Keyboard Blues

I realize most of you have never been forced to sit though my lecture on finding your writing process. I assure you, it’s brilliant – thoroughly researched, full of big words and important-sounding concepts, and even a quiz! One of the things I talk about, though, is muscle memory.

Muscle memory is yet another cool thing your brain does – it learns to group things together so that you can do them without thinking. For example, think about how you shift gears in a car (foot off gas, clutch in, shift, release clutch, press on the gas). If you try to think about each step as you do it, you’ll stall the car out in a heartbeat. Eventually, though, you just do it without thinking – your brain does it all for you as one complete movement. It’s how athletes, dancers, and musicians have their bodies in the right positions at the right moment.

It’s how you type.

I’m forcefully reminded of this at the moment because I have a new keyboard, and IT’S DRIVING ME INSANE. It’s bad enough when I have to use someone else’s keyboard and I realize that not all keyboards are exactly the same. The difference in where the keys are may only be millimeters, but that millimeter is enough to throw me off and litter anything I type with typos. And, dog help me when I’m at the in-laws and I’m using a UK keyboard: some of the keys are in a completely different place and it totally screws me up.

Because I’m suffering from wrist problems (ergonomics is something I’m now forced to explore if I don’t want to suffer for my art), I have a new ergonomic keyboard. It’s curvy and has the split in the middle, and I’m having a really hard time learning to type on it. It’s hard enough to adjust to a new keyboard with the millimeter spacing differences, or the difference in pressure it requires to hit the space bar, but this is insane.

The main problem I’m discovering is that I don’t use the “correct” fingers to hit the keys. The B key is on the left side of the split, but (and this is news to me) I use my right index finger to type the B. That’s not working out so well for me (and since there’s a B in the middle of my name, it’s coming up a lot). Those letters in the middle of the keyboard (T, Y, G, H, B, N) never messed me up before, but that was before I discovered that my dominant right hand obviously likes to take over some of the keys that belong to the left hand. And because those keys aren’t where I expect them to be, I’m messing up all the other letters as well. ARGH!

You don’t want to know how long it’s taken me to get this far on the post or how many errors I’ve corrected already.

And the space bar is sticky, requiring me to hit it harder than I usually do. (I think that might just be a fault of this keyboard, and Staples and I will be having a conversation about that.) I’m not the happiest of campers at the moment. (And this is why I suffered through with the old, non-ergonomic keyboard until the book was done. There’s no way I would have been able to write while dealing with keyboard issues. I’m hoping I’ll adjust before it’s time to start on the new book in earnest.)

I’m downright grumpy about the whole thing.

So, is it just me? Am I the only one who gets tripped up by the millimeter of difference between keyboards or the only one who has trouble adjusting to an ergonomic split keyboard because I forgot everything I learned in Ms. Router’s 9^th grade typing class? Do you type properly? Correct fingers on the proper keys, wrists properly arched?

Or is this just a typical Problem Child problem?

PC

Tomorrow we welcome Harlequin Romance author Donna Alward to the blog!

Boots and Spurs

Nope, this isn't a cowboy blog. It's about my foot. If you've hung around the Playground for a while, you'll remember I had foot surgery in February 2008. And you'll be glad to know the surgery was a success.

However, last December I began experiencing heel pain. I figured I'd bruised it since I have a habit of going barefoot around the house. After a month, though, I went back to the doctor who did my surgery and he diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis. I have a small bone spur in my heel, but according to the doctor, it's not large enough to be causing the level of pain I've experienced. You can see from the diagram that the plantar fascia is a band of connective tissue running from the heel to the ball of the foot and supporting the arch. Sometimes that band gets a tear or rupture, becomes inflamed and causes pain. It's common among athletes and also can be caused by improperly fitting footwear.

No one's ever accused me of being an athlete, and the Playfriends gently tease me about my sensible shoes. So the doc and I are still a bit unsure how this happened, but it did.

Plan A for treatment was a three-month round of thrice-daily stretches plus OTC anti-inflammatories. After four months, the pain has increased, so I went back to the doc last week and he said we needed to move to Plan B. He also said there was cause to believe I might have a stress fracture.

Yesterday morning I had an MRI and later in the day I returned for the verdict. No stress fracture but there's definitely a small rupture near the point where the plantar fascia connects to the heel.

The treatment? A short leg walking cast. In case you're not familiar with that, just keep reading.



This is Jeffrey, the very nice man who put on my cast. He's also a licensed massage therapist and showed me how to massage the foot once the cast comes off.

<-----This is the beginning of the process. He put a cotton sock on my leg and then wrapped it with cotton padding. And then he began applying an off-white fiberglass wrap.

Here's Jeffrey smoothing down the final layer of wrap. -------->

They handed me a selection of cast colors and had me choose. I figured dark blue would go with most of my clothes and not show dirt too much. Oh my gosh at the flab on my thigh. Don't guess I can do anything about it now.





<------------ The finished product.

The finished product with the walking boot, which looks like a Keen water sandal and probably costs ten times as much. ----->

And the Playground Monitor modeling her latest couture. Think Clinton and Stacy would approve?

The cast comes off July 10, just three days before I leave for the RWA conference in DC. I'm already seeing ugly shoes in my future and possibly an ankle brace since my joint will have been immobilized for six weeks and will most likely stiffen up. The muscles will probably atrophy too. Sightseeing is gonna be a ton o' fun.

Have you ever had a cast? Any tips on caring for it? Dealing with the inevitable itch about halfway down my calf? I did order something called a Shower Guard that's supposed to keep it dry in the shower. And Jeffrey warned me that if it got wet and had to be replaced, the insurance won't pay for the replacement.

PC ponders...

I try not to think deep thoughts very often because they make my head hurt. I'll stay in the shallow end, thanks.

Here's my current list of wading-pool depth ponderable topics:

1.) How do three people create six loads of laundry in one week?

2.) Why, when I hit "Send/Receive" on my email program and nothing comes in, do I hit it again? Do I think it missed something?

3.) Why do people not from Alabama like to sing "Sweet Home Alabama?"

4.) Why is the power button on the back of my printer, requiring me to contort myself to turn the silly thing on? All power buttons should be on the front, right?

5.) What in the hell does an Amazon sales ranking mean? And does anyone know how it works?

6.) Where does all the damn dust come from? I just dusted, for dog's sake.

7.) Why is this book so hard to write?

8.) Why do the networks cancel TV shows two episodes after I get interested in them?

9.) Why can I remember my 8th grade BFF's phone number (her parent's house circa 1985, mind you, not her current one), but I have leave myself notes to remember my online banking password?

10.) Why is every garbage truck in America in serious need of a break job?

Answers, anyone? Bueller? Jump right in. Or tell me what you're pondering today.

PC

PS: And a very Happy Birthday to my mom today!

No, the other you...

I think we’ve talked here before about Googling yourself. And, I must admit, I do Google myself often, mainly because I’m waiting for the day I knock the interior designer off the number one spot on Google searches for Kimberly Lang. (I also have Google alerts for my name and my titles so I can find out when I’m being talked about. Not that I’m paranoid or anything…)

But when I do Google myself, I scan the results and those that I know for a fact aren’t me, I just skip over. Maybe I should pay a bit more attention.

Let me state categorically that I do not write poetry. Well, not since high school and all of that teenage girl angsty poetry is safely under my bed—not on the internet. (Thanks for the heads-up from an Honorary Playfriend.)

I am, obviously, not an Interior Designer from Berkeley, nor a real estate agent from Florida. I did not give a $2500 political contribution through the Blue Bell Creamery in New Mexico. I have not had bariatric surgery, nor was AC born prematurely. I’m not a lesbian mom breastfeeding activist. I’m not a lawyer, a high school teacher or a registered nurse. (Although I am listed on the Rate My Professor database, where I got high scores for everything except the easiness of my classes. I even got a chili pepper rating for being “Hot.” Go figure.)

There’s also a Kimberly Lang who plays volleyball at the Olympic level. That’s very obviously not me. :-)

Of course, if you use the British spelling “Kimberley,” you get a whole slew of new possible careers—including jewelry designer. Seems we Kimberly Langs are a creative bunch.

It’s kind of fun to see all the possibilities out there—even if I do have to come on to my blog and deny poetry…

So, go Google yourself. Look through the results and find the one most obviously not you-- the one that makes you laugh out loud or cringe at the thought someone might think it was you! Report back in the comment tail. Best/most horrifying ones get books!

PC

September Is...

Did you know that September is Be Kind to Editors and Writers Month? This is one of those obscure holidays you rarely ever hear about. I find them fascinating. As a writer, and thus having a vested interest, I dug around for more information.

Be Kind to Editors and Writers Month runs from September 1 to September 30th and was established to promote camaraderie and professionalism among people involved in all aspects of the publishing industry. It is also an attempt to enhance the awareness of the general public concerning the importance of writing and editing. Humorist Lauren Barnett is the originator of this nifty event.

I think this is a cool idea because (1) who wouldn’t want a month dedicated to themselves and (2) its an excuse to give and get presents. :)

Some ideas for the harassed writer:
Office supplies, including pens, pens, and more pens; notebooks; journals, ink cartridges, printer paper, etc.
A meal she didn’t have to cook
Two hours at home with NO CHILDREN (without her having to ask! This is important)
A new craft book
Perform a household chore that she normally takes care of
Girly bath stuff and the uninterrupted time to use it
Chocolate (there can never be enough…)

Some ideas for the harassed editor:
(I’m guessing here, since I don’t have one)
New thesaurus or dictionary
Gift certificate for a nice lunch
Submission of a CLEAN manuscript that has been REVISED
A “thank you for all your hard work” card
Meeting your deadline
Flowers (if they aren’t allergic)
Completely planned (hint: no work for her) Date Night

Actually, most of these ideas would work for either/or. So, how can you be kind to your writer? What would you choose for yourself if you could?

Let’s Celebrate! One lucky commenter will win a free book!!!!

Angel

I may be young at heart, but I'm not stupidly so...

Let’s brainstorm some things that are best left to the young. Say, those under 25 years of age:

Cartwheels

All-nighters.

Keg stands.

Raves.

Twister.

Dorm life.

Ah, dorm life. Communal living with strangers. Sharing space with people who, in turn, annoy you, disgust you, bother you, and steal your food. Without fail, these people stay up too late or get up too early, listen to horrifying music (usually too loud), borrow your clothes without permission, and hog the bathroom. If you’re really lucky, they’ll have a love-of-their-life that spends a good portion of the time in your room, often meaning that you’re stuck in the rec room until the wee hours of the morning while they do the horizontal limbo—hopefully, not in your bed.

Dorms are no place for adults.

So, it is with utmost amusement (and shock and horror and much disbelief) that I learned that Counselor Shelley will be moving into a dorm soon.

Yes, you read that right. Not graduate student housing. Not an on-campus apartment like they used to have for married students. A dorm.

See, Counselor Shelley is going back to school to become Dr. Shelley. Unfortunately, her PhD program is over an hour away from her nice suburban home on the golf course, and between gas prices and the workload piled on doctoral students, it just made sense for her to have a place near campus. Now, practical miss that Shelley is, she figured why not take advantage of the fact the University has living quarters right on campus?

Ummm, because it’s a dorm. Students live there, for goodness sake.

Now I know many of you don’t know Shelley all that well, but let’s just say that Shelley makes me seem very low maintenance in comparison. Can you envision me in a dorm? Now multiply that by about a thousand, and you’ll understand why I burst out laughing at the news and didn’t stop until I needed DG’s asthma inhaler.

She’s tried very hard to convince me of the soundness of this plan, but if you have to go buy a memory foam mattress (because you know those matresses are crap and dog only knows how dirty), a decent desk chair (because the standard issue ones will irritate your bad back) and some lamps (because you need the extra light to read), then sorry, you’re too old to be in the dorm.

I have visions of Shelley storming down hallways at 10pm, reminding everyone that it’s Quiet Hours and therefore time to turn that music down. It’s bedtime, people!

Thank dog she has a private room or she’d be short-sheeted (or worse) every single night.

I admire Shelley’s decision to get her PhD. I’m in awe of her determination and scholarly aspirations. I’m so proud of her because I know how hard she’s worked and how hard she will be working.

I’m also taking bets on how long this dorm thing will last. I see a off-campus studio apartment in the near future.

Or I would if I could stop laughing long enough.

Stay tuned. I’m sure this is going to be one fun semester…

PC

*** So, did you live in a dorm? Did you love it or hate it? Think you could handle living there now? (Heck, I've decided Youth Hostels are just as bad...)

Character Building...sorta

To make a long story short, I spent many hours in the Emergency Room Sunday evening and Monday morning. Don’t worry, everyone is fine, and the biggest lingering effect is that I’m far too old to stay up until 3am.

Writers are supposed to people watch, gleaning little nuggets of interest to add to our characters. People watching at the ER in the wee hours of the am will definitely provide nuggets of something, but I write for Modern Heat/Presents, not the Jerry Springer show. After four hours there, I don’t have a single thing I can use.

But it was interesting. Like the twenty-three people who accompanied two bleeding people into the ER. You read that right—twenty-three. I counted twice to be sure. Why they were all there, I don’t know. But they certainly filled the waiting area with, umm, color. Then the police showed up to take pictures of the bleeding couple. I wanted to fix my lipstick because I figured the crew of COPS would be coming through the door next. I didn’t want to be on TV looking less than my best, you know (or the best I could, all things considered).

Then there was the sign showing a picture of handcuffs with the warning: Restraints must be removed before defibrillator use. Umm, is this a real issue? What kind of people are being brought into this ER? I live in Alabama, not New York...

There was your average assortment of folks vomiting and coughing up a lung. I, germaphobe that I am, was digging through my purse for my anti-bacterial wipes, convinced I’d catch bubonic plague before I got out of there. Monk would have been proud of me and my sanitizing efforts.

I got to overhear some very interesting conversations—the kind that normally only happen on the Springer stage, only without the bitch-slapping and chair throwing. The security guards were keeping close watch, just in case.

So this was how I spent quality time with Counselor Shelley Sunday evening. Not quite the wild days of our youth. We sat there, doing crosswords and Sudoku until we got bored with that, then Counselor Shelley read me diagnoses out of the DSM-IV for a while. Wild times, I tell you.

So, what did I get out of my visit to the ER, other than sleep deprivation and a big bill? Well, nothing I can use for my next book, sadly. I mean, my books are supposed to have a touch of glamour to them, and there was no glamour to be found. No alpha heroes or spunky heroines (Shelley and myself included—we were too tired and too... well... slightly afraid to be considered heroines). No heroic doctors, either. Le sigh. What a waste.

I did get some nice pain killers and an excuse to lay around in the bed all day Monday. So maybe it wasn’t a total waste.

Gotta look on the bright side, you know. :-)

So, where do you people watch? Any good characters there?

PC

So it begins...

My Darling Geek got my website (www.booksbykimberly.com) up and running, so I’m really out there, on the web, claiming to be an author. Honestly, I didn’t have much to put up on the site, so I copied over all those Grammar Gremlins articles from the Playground archives.

I’m glad I did. According to DG, I’m getting a lot of hits from folks looking for grammar help. I’m not proud; I’ll take my visitors however they get there.

Of course, with so little traffic, I can’t expect email from folks not blood kin or BFF from the site (thanks, y’all), but that doesn’t stop me from checking the inbox regularly, eagerly waiting for someone I don’t know to email me.

Last Thursday, I finally got one! I was so excited. Until I opened it, at least. It certainly wasn’t fan mail of any sort.

One of the visitors to my site looking for grammar help had issue with a few of my comma suggestions and had emailed me to let me know.

Now, y’all know I’ve ranted before about the proliferation of garbage masquerading as information on the internet, so I understand the need to email the authors of such pages to question their “expertise.” But I normally try to do it as a friendly “but what about this…” or “according to Dr. Expert Author of Every Book on the Subject…” or even “maybe this wasn’t what you meant to say…”

Nope. Not this email. I was WRONG. Not mistaken. Not possibly off-kilter. WRONG. And I was “spreading misinformation.”

Yes, my hackles went up. But so did my adrenaline levels. Did I really screw up somehow? Did the file get corrupted somehow during the upload and say something different now? I checked the site, but the articles seemed fine. I pulled out my grammar books to look for exceptions to the rules I’d forgotten to mention. Nothing. I even did some web searches to see if the rules had changed in the months since I wrote the articles. Nope.

I know the general rule is not to reply to such emails. After all, when you engage, you enrage, and we all know what happens when you try to argue on the internet. But I couldn’t help it. I wrote the person back.

I tried very hard not to be snarky or pompous, and I put on my very best professional “voice” as I tried to explain how I thought the writer must have misread the article and invited her to provide me with examples to support her interpretation of comma usage. Then I spent the next few days wondering if I should have hit Delete instead of Send.

She wrote me back.

But this time, the email was totally different. She apologized for her earlier email, thanked me for being a good sport about it, and provided the source of her confusion. (Note to self: remember to write LEGIBLY when correcting student papers.)

I’m glad I responded, and I’m glad I didn’t get my back up or write snarky rebuttals. Hopefully, this will be good practice for the emails I’m bound to get in the future when folks take issue with something in one of my books.

But I’m still looking forward to getting the email…

Have you ever sent email to the author of a web page who has something totally and completely wrong on their site? How did they respond? Have you been on the other side and been the receiver of an email like that? How did you handle it?

10 Things I've Done

I could give you a blow-by-blow of the weekend but it would consist mainly of squeeing, laughing, eating, squeeing some more, laughing some more and eating some more. Rocki was brilliant on Saturday and had us all in the palm of her hand. And she was worried she'd be hearing crickets. Ha! Big congrats to Heart of Dixie, the luncheon coordinator Kathy Bone and all the worker bees for a job well done. I think we get a week off before we start working on the 2009 luncheon.

Funniest part of the weekend? Going to a nice Italian restaurant for dinner Saturday night and seeing "Rabbit Three Ways" on the chef's special menu. ACK!

Since I'm struggling for a blog topic, I went hunting for stuff to blog about and came up with this:

10 Things I've Done You Probably Haven't

1. In 1979, the DH, #1 son and I went through Checkpoint Charlie and visited East Berlin. It was scary but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

2. In 1980 I rode a camel at the Pyramids in Egypt. That too was scary cause camels are nasty creatures, but again, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.



3. I had a letter to the editor published in Cosmopolitan magazine.

4. I met Jean Stapleton (Edith Bunker on All in the Family) while I was on vacation in Alaska. We were on the same glacier boat excursion. Also on board was Betty Buckley (the original "glamour puss" in Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats and the stepmom on Eight is Enough). You can play Six Degrees of Separation with Jean Stapleton and Betty Buckley. Anybody want to take a guess? *

5. I gave birth the first time in a hospital that at one time was an R&R facility for Nazi soldiers and the second time in a hospital that was once a house of ill repute.

6. I've eaten roasted elk once. I've eaten escargot and alligator too.

7. I had a former Playboy Bunny as a college PE teacher. That's how I learned to do the cha-cha-cha. She taught the ballroom dancing class, only then it was called "social dancing."

8. I've been to the Olympic games -- Atlanta 1996.

9. I married a man who is related to both Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone.

10. I was in Andy Warhol's disco, The Electric Circus, in New York City in March 1970, when it was bombed by a group of radical dissidents.

So tell me what you've done that I haven't.

* Those folks who play Six Degrees with Jean Stapleton and Betty Buckley and correctly connect them within six steps will be entered in a drawing for an autographed copy of "The Ex-Girlfriends' Club" by fabu Playground friend Rhonda Nelson.