Be Steel, My Heart

 The Fifth of March is my eleventh wedding anniversary, so I checked and found out the traditional gift for that particular landmark is ... steel.

So I gave Emily a license plate.

I don't know what I'm more worried about, her reaction or how soon the owner will find out it's gone.

Apparently steel symbolizes strength and integrity, and how hardened you have to be to your spouse's bad habits to last eleven years. 

I think our best mutual anniversary present was the dog. Also, one of the more expensive, but never mind. The truth is Beowulf wasn't an anniversary gift at all, but he's been with us for almost our entire marriage--he's basically our child, and one year I even had his portrait painted (penciled?) as a present for her. The only thing that's lasted longer for us are some of my shirts, although for some reason I keep finding them accidentally tossed into the trash can.

I suspect Emily's given up on expecting a lot out of me on special occasions like this, but hope springs eternal. I freeze up when it comes to preparing for these things. Congress will balance the budget before I get around to planning. I'm also utterly unable to compose a nice greeting card message, despite the fact that I'm an actual writer. I'm sure a good psychiatrist could get that all sorted out, but I have to wonder whether that sorting would screw something else up. I'm a carefully balanced stack of anxiety and insecurity at this point in my life--why take chances?

Just the same, I think she still appreciates me ... I think ... and I know she still loves me, or she'd head back to her home state where winters are milder. (Except maybe this year.) She also knows what I need more than I do myself, which is probably a thing with all couples, and she takes good care of me. I try to take care of her, too. I guess that's the important thing.

As for gifts, what Emily really wants is a horse, of course.

And I think Beowulf would be okay with it--he's touched noses with horses before. However, if we tried to keep a horse in our back yard I'm pretty sure someone would notice, and that's not allowed in town. Unfair, right? Horses can come in handy. But we're on the lookout for a place in the country, so sooner or later I'll get her that horse ... s ... horses.

 

So Emily, if you're still talking to me--you never know for sure--I love you, and I'm sorry for my fails, some of which are epic. I'm working on them! Well, I'm working on some of them. But I'll always be there for you, even when I'm being there badly, and know this:

I love you more than chocolate.

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Plot Or People? One's Usually First, For Writers

 One of the reasons I'm struggling a bit with my new writing project is that I usually start with a plot, then find characters to fit into the story. This has drawbacks, the biggest being that as I create my characters, they sometimes become so real to me that they start saying things I don't want to hear:

"Yeah, I know you plan for this to happen, then that to happen--but I just wouldn't do those things."

You're just a character, do what I tell you.

"Fine. That'll be my voice in the back of your mind--and you ain't heard nagging yet."

Don't even get me started on Beth Hamlin.

 

Stupid characters. But they're usually right, and I've been known to make changes accordingly. Just the same, I start out with a plot, and the major plot points usually stay the same, as does the ending.

This time out I started with great characters: a group of firefighters on a fictional department somewhere in the Midwest. I had a great setting, background on all of the above, and even some scenes already playing in my mind.

But no plot.

I did have a general arc going on in the background, but mostly the story was about the day to day lives of my characters, and the challenges they faced on the job. It was episodic, like a series of short stories put together, or a TV show about firefighters, of which there are many. My favorite remains "Emergency!", which is indeed put together that way. Season long plot arcs would have been laughed at, back then.

Can I find new story ideas from personal experience? Yes. Yes, I can.

 

But I want a plot. I'm a plot guy.

And here's the thing: I have identified a plot idea, but it's deadly serious, tragic, and very "ripped from the headlines". If you know my writing, you know I generally keep to light escapism, and my characters are all set to have a lot of fun in their life and death careers.

I'm not asking for a solution, mind you (although if you want to offer one, hey!) I'm only complaining because talking out loud helps me resolve these dilemmas. It seems to be working: Even as I write this I realize the Big Bad event I've contemplated would set things up for future books in a series, if that should happen.

And those future plot ideas I have come up with; all I need is an opening.

 

 

(Remember: Every time you buy a book, a writer's career could blow up. Not literally. Well, maybe in my case.)

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https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
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My Magnetic Resonance Personality

I spent a lot of time in medical facilities, usually as a visitor, occasionally as a patient. And yet--this will come as a surprise to my fourteen regular readers--I've never had an MRI. Until a few years ago.

Oh, plenty of X-rays, and a biopsy. The MRI was oh, so much more fun, in a world where "fun" is relative.

 The Magnetic Resonance Imaging test was to find whether there might be cancer in my prostate, and also, I suppose, to confirm my head wasn't up there. As I said earlier, there was no cancer, which doesn't mean there were no surprises.

We were told by various armchair testing experts that the MRI would take around twenty minutes. luckily, my wife brought a book with her anyway. It would take an hour, the med people said as they presented me with the only good surprise of the day: scrubs to wear, instead of one of those weird back exposing half-shirts you couldn't tie shut with duct tape and Superglue.

The people there (who were very nice, by the way), asked a laundry list of questions designed to make sure I had no metal on me. There was a pause when I told them I had a piece of metal in my upper chest. Where was it from? I told them "Nam", with a fairly straight face, because the truth is just too mundane.

"Well," one replied, "if your Viet Cong shrapnel starts to heat up, or if any other area catches fire, let us know."

I've seen metal fly into the air before, and it's always very exciting.

(FYI, I was thirteen when the Vietnam War ended. I really need to update that particular lame joke.)

I was also told not to touch my hands to each other, or I might look like one of those movie superheroes generating lightning between their fingers.

As you slide into the little tube, they give you a bulb to hold in one hand. Squeezing it sets of an alarm. One reason for this is because you're packed into that thing so tightly even people with no fear of enclosed spaces feel like the lowest sardine in the pack.

They put headphones on me, because the MRI machine makes more noise than a reelected Congressman on his third drink. I was looking forward to some nice music, or any music, but these were just regular headphones--the music ones were on back order. Instead I was serenaded by the grinding and buzzing of a machine so loud I heard it plainly even with headphones and earplugs. It was like trying to sleep in a jet engine.

And every once in awhile the thing suddenly moved, which no one warned me about. I thought some giant was squeezing me out onto his toothbrush.

But the weirdest thing that happened was right after they turned it on, when someone started tugging on that bulb in my hand. I was startled, because no one was in the room. My hand was floating into the air, as if the Force was trying to get me to lift my car to a closer parking spot.

Then I realized it wasn't my hand lifting into the air--it was my ring. It was trying to float away and take my finger with it, which feels just as weird as it sounds.

This very ring, which, yes, could have come from Uranus.

 

It turns out rings are usually not of a material affected, so Magneto can't try to make you dance from one arm. MRI technicians often don't bother with them.

But my wife, knowing my interest in astronomy, got me a wedding ring made from a meteorite--an iron meteorite. Magneto could go to town on me. 

After that all went well. The sliver of steel is still in my chest--Gulf War?--and I passed the time by plotting out a new novel. It's going to be about a guy who gets transported to another world through an MRI machine.

Or Magneto.

 

Remember: Every time you buy a book, a Terminator gets stuck to an MRI machine. Save John Conner.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

Doctor Finger Probes Prostate Problem

I want to start out by saying I do not have cancer, and this story actually happened some time ago. So not to worry.

But the docs thought I might ... for several years. Specifically, I had high prostate specific antigen readings, otherwise known as PSA. That's why I kept having to visit my urologist, Doctor Finger. What a pain in the ass.

But it could be worse. I always thought a urologist dealt with urine issues, and I don't want anyone's finger going up that way.

So they tested, and probed (!) and tested again, during which time I was told I might have cancer ... or not. So then they went in with a needle and took about a dozen samples, something called a biopsy. Do you want to know where they go in with a needles to get those samples?

No. No, you do not.

A James Webb Space Telescope image of my prostate.

It came up, um, clean, but the PSA count stayed high. Way high. Too high. Something was wrong.

(Some men go for years with high PSA ratings, without ever getting cancer. Women rarely have high PSA readings, what with them not having prostates. But men don't often have to get mammograms, so never mind.)

And so, in desperation, Doctor Finger sent me to get an MRI. That stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, and costs about a hundred dollars a letter. That's $600 just for the magnet. (Buying and installing one MRI machine can cost more than three million dollars.)

I'll be writing separately about the MRI ... it was an experience. Honestly, I'd much rather go through it again than have a physical exam by my urologist, who's a really nice guy but has big hands. The MRI took an hour, and the digital exam a few minutes, but it felt the opposite.

I know you're anxious to see the results ... um, hear--hear the results. Well, there was no immediate sign of cancer. Yay!

But my prostate was, quoting Doctor Finger, "as big as my head". And his head is even bigger than his hands.

If the prostate was a balloon, mine would be the Hindenburg.

Now, here's the fun part: My prostate is two and a half times its normal size. He explained that PSA readings are like harvesting crops: The bigger the field, the more crops you harvest. So, since my prostate was bigger, my PSA count was naturally bigger, too.

See where I'm going with this?

Yeah. For ten years when I might have had cancer because of unusually high PSA counts, my PSA counts were NORMAL.

So.

You know, I lead a fairly stressful life already; I don't need any help. Just sayin'.

Remember: Whenever you don't buy a book, an author has to have a colonoscopy. Save their ass.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"