Approved!

After two and a half years (which include one rejection and one hearing), my request for disability has been approved.

Whew! I knew the waiting and the family finances were both stressful, but I had no idea how drastic the effect of all that stress was until I got the good news yesterday and experienced a flood of ideas for my current work in progress. Now, if I can only get them all down in writing in the next week or so...

Friends and family have been incredibly supportive of me as I've gone through this process, and I am so grateful to all of them for their good wishes, prayers, advice, and kind words.

Now, I have some writing to do, and as most of you know, my ability to do that is limited; I'd better say goodbye and hop to.

If you would like to learn more about atypical myotonia congenita (otherwise known as acetazolamide-responsive myotonia), you can check out this older entry:

http://www.tracyrfranklin.com/2011/10/repost-of-one-diagnostic-journey.html

Just Medium Odd

I remember watching Medium when I lived in another state, long before marriage brought me to Pennsylvania. My life became particularly busy and I no longer had time for much television viewing, so I stopped watching.

Netflix has given me the chance to go back and enjoy old shows beginning to end. Oddly, I have recognized no episodes of Medium except those labeled as coming from 2009. Now, I know sometimes television show information is kind of iffy when it comes to dates, so it is possible I watched those episodes in the winter or spring of 2008. But for years I've steadfastly believed that I started watching Medium near the beginning of its run, not in the middle or at the end.

When I was a child, my family moved fairly often, and I have quite a few memories of events that took place in one house popping up in another. For years, I transposed the death of John Lennon with the death of Fred Astaire. I only have fairly accurate memories now because I did the math: two years in this house starting in 19XX, two years in that house starting in 19YY...

So tell me, what are some of your odd, misplaced memories? I would love to hear about them!

Funny Haha and Funny Weird

First, the funny haha:

I was talking to my mother about the story on which I'm working. It happens to involve an extremely narcissistic mother and two daughters who grow up with the same issues and deal (or not deal) with them in completely different ways. Upon hearing this, my mother said, "It's not autobiographical is it?" I roared with laughter as I tried to say no in as many ways as I could. My mom is great.

Second, the funny weird:

A couple of weeks ago I picked up a DVD of Bette Davis movies at Costco. I've seen a lot of Bette Davis movies, but had never seen two of her most famous, Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? I had never seen them at my local video stores, I had never seen them on Netflix (they may have the discs; we watch everything on streaming), and I had never seen them on TCM or AMC. Hush. . . Charlotte was on the DVD I purchased, but Baby Jane was not. However, about one week later, I was flipping through the television channel guide and saw Whatever Happened to Baby Jane; I was able to catch it from the beginning, while the hosts were still introducing the film.

Synchronicity is really cool.

FREE EBOOK

For the next day, you can download the ebook of Angst, Anger, Love, Hope for free! FREE!

To get your free copy, simply go to the website of JMS Books, register, and check out! As long as the item you are "buying" has a cost of $0.00, you will not be asked for any credit card information.

Sweet, huh?

Cool News

The past couple of weeks have been busy, but not terribly dramatic; we've simply found ourselves living through one of those ordinary times when commitments converge. A hurricane did come awfully close to us, but though friends had bad experiences with electricity, internet, and flooding, we were just fine. The worst that happened to us was a rescheduling of what could be called an important meeting.

However, I have two pieces of really exciting news: The first is that an anthology to raise money for my younger brother's school, a school that helps those with developmental disabilities, has been released. This has been a family project, and not only are all of those who contributed to it donating their royalties to the school, but Vanilla Heart Publishing is also donating its proceeds to the school. You can find Cedar Hollow in ebook or paperback at Amazon.

My older sister, Melinda Clayton, is a writer who has published three (must-read) novels with Vanilla Heart and has contributed to various VHP anthologies as well. I know from her that Vanilla Heart keeps its promises and helps with promotion more than do many small presses. Which leads me to my second piece of news:

Kimberlee, Vanilla Heart's editor, contacted me to see if I would be willing to work on my own anthology for Vanilla Heart. It would consist of my poetry and short stories. She is even aware of my myotonia and willing to let me go a little slower than normal than if I need to. (Right now, I'm fairly pleased with my pace, but right now I have super-happy-making endorphins fueling me when I sit down with pen to paper.)

So, that's what's going on here. Cool, right?

My Encounter with an Angry Lady, an Anonymous Nice Neighbor, and the Police

Oh, good LORD.

When my son and I got back to our apartment complex tonight, there was no parking at our building (never is; in fact, it's one of only two buildings in the whole place that didn't get additional parking this year when we were sold to the "luxury" apt. management company). We parked at [Y] Building, in the lot we almost always use. What we did differently, however, was pull into the handicapped spot. I have a placard, but I've never used the spot here; I've never seen it available, frankly.

I joked to my son, "Ooh, I bet whoever uses that spot is going to be pissed. I just hope they don't pull into it before looking."

That might have been easier.

I realized later in the evening that I'd forgotten my phone in the car. What greeted me as I went to retrieve it? An angry, angry lady sitting on the steps of [Y] Building, demanding to know who I was and telling me I had no right to use her spot. Not only that, she then proceeded to tell me I should only park at [Z] Building. To my great amusement, a man's voice came out of the darkness, calling, "There IS no parking here!"

As I was standing there trying to reason with the woman, her daughter-in-law joined her. In addition to parroting her mother-in-law's words, she added a few acrobatic (but not obscene) gesticulations into the mix and asked loudly, "Who was that guy talking earlier? Is he your man?"

"Um...no," I said. I was internally debating the wisdom of telling her I don't own anyone when I saw three police officers walking toward our imbalanced little conflict. (Hey, our township doesn't get much action; what can I say?) One of the cops said the incident was called in by a man, so I was left to wonder if the call was made by my unseen not-my-man parking ally. One officer started listening to the angry lady, and I caught the eye of one of the others. "Hey," I said, "the only reason I'm here is I realized I forgot my phone in the car. I came out to get it and this lady started yelling at me."

Because a large part of angry lady's argument had been based around her belief that because she requested a handicapped spot in the lot, that handicapped spot belonged to her and only her, I asked the cop if the spot could be designated for one person only. "Not if it doesn't say so on the sign," he said. He took my name, phone number, and apartment number, and said, "Okay, you can get your phone and head back in. Have a good night." "Thanks!" I replied, and did just that.

So...anyone placing any bets on whether I'll have any damage to my car in the morning? I can't say that I can cover those bets, mind you; I might have to get a new tire or some such.

UPDATE: Car is fine!

Of Psychology and Civil Rights

This entry is going to start off a bit vague. I apologize for that, but there are times a writer just has to go against everything he or she has learned about style and refuse to offer up examples. Some of my thoughts are better left in my head, but their very existence gives rise to questions I'd like to explore.

Sometimes I find myself drawn between two very, very different interpretations of one event or another. (Events that have an indirect effect on my life or the lives of those I love and are not merely matters of curiosity.) In such a situation, to believe one interpretation seems utterly insane, and yet to believe the other takes a force of will that I do not seem to have. I do not want to believe things that are untrue, especially if believing those things marks me as crazy. I almost panic at the very thought.

That panic, however, is generally relieved if I find myself indulging my more unconventional thoughts. I have sometimes thought that the peace that comes with such acquiescence is an indication that I have chosen the correct belief.

However - I then wonder if this same sense of peace comes to someone who hears voices when he or she decides to stop fighting them and listen. I wonder if it is simply a magnified sense of the relief I feel when I give in to my compulsion to check the locks just one more time before I go to bed. All one needs to do is read the news to know that instinct can be a dangerous guide.

Tonight I found myself wondering if this processing dilemma is common to most. I think of those who actively protest and fight against GLBT rights as bigots - hateful, hateful bigots. When they imagine a world in which we all share the same rights, do they want to let go of their hate and allow the dream to wash over them, do they feel nothing but fear, or do they do neither?

I know that the hateful views themselves are insane, but I would like to know if the bigots who spew them feel either peace or white-knuckled resistance when they do so.