, the world better not end on 12/21/12! Working on my 40th high school class reunion. The husband doesn't believe me when I say this is the last time I work on a reunion. "Absolutely," I say. "Uh-huh," he says. So, that what has kept me me away from writing

I don't remember the last time I was outside. Just sitting. Just doing nothing. Well, okay, except for doodling words with a pen on a piece of paper. About, of course, nothing. I'm sitting on a beach chair on the front stoop. The mama is sitting in the back yard deadheading her pink daisies. The husband is standing in the front yard hand-watering the lawn. Uhmmm, that spray feels good. Me. I should be making dinner. And, I shall in a while. For now, I just want to enjoy a pause. I've been cooped inside spinning words and sentences into short, but clear and comprehensible paragraphs about stuff I have already forgotten. It's best to do that when you work on reference books. If I had retained everything I've written about in the last 13 years, my gosh... Ka-poosh! The sound of my brains exploding. Splattt. Splutt. Spposh. The sounds of my brains splashing on the walls and ceiling. Ah, yes. Imagination is good to have at any age. Now, I must go make dinner for the cre

I've held many thoughts so long that I hope one day they'll pass through my mind again. Especially the funny ones. One of my faults is suddenly interrupting the husband when he is reading or following something on TV to tell him something that bam! popped into my head. Let's just say he finds it annoying. Very. After blah-blah years together, I believe I've gotten better at holding my thoughts until he looks up or a commercial comes on. Alas, my brain has moved on to other thoughts. I wonder if that's what the vagueness is I sometimes feel going on in my head. Random thoughts that didn't get shared by either saying them aloud (to the husband) or writing them down for  this blog. Yeah, I miss expounding about nothing and wasting virtual  space with my verbiage. Do you think it's true that everything on the Internet is floating outwardly into the infinity of space? The waves must be pretty darn strong to break through the atmosphere and whatever else without f