Patrick Swenson at Fairwood Press has posted the cover for my new collection, Flying in the Heart of the Lafayette Escadrille.   He found this spot-on image for it, but the artist was Russian, and it took a bit to contact her to negotiate the rights.  Thank goodness we were able to, because the art is perfect for the cover story.  The collection should be out in October.

Every Day Fiction has created a podcast of my 2011 Halloween short short story, "The Hurt Club."

It is interestingly weird to hear my story read by someone else.

I measured at 567 words per minute on this quicky test, which is in line with how I rated forty years ago.  My middle sister clears 1,000 words a minute easily without skimming.  Watching her read a book is impressive.

When I started teaching high school, I had several sections of "Reading," which was really a study skills class.  I learned that high school students averaged 200 or so words a minute.  Much below that pace and reading would not be an enjoyable activity.  The slower reader couldn't make the movie-in-the-mind that faster readers enjoyed.  At some point in slowness, the reader is "word calling," which doesn't even make a sentence comprehensible since each word presents a new, disconnected challenge from the word before.
 

Source: Staples eReader Department

Here's a table of reading speeds in a reader-friendly format.  I've seen these reading speeds interpreted differently, but they're close enough for this post.

I'm jumping the gun a bit, since we have 3 1/2 days with students still, and a teacher work day to finalize grades, but I'm mentally feeling summerish.

What's nice about the beginning of summer is that I have a ton of days that I can make plans for.  Whether those plans will come through, and whether it will feel like I've had a "ton of days" by early August is a problem for the future.  For right now, summer seems as filled with possibility as it did when I was in the last days of 5th grade.

Writing, of course, dominates my plans.  Last summer I started going to the bagel shop regularly to write.  I'd like to do that again.  I have a novel I'm in the midst of, and it would be nice to finish it.  Also, other writing projects could use attention.

The yard needs work, as does the house (mostly painting projects there).

Also, I should be able to continue running consistently.  I started my running regimen (for the umpteenth time in my life) last July, so I'm coming up on a year.  About twenty pounds of weight loss, and who knows how many benefits for my heart and lungs are tied to running, so the anniversary is significant.

In the meantime, the roses are looking darned good.  Here's my third unidentified rose photo.  This is the closest to a classic rose that I'm growing.  The bush is about four feet tall and sports these gorgeous big flowers.  When the wind blows hard, I find the petals everywhere.

A good friend of mine let me know that an editor for a major publisher likes his book and is going to pitch it to the publisher.  Knowing the editor (a major force in the field), the prospects for the manuscript actually becoming a book . . . you know, a real book, Pinocchio, seem better than average.

His situation started me to thinking about that magical, intimidating moment when the possibility of becoming an honest to god, real-life, major publisher novelist looks like it might come true. 

As I said, roses don't die in my yard.  This is the next unidentified rose that flourishes despite my poor gardening karma.

I planted a couple of new roses this spring, but I know what they are: Austrian Coppers.  They're gorgeous in the spring when they mature.

The rose pictured below is carrying a bunch of blooms as attractive as this one.  I can see why some people become rose fanatics.

Our seniors graduated last night, so there's no school.  I'm watering and writing, a great way to spend the day.

One of the built in hazards of trail running is falling.  Another English teacher at my high school is also a long-time trail runner.  He says he manages to take a full tumble at least once a year.  My wife fell several weeks ago, opening a gash in her arm that needed stitches.  And yesterday, I hit the dirt.

Falling feels stupid.  I mean, I feel stupid on the way down.  My mind has just enough time to say, "Oh, crap," and then I'm lying on the ground doing the instant inventory:  "Am I bleeding?  Did I break anything?  Am I going to be able to get up, or will I have to stay in this position until the Flight for Life copter gets here?"

Fortunately all I suffered was a cut on my arm (at about the same place my wife cut hers, but not nearly as impressively deep), and other scrapes and bruises. 

My other worry when I fall is my back.  My back has been "tweakable" for years.  If I step off a stair wrong, or jump off of something too tall, or sprawl on a trail, there's a possibility that I'll feel it in my back for days.  So, at first, I thought my back was okay.  Later last night, though, while I was sitting on the couch with my wife, I laughed, which triggered a total back spasm.  It took a few minutes for the spasm to retreat, and as I sit at my desk this morning, I can feel the threat of a repeat.  I'm one good cough or an ill-considered turn to pick up a book from provoking those muscles.

I have a friend I met just after I graduated from high school.  We're going to hit the 40th anniversary of our friendship this summer, so we talk about aging quite a bit.  His 60th birthday is this spring!  We were chatting about falling a couple of months ago.  When we were young, falling was a basic part of our lives.  We'd make diving catches at frisbees, and heroic football completions in the air where we'd hit the ground rolling.  Falling just wasn't that big of a deal. 

How times have changed.