'Tis the Season

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
"Yes ma'am. I said it looks like you have elves."
"Elves?"
"Yes ma'am. About a dozen or so I'd suppose, th0ugh it's hard to tell for certain. They tend to keep out of sight, most times."
"Elves?"
"Yes ma'am, you heard correct. Right around Boxing Day we start getting the calls in. Looking for a place to nest down for the season, you know." He looked around at the home: brick and neat white cladding, two-storey with shutters over the windows, icicles dangling along the edge of the roof. Pretty as a Christmas card. "Yep. This is the sort of place they flock to, your basic elf."
That he parked in plain sight in the driveway was bad enough. Now this? What would the neighbors think? She lowered her voice. "This is a good neighborhood," she hissed. "The realtor said nothing about… infestations."
"Oh, it's a fresh bunch," he said. "Probably smuggled in on one of them Alaska cruise ships. Real problem up north, you know. But global warming… well, they're losing habitat."
She shivered in her robe, clutching her cocoa for warmth. The candy cane tinkled against the edge as she shivered. It had taken hours to roll them out and get the twists just right, and dammit, they were going to get used. Except they'd been disappeared. A few here and there -- easy enough to blame on the kids -- but then this morning, over two dozen, just vanished. And two empty cookie tins, out in the yard. And all the decorating sugar, gone. The gingerbread village disappeared without a trace. Rats, she thought. Or mice. And she called the exterminators, and they sent this… person.
"I'm really having trouble with this," she said. "You know, yesterday was kind of a busy day…"
The exterminator nodded. "Perfect time for them to slip in, you know. All the hustle and bustle. But you can't miss the signs." He'd showed her the gap in the basement wall, lined with leftover tissue paper like a paper wasp nest. The neat piles of cedar shavings in the corners ("Probably tinkers," he said. "Mind you lock up your tools.") And of course, the little piles of peppermints stacked neatly under the stair. ("Droppings," he told her. "Fresh ones. Still sticky.")
"Isn't there anything you can do?" she said. "A spray or something?"
"Oh no, can't spray," he said. "They're a Protected group, your basic elves. More'n my job's worth to cross that line."
She felt a headache coming on. "Traps, then?" she said. "What do they do for raccoons? My sister had a raccoon up the chimney in their cabin once."
"No good," said the exterminator. He was filling out a complicated-looking form. "Far too clever to fall for that. Most of 'em could build better, anyway. You can't get 'em by outsmarting."
"Well, what am I supposed to do, then?" she said. She tried to ignore the noises coming from the dryer vent. It sounded suspiciously like Christmas carols, being sung by tiny, childlike voices.
"Well," said the exterminator. "There's no guarantees, but if you get all this down and packed away, nature tends to take its course, if you know what I'm saying."
"But these wreaths are handmade!" she said. "White pine from Scandinavia! Hand-woven grosgrain! Blown-glass bulbs from Austria!" It was enormous, too, and well-lit. She made sure the whole neighborhood could see it.
"I understand, ma'am, I truly do. But there's nothing for it. They look well moved-in now. Maybe you'd have a chance with an artificial tree…"
"An artificial… we are not barbarians you know."
"No ma'am, sorry ma'am. I'm just saying that you've made it all so nice, it's no wonder they flocked to you."
"Flocked? You said it was six or seven!"
"I said 'probably' six or seven, but there's no way to be sure. Two tins of cookies and a stack of peppermints. You have any sort of chocolate in the house?"
"Cocoa powder, of course. Baking chocolate. I know the kids have some candy from their auntie."
"Make a list," he said. "And check it. Twice. Basically, you need to get your supplies down now, before the hibernation season. See, they fatten up good for winter, maybe wake around Easter for a snack, and then again at Halloween before their migration. That's your best chance. Make sure you don't bring out any decorations until at least December first. Maybe St. Nicholas' Day, to be safe. The last thing you want to do is give them an excuse to stay through next winter." He tore off the back sheet of the form and gave it to her in a mittened hand. "Giving that it's the holidays, this call's on me. Merry Christmas."
She snatched it from him. "Christmas was yesterday, and thanks for nothing," she said. She slammed the door hard enough to dislodge a few icicles from the roof.
"You're welcome," he said to the door knocker. From a vent down by his feet, he heard the sounds of jingle bells and laughter. Checking that no one was watching, he left a stack of cookies next to the basement window. Chocolate chip. Still warm. "See you next year," he said to the window. A pair of tiny hands snatched the cookies and disappeared again.
And laying his finger aside of his nose, he climbed into his van, and out the cul-de-sac he drove.

Full-On Loafing

I'm on vacation, enjoying the final hours of 2014, and being surprised that we're in the final hours of 2014. There's no Christmas quite like one spent with a young child in the house, and there's no holiday quite like one spent after a rather stressful and anxious year. This was the year of gaining perspective. Next year: a new outlook on life. I'll write more about that in the months to come.

Now I'm loafing around the house like a complete champion, wrapped in blankets, watching too much TV and eating too many cookies, playing Small World and only occasionally being productive by pulling out my AlphaSmart due to persistent goading from certain nameless parties. I'll be back in adult society next week and slumping around online again and generally making a nuisance of myself.

Stay comfy, Typosphere, according to the meteorological dictates of your hemisphere. Put your feet up and enjoy a refreshing warm or cold beverage of your choosing. Say farewell to 2014, and I'll see you in the new year.

Fatherly Advice, and Peanut Butter

Well, it's not exactly a vacation right now, preparing for Christmas with three kids. Most of my week was spent shuttling my eldest child to and from his end-of-semester exams, or final shopping, or wrapping. Any non-perishable goods not nailed down tend to get wrapped and stowed under the tree around here in these final few days, and attributed to the dog. "Peanut butter! Just what we needed!"

A word of fatherly advice for any parents of young children: you'll get endless entertainment by tossing out the "what shall we get mommy for Christmas" routine, and instead taking your child to the local junk store (99-cents-only, or the like) and turning them loose to pick out gifts. There is never a bad time to do this -- my own father is a firm believer in the Christmas Eve shopping trip. ("No lines, and the choices are easy!") My wife and I have been alternately gifted with some really magical things over the years as a result that reveal far more about the psyches of our offspring than any battery of tests might reveal. I suppose wrapping up dry goods and blaming the pets says a lot about me, too.

* * *

I've held my nose and plunged back into my NaNo draft. It's... not as terrible as I'd thought. Rough in parts, and full of the usual amount of flailing, tangential asides, and shifting character names and motivations. I've got to do better by this draft, and try not to let it get added to the growing stack of "to edit" pages archived in boxes. Perhaps I'll leave a few chapters out for Santa with the milk and cookies and see if he'll give me the gift of a critical eye this year. Anyone else dipping toes into the creative waters before the year is up? I'll start banging the "I need beta readers" drum here before too long, I hope, and I'm always happy to do a novel exchange.

* * *

The San Francisco Bay Area Type-In is prepped and ready: 2pm on the 27th at California Typewriter in Berkeley. I treated myself to a replacement camera about a month ago after the flash died on my old one, so I plan to show up with paper, typewriter, and an itchy shutter finger. I also plan on chaining myself to the nearest SG-1 and not leaving until they cut me loose and haul me away. I figure that's pretty exciting stuff, and only regret not causing a bigger scene the last time a documentary crew rolled through town. I'll be rectifying that, don't worry. Typosphere: please start collecting bail money now.

* * *

The kids are counting down the days, and hours, and probably seconds until they get to unwrap all those new, mysterious gifts under the tree. ("Saltines?") I'm counting down the days until I get to meet Typospherians face-to-face and enjoy a little typewriter time, and to get away from what will surely be known as the Saltines-and-Peanut-Butter Riots of 2013. If you're looking at the calendar with dread and anxiety and an unfinished gift list, the dad in me recommends a quick trip to Heifer International to support families in need around the world. Maybe it's not as great as a trip to the dollar store or a festively wrapped jar of jalapeño peppers -- for New Year's nachos! -- but it can make an actual difference in someone's life. No matter what your beliefs or how you might celebrate the passing of the old year and the start of a new, why not take a look?

* * *

Hope to see many of you on the 27th, and for those I don't, Merry Christmas!

Break(ing) Non-News

I'm nearing the end of vacation, slowly shrugging off a self-imposed digital hiatus to see if there's any work-related drama awaiting my return on Monday. We had a too-brief visit with family who report that my 11-year-old niece has adopted a manual typewriter for her memoirs: one can never start too early. I'm staying up too late reading, sleeping in too much, and may turn into an actual slug for want of physical activity. It's fantastic.

Today I took my teenage son out for his first driving lesson, making the obligatory slow circuits around an empty parking lot. It's the route preferred by generations of nervous fathers suddenly realizing that their first child is eye-level and still growing, and that we're far closer to college than crayons. In a tiny, proud way, my heart is breaking.

Happy Father's Day to the dads out there in the Typosphere, new, old, and upcoming. I'll be recharged in a couple more days, but first, I feel a nap calling me from underneath a good book.

Illustrator Redux

Once again, I get to show off how little I actually know. A few things I've learned since my initial call for an illutrator:

1. There are a lot of talented people out there
2. I should probably not ask for help over vacation, since I'm offline most of the time, and those same talented people now probably think I'm rude/dead
3. I'm actually only one of those things
4. It's probably a good idea to nail down the cover illustration while your draft is being read and revised, and not after, so you don't have this nagging sense that the process has come to a crashing halt, when in fact it's just taking The Right Amount of Time
5. There is no number 5
6. I know nothing about how to spec illustrations, or how this process is "supposed" to work
7. "Illustration" is a very broad term, which appears to mean "anything other than a photograph"

To everyone that's contacted me: I'm sorry I have not replied, please see point #2, above. One person is taking a swing at the cover, but as per #6, I don't know if it's standard/polite/acceptable to also ask other people to do the same, at the same time. That feels a bit unfair to me, and considering that the stakes are so low, I don't want to get anyone's hopes up. But clearly there's artsy talent out there, waiting to be tapped.

So, here's my promise to all the illustrators that I have been rude/dead to: I'm re-reading this year's NaNoWriMo draft, with the intent of digitizing the same and unleashing it on my unawares pre-readers. When that happens, I'll put out another call for a cover for that book, per #4. I can only do that, however, if I also learn what's expected of me. Illustrators, what do you need from an author?

Back in the Saddle

Typed on "Gomez," the Olympia SM3

Noise Reduction

I'm not sure which engineer it was, but someone thought that paper was a suitable soundproofing medium. It is, in fact, not.



I've swapped in the Silver-Reed "Fast-Spacer 750" (by Silver-Seiko, but made by Brother) and used it for a letter. It's entirely metal-bodied, so not as boomy as the Remington, but still rather jangly, as typers of this era tend to be. It also has -- or had -- a piece of black paperish material epoxied to the bottom inside panel. At one point in its life it had something dumped on it. I'm thinking instant oatmeal, from the color and texture. It was not pleasant to look at, peeping out from under the keys, and it certainly did nothing by way of much-needed soundproofing.



Today, while waiting for an operating system update to go horribly wrong, I shelled the typer, and ripped off as much of the nasty paper as I could. A piece of Kelly green polyester felt* and a tube of superglue later, and there's a fresh layer of sort-of-soundproofing inside.



The pictures don't do it justice: the green is subtle, but is a nice contrast to the red special-function keys, and the overall grey and silver color scheme of the typewriter. It still won't win any awards for silence, but I think it's better. At least, I tell myself it's better. It's certainly more attractive, and doesn't look like something chunky got sloshed through the works.



Speaking of quiet, I'm due for a little blog-cation myself. I'll be unplugging from the Series of Typewritten Tubes for about a week. I need to find a little peace, before I'm tempted to dump oatmeal over my own head. Keep the typosphere running, everybody, and I'll see you in a few days.


* It's nothing like felt at all, however, being made of recycled soda bottles. It's fairly stiff, and comes in a sheet large enough to cover the entire bottom of the machine with slight trimming. Those of you of the feminine persuasion would be wise to note that it also comes in a variety of patterns and prints, which would look pretty outstanding under the keys of the right machine. I've used regular "craft felt" for another typewriter re-lining project, and the improvement in looks is significant, and at least all my fumbling around didn't make it louder. The recycled stuff is a little easier to work with, though: it cuts a cleaner edge, and is rigid enough not to flop around as you're trying to stick it down. And this footnote has gone on way too long, which is another sign I need a break. I ramble.

Surviving the Mouse

We're back.

The grand expedition southward to the Land of the Eternal Mickey was a success, despite the soul-deadening drive that is the central valley portion of I-5 and its near-complete dearth of interesting landmarks. The kids are well-exhausted, and the parents are little better, but we've a mighty stack of photos and autographs and princess-related paraphernalia to sift through. I'll be fully back online in a few days, and I'm looking forward to catching up with y'all.

What I Did (Not) on my Christmas Vacation

• Argus Argosy Four