I’m in the middle of a huge house renovation. And I mean huge… new exterior, new roof, new deck, new skylights. It’s amazingly and heartbreakingly expensive, but it’s gotta get done.

So that got me thinking about houses and homes and what makes a great big box with a bunch of divider walls into first a house, and then a home. How weird is it to have our own bedrooms, our own home offices–and this, of course, gets me thinking about my (many) fantasy clients and how ubiquitous houses and bedrooms are. How privacy matters, no matter what the society… or does it? What sort of shared values across the current-day earth are we transporting into our fiction? How about expectations of the way we live? Fancy fireplaces and columns holding up the roof over our front entry, what kind of flooring we have in our kitchens, our bathrooms, our bedrooms…

These are the things I think about when I’m not editing. (It’s a darn good argument for keeping me busy, no?)

…and then LA caught on fire. And LA burned. And people lost homes they’ve lived in for generations. Generations!

That took on a new resonance. There’s a mention in Legacy, Tales from the Sheep Farm Book Five, that people who live in the historically working class neighborhood of Woolslayer pass their homes down through the generations and the stuff that accumulates through the decades and lifetimes, stuff that needs to be cleared out, but… yeah. Knowing that people (maybe even you) actually do live this way gives me a new perspective in the face of such loss.

What is it that defines how we live? Is it our sports memorabilia? Our couches, our various tables and desks, our good china? Is it the neighborhood, the size of the house, the approval of our neighbors, the landscaping, the length of your lawn?

Or is it something that transcends a physical structure? Is our home the people we let into our lives, the people we can trust and turn to for good and bad? Is it a feeling of belonging and nothing more? Is “home” our values and the way we live our lives and approach each day? Is it the memories we build in a place?

There’s even a cliche that goes “Home is where the heart is” — but try telling that to the people in LA who have lost their homes — and a piece of their hearts along with it. That argues pretty convincingly for memories and human connection and the feeling of safety and belonging, but is that all it is? I mean… it gets back to the fact that a house is nothing more than a box with a bunch of interior dividers.

What about the community? The people in LA and the people in West North Carolina (Hey, I still see you, friends! I haven’t forgotten you) would argue that’s absolutely part of what defines home. It explains why they are going to rebuild, why they may do it even without the financial assistance of an insurance industry that’s unable to keep up with the destruction of the planet, either through funding or through policy. “This is our home,” they say, and they don’t mean only the house.

What is the essence that defines home?

There are no right answers or wrong answers. I’m sure a sociologist or anthropologist or even an archeologist has tackled some of this, and of course I’d love to chat with someone who has and get their perspectives.

Just something to think about in your own fiction.

And if you’re so inclined to donate, reminder that the story I wrote for the Western North Carolina anthology is still available to you for a donation. $10 for each volume and $50 for the omnibus. My story, “In Search of Culinary Excellence” is in the Contemporary Fiction and LGBTQ volumes, because it features everyone’s favorite executive assistant, Taylor Alexander. And Sima Shaikovsky. Don’t forget her.

Don’t forget the people of LA and WNC, either. Or the others… people who’ve lost their homes and are struggling to live without permanent and safe housing.

I’m always glad to contribute to a charity anthology, to an auction, to whatever… just reach out. I’m always glad to help.

In the meantime, if you’ve got thoughts about home and what that word means, I’d love to hear them.

I have been Pulsed.

What the heck does that mean?

Pulse is the name of my son’s summer team. It’s a complex organism, the summer team, comprised of kids from all over the city and suburbs. Kids my kid competes against in the fall and spring, kids he has a rivalry (usually friendly but maybe not always) with now become his teammates and they have about ten weeks to come together and gel so they can perform at a high level on the field.

All I’ll say about that last bit is that they entered the tournament as the #10 seed. They left it in thirteenth place.

We can say the team got Pulsed.

Despite the poor finish, there’s a lot to be positive about. Great coaches, one of whom is going to be a rock star of a coach, if he so chooses. And the Spirit of the Game that is mandated by the rules pervaded pretty much everyone on this trip: players, coaches, chaperones. People were friendly and talkative and… yeah. Spirit of the Game. The three Pittsburgh teams rooted each other on. They helped make a strong sideline, which is an important part of Ultimate, and they taught my son’s team — the under 16-year-old kids — how to be that sideline. They did it through example. It was a good thing.

This is why I love Ultimate. Spirit of the Game extends off the field.

Of course, there were problems and we won’t get into them now. My kid had a rough first day. REALLY rough. But his coaches knew what to say and they even figured out how best to instruct him so his final two days of competition weren’t just better, but I watched him push through his own obstacles and elevate his game. Of course, with only ten kids by the final day (one left early and one tore a pectoral muscle) while the other teams had 22, there wasn’t much choice. Which is what we’d wanted: lots of time on the field. Lots of touches on the disc. Experience.

My kid’s been Pulsed.

This was his last year of eligibility for this Under-16 team, as his birthday’s coming up in a scant two weeks. Next year, he may or may not make the more competitive Under-19 team. That’s on him and how he chooses to elevate his game. Time will tell.

On a work front, I’d thrown the edit I was working on into Dropbox, but the hotel Internet was really quite poor (and again, I have major issues with Hilton hotels) as I got nailed with Malware of some sort and when I ran the scanner, cleaned it up, and restarted the machine, Dropbox decided it wasn’t going to cooperate with my laptop. What the heck? I have to go open the file and see if the changes I’d made up to that point saved or if all that work was wasted…

I got Pulsed. Not in a good way.

But the pictures from the weekend are uploaded and if you’re a close friend, I’m glad to share the link. If you caught my Facebook post, I was the one not only taking pictures but running the team’s Twitter account, which had parents on the first night wandering around the hotel lobby and asking who was so much fun. Like this surprises any of you?

So… lots of catch-up work. And, of course, I heard from a number of potential clients over the weekend, all of whom need to be followed up on, and not only do I have the current edit to deal with, the next in line has arrived, too. This is all good, as I now have a mega trip to pay off!

Right now, it’s off to PT to deal with the pinched nerve from the bike accident.

And who messed with my desktop while I was gone?

We rolled into town just a few minutes late on Wednesday, and I’ve been playing catch-up ever since. It’s easy to tell which clients don’t read my blog or Facebook; I heard from all of them while I was gone!

(note to self: work on client-only mailing list)

As always, being in Yellowstone is a spiritual thing for me, and where I left last time desperate to return, this time, I left with the quiet knowledge that I’ll be back — the same goals from all my adult trips still remain to be met — and the surety that I’m where I  belong in life right now. That, as tough as running what is essentially a freelancing service business is, it’s the exact right thing for me to be doing. So all you authors who worry I’ll give up the ship, stop. I’m in it for the long haul.

Wildlife was surprisingly scarce, but the meadows were in full bloom and the mountains were demanding and the campground was quieter than the few nights I spent under a roof. Norris remains my favorite of the geyser areas, and I think Canyon and the Lamar Valley have become my absolute favorite parts of the park.

The Old Faithful area was the most disappointing. Older amenities — we stayed in cabins near the Lodge — way too many people (especially after being the only ones on some trails), and even dinner at the famed Old Faithful Inn wasn’t as good as the dinner we’d had in the Canyon restaurant. Interesting to note that most people only know Yellowstone for Old Faithful, which is a shame. The park is so much more, so much better.

Mammoth Hot Springs seems to be drying up. That was also disappointing, although for a different reason. Yes, still too many people and after six days we’d had enough of the people who insisted on posing in front of features and parking their photographer five feet away — and getting angry when we’d walk right on through. If we waited for all those people to take their snapshots, we’d still be there. But that’s not the part that made me saddest: it was that the springs are drying up. The place has an eerie, haunted feel to it. It’s a relic of a bygone day, and that’s sad. Even the last time I was there, it was more alive than this. I mourn its loss, and you can almost feel that the place is mourning, too.

Back to those other tourists for a moment. To be honest, I don’t understand the need to take pictures of yourself in front of a feature. Oh, sure, there’s the whole “Look where I was!” bit that’s a lot of fun. No argument there. The part I don’t get is the part where your back is turned to whatever it is you’re posing in front of. That means you’re not looking at it. You’re not seeing what’s going on. Sure, you may see it when you get home and look over your pictures, but you’re not experiencing it, and if you’re not there for the experience, why are you there?

I’ve been to Yellowstone four times now. Each time, I leave with memories and spots seared into my memory. The mailbox near the outhouse at what turns out to be the entrance to the Slough Creek campground. Fountain Paint Pots. The tree at Mammoth that I have taken pictures of three times now. I don’t need pictures of me posing for me to know I’ve been there. Part of me never leaves. But just in case, here’s me. Experiencing the view. Conquering something private — and resolving to come back and finish what we started.

I have to tell you guys that when the airplane door slammed shut in Bozeman and the plane was pushed back from the jetway, I almost screamed NO and jumped off the plane and called one of the amazing tour guides to come get me ’cause I wasn’t going anywhere ever again…

Believe me, it was tempting.

Pictures of the trip will follow soon, most likely as Thursday Thirteens. The Tour Manager and I took about 500, give or take the deleted ones (ahh, the pleasure of digital photography), and including my 140-some on our final day in the park.

My fiction and rock and roll take up a big part of my soul. I’ve made that abundantly clear on this blog. The other part of my soul is Yellowstone National Park. Really. I would have stayed, if I’d had the option to.

Happy New Year to all of you. May all of our dreams come true in 2008, and may I have news for you of a publication of Trevor’s Song by the end of the year, if not earlier. Keep on visiting and spreading the word about our fun here; the bigger the buzz, the more you inspire me.