I moved again. Now I'm at www.in-other-words-blog.com.

There to stay.

I HAVE MOVED!!

Okay everyone, I've moved to WordPress. I'm still debating on the design I chose but I imported all my stuff. New address is stephvandermeulen.wordpress.com. It's a safe address; it doesn't have to change if I change the blog title again!! The title is currently In Other Words, though it very nearly became Pimp My Read.

Look forward to seeing you there, and I'm so sorry for any inconvenience. Bear with me, as well, while I learn how to navigate the new home!

moving house?

With all this moving going on, I'm itching to skip off to Wordpress to set up a new blog. I crave change! I thrive off it and love all things new. And I really want a new look: I'm not happy with this one, and though I would still be using a template at Wordpress and likely have a blog that looks like someone else's out there, I'm thinking they probably have a gazillion more designs to choose from. What's stopping me is that now I have a little bit of an audience and I don't want to move and lose all the lovely people. I don't know if this will still be here with a message saying I've left the building and here's my new address. Even though I can import this blog to Wordpress, the address change and the subsequent other changes are kind of a pain. It's why I'm also reluctant to change my email from gmail to something else. (We have constant problems with gmail, and it doesn't seem to be our network...) I don't know anything about this blogging business, and when someone starts the techspeak with me, I freeze and my mind shuts down. I don't even know how to use my feedburner thingy. For shame.

Also, the lack of a title that's simultaneously cool and attractive and also reflects who I am while starting anew is a little like changing into dirty clothes. Part of the problem is that this blog is currently of two minds: it's a personal one and also covers freelancing and business-related stuff. Until I get my professional website up with its own blog, that's how this is going to stay.

The more I talk about this, the more Tei's words to someone else come to mind: just do it already. Hmmm, whether or not this is the right thing to do: that is the question. C'mon people, if this isn't good, speak now or forever hold your peace! (Okay, not forever. I do want to see your comments again!)

feng shui your home office for productivity and success

From what I've read on other freelancers' blogs, lack of concentration and discipline, clarity of thought, and difficulty getting new clients is all too common. It's a relief to know it's not just me having these problems, but it doesn't mean I'm less annoyed to have them. Over the five years I've been working from home, I've tried everything short of duct-taping myself to my chair, but nothing so far has worked. This last job I had was probably the most difficult, and made me begin questioning whether or not I should just give up and admit freelancing is not for me. But I don't want to!!

Then my hubby came home a few nights ago mentioning feng shui. Interested, I changed around our bedroom according to the rules I'd looked up online, and instantly everything felt RIGHT. I slept well and deeply for the first time in a very long time. This is what made me decide to look up feng shui for the home office. While there are plenty of websites that feature this sort of thing, I found this one quite helpful and not complicated. I haven't yet painted over the dark teal colour of this room that was here when we moved in (blue-green is apparently good for writers, but I am going for yellow, good for clarity, decision-making, creativity, and best of all, discipline) but I've moved my desk and completely uncluttered the room. I removed a chair with crap on it. I took down a bulletin board of photos and memos and cards. I removed all my files and other papers from my desk as well as the shelves on it, and will put everything in a small filing cabinet and on a bookshelf (when I buy them). The room looks smaller and a bit odd because my desk is meant to go against a wall and it is now on a diagonal across from the door, but I already feel rejuvenated just sitting here. I can't wait to paint the walls and feel "enlightened"!I'm already halfway there: the late afternoon sun is streaming in as I type, rippling in waves across my desk, whereas before I would wistfully watch it creep across the floor behind me. All I need now is my 24" iMac!! But that will be a while. In the meantime, I look forward to seeing what a difference these changes makes to my work!

fiction challenge: once upon a bloggy night

I was at Men with Pens the other day, and Harry had written a great short story using the names of blogs he reads. He also issued the same challenge, brought on by Drops of Blood, to his readers. Click here for the rules. Happily, I can say I rose to this challenge: whether successfully or not is for you to decide. At any rate, I had a lot of fun doing it, and it's the first piece of fiction I've written in, oh, about eleven or twelve years. Maybe more. So thanks, Harry. I'm hoping this is the start of something good. Read on.


Word Games, State Troopers, and Canadians at the Lusty Weevil

“All right. ‘Humicubation.’”

“To lie on the ground, especially in humiliation or penitence, which you will be doing soon, no doubt.” Behind the bar, Rogue smiles viciously at me and wipes another glass clean. “Drink up.”

Sighing, I tip back my mug of Genius, the Lusty Weevil’s special brew and why everyone who’s anyone comes here, and empty the dregs. “Bathroom break,” I plead, and ease myself off my bar stool.

In the bathroom I stare at myself in the mirror. “Be cool, Steph.” I splash cold water on my face to try and sober up. It’s been six weeks since I last beat her. Rogue is not one to take failure on a regular basis.

“Hey, editor girl!” When I emerge, I’m greeted enthusiastically by one of the regulars. “Is that a dangling participle or are you just happy to see me? Hahahaha! Good one, huh? Hey, I stopped by your place last night but you weren’t home. Some note on the door about missing commas or something like that? Whatsa matter? You got some rogue ink?” He grins.

“Very funny, B, but yeah,” I say. “So I came here. I was editing and got frustrated. Needed to blow off steam.”

“It was dark, stormy and I lost my serial comma?”

“Ha ha,” I say, but I’m smiling as I take my seat again. The bar filled up while I was gone, and I nod to two men with pens and paper at a table in the corner. “S’up, Chartrand? Harry?”

“Working on the role-playing game. You coming out May 28^th?”

I’m just about to answer when the doors to the pub swing open and two state troopers saunter in. “What the hell’s this?” I say.

“Shut up,” Rogue warns me, not unkindly. “Have another drink. I’ll handle this.” Calmly, she directs her attention to the officers. “Yes?” she asks icily.

“We heard tell you got some Canadians in here,” one of them says.

“So what if I do?”

“We got to clean ‘em out. Send ‘em back. They ain’t allowed no more, on account of—”

“What?” I ask. Rogue puts a hand out to silence me.

“Well, you can turn right around, Slick. I don’t know where you got it, but there are no Canadians here.”

In fact, there are at least four of us. Quietly, I slip off my stool and join Brett, who’s drinking wine and calculating the distance from here to the nearest safety zone against his fastest time. “Where’s Friar?” I whisper to him. “Swimming,” he answers quietly. “He’s doing the frigid water thing again.”

Rogue steps from behind the bar. “Yo,” she says loudly to the troopers. “I said, there are no Canadians here.”

“That’s not what we heard,” says one of them. “Plus, a couple of them are drive-by shooters. With a Glock.” I hazard a glance at Harry and James. Only one of them is Canadian, and he doesn’t like to be called one.

Rogue crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Blather,” she says. “Or, for dumb shits like you: bullshit. You heard wrong, Tiny. Now. Are you going to get out of my pub, or am I going to have to lay the smackdown on your asses? You’re ruining business.”

“Yeah, fellas,” pipes up Kelly good-naturedly. “You’re preventing her from offering us maximum customer experience. Hey, you got any champagne, Rogue?”

“Look, miss,” says one of the troopers to our bartender. “It’s regulations. We got to follow orders and check out all your customers.”

“As I said. No Canadians here. You’re not touching a hair on my patrons.”

“We don’t appreciate your ‘tone of voice,’ neither,” says the first cop’s companion, sneering at Rogue.

All of us in freeze in anticipation. Nobody talks to our fierce proprietress like that, both threateningly and grammatically incorrectly. She’s always up to the challenge. She always knows what’s up, and we know what’s coming. Quick as lightening, Rogue’s elbows are up by her temples. There’s a shing sound we all know well. A flash of steel. Instantly, the pub is charged with an air of kick-ass. The troopers tip back on their heels, each with the point of a short sword in one nostril. “What part of no Canadians here did you not comprehend?” spits Rogue, steadily applying pressure. Drops of blood stain the troopers’ uniforms. We Canadians stand on guard.

My stomach’s a little queasy from the drinking game earlier and I don’t particularly want to see anyone, even state troopers, eat steel today. “Hey, Rogue!” I call over. “Why don’t we just defenestrate them instead?”

Without lowering her swords, Rogue turns her head and grins at me.

“What the hell does that mean?” asks one of the troopers, trying to see his partner. The look on his face, that he might piss his pants, indicates this defenestration thing might be more painful than swords.

“It means,” says a voice evenly from the far corner in the dark, “that you are a fucking moron.” It’s Naomi, who’s been quietly observing while playing solitaire and nursing a tumbler of Crown Royal. A thin line of smoke rises from the IttyBiz hanging lazily between her lips. Her sharp eyes are slits. Naomi swaggers to stand beside Rogue. She exhales slowly and deliberately in the troopers’ faces. “The woman said get out. And seeing as you’re in a precarious situation, I’d do what she says. You don’t want Brett here to get Viking on your asses.”

“But what about that guy over there?” ventures one brave cop. “Wearing the Canadiens ball cap?”

“He’s not Canadian,” we all chorus, looking over at James.

“Right. And he just happens to prefer the Canadiens hockey team?”

James puts down his pen and stands up defiantly. “Mon crisse de char est brisé, tabarnac de câlisse!” he explodes. “Dey already told you: I ham not Canadien!”

At this, Harry unfolds himself from his chair and stands intimidatingly over the troopers. He grinds a studded boot on the toes of one of the men and snarls.

“Look, bubs,” says Rogue, impatiently upping the pressure on each sword. The cops’ nostrils rise higher, swinelike. “Either get your punk asses out of my establishment or I’ll kick them out for you. Which will it be?”

“Okay, okay,” says one. “Shit. We’ll go.”

“And not come back,” enunciates Rogue. “Repeat after me, pigs. And. Not. Come. Back.”

The troopers grudgingly repeat after Rogue, who finally lowers her swords and wipes the tips on her apron.

“Git,” snarls Harry. “And don’t make me come after you. I’ve got a Harley that can outrun your sorry-ass piece of shit any day.” The state troopers take one look at Harry’s skull rings and hightail it out of the pub.

Rogue forks her fingers at them, then sighs and pulls a pint for herself and a round for everyone else. “Pestiferous punks,” she grumbles. She turns to me. “Defenestration: the action of throwing something, especially a person, out the window. Thanks for that, but I like my windows. Now drink up, poppet.”

word of the day: marmalade dropper

Do you read at the breakfast table? I almost always do. I read any chance I get. Admittedly, my breakfast table is usually my desk (bonus word: therefore I'm eating al desko), so my marmalade droppers usually come in the form of Tei's or Naomi's blog posts, especially this morning. Imagine you're reading something very exciting, or biting, or just so damn well-written you stop mid-chew. Or mid-jamming your toast. Marmalade droppers (British English) are those articles, stories, or photos so compelling or shocking your knife hovers in the air, jam or marmalade dripping off unnoticed. If you live in the States, these gems are called muffin chokers. And I have no doubt many an American has inadvertently spit out morning McMuffin crumbs while reading yet another Bushism.

word of the day: irritainment

We haven't had TV for over a year now because we found we were too busy to watch it. Instead, we rent movies on the weekend. Thus, I'm not a part of the constant talk about Rock of Love and other reality shows, most of which I think are rubbish, anyway.

Do you feel the same way I do about the quality of programming these days? Many people do. Yet irritainment is the topic of choice around the water cooler the next morning: the compulsive shows that are simultaneously irritating and entertaining.