I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size. …”

I feel sometimes as though I’ve been surrounded by death, or the threat of death, my entire life. As a child, my mother was very sick (or acted as if she were), and I grew to expect her sudden demise as a given. Being very sickly myself, I spent a great deal of time in hospitals, smothered by the smell of death. I almost died at least once myself, having to be revived in a hospital (after a throw from a horse), the day after my temporary roommate died in the night. I’ve lived to help bury most of my grandparents. I heard of and knew friends who died starting when I was very young, from age and accident, tragedy and acceptance, suicide and war. I’ve attended many funerals and memorials. I learned to mask the pain with mirth. For many years as a youth, I envisioned the deaths of those around me, and what I would do after—just to be prepared. At times, it feels as if my heart has hardened to death. Yes, it affects me, but it doesn’t stop me in my tracks. I generally find it absolutely silly that so many mourn over the deaths of celebrities they never really knew (though I can understand a sense of loss in something that comforts us). I mourn more for the thousands who are slaughtered in war and through the uncaring actions of those who hold power, and seem to show no compassion.

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“I Love You.”

Such easy words to say … sometimes. Many people seem to spew those words without much effort or care. And the recipients either accept or wonder if they’re sincere. I have a broad view of love. Maybe I’m easy, maybe I really do (try to) love everyone. I can say the words “Love you” to so many, and mean it. I really do. Except, it seems, to the one I actually “love” the most.

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Okay, I admit I can seem rather ghoulish at times. I mean, I have a small collection of animal skulls and bones (even a few animal penis bones) in a lighted, glassed-in cabinet in our house. The collection also includes fossils and teeth. I often carve images of death and decay, and I work in the dark fiction field, reading, editing, illustrating and laying out some things that the squeamish of mind can’t even ponder. That stuff doesn’t affect me much. I do find it rather creepy, however, that a growing stash of human and animal remains has begun to form in our home.

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Do most people work only one job in their lives? Or just a handful? Seems I’ve flitted all about the place.
Jobs I have held (as many as I can currently remember that actually paid something):

• Delivering newspapers (a traditional beginning).
• Clearing Fields, picking thorns, herding cattle, baling hay, etc. on farms/ ranches.
• Planting potatoes.
• Greenhouse flunky.
• Janitor in elementary schools.
• Assistant Librarian.
• Photographer/ writer / layout artists/ ad sales rep at various newspapers and magazines.
• Janitor at a Christian Book Store.
• Apprentice Carpet Layer.
• Picking trash from the side of the road.
• Pump Jockey at full-service (no self-service) gas stations.
• Janitor at a college gymnasium.
• College Tutor/ editor of graduate student papers.
• Cook/ Dishwasher/ Counter server at a College Cafeteria.
• Swedish Translator.
• Security at an Amphiteatre.
• Knocking on doors/ writing speeches for political campaigns.
• Army Linguist (Arabic).
• Menu design/ food delivery for a hole-in-the-wall Gyro place.
• Personal Assistant/ Secretary (for Army Captain)
• Writer – Fiction, non-fiction and plays.
• Construction grunt – restoring old houses.
• Delivering Newspapers (again).
• Home Care Assistant for Physically and/ or mentally handicapped persons.
• Teacher’s Assistant – Middle School.
• Actor – Stage and Commercial.
• Managing Comic Book/ Collectable stores.
• Nanny
• Comic Book Creator (admittedly, one and very small, but it did pay).
• VP of Manufacturing & Design for an independent record label – Layout/ Design/ Publicity/ Organizing/ Manufacture, etc.
• Recording/ Mixing/ Producing music.
• Web Designer.
• Freelance design for the music industry/publishing/local businesses, et al.
• Ramp Rat at a small airport.
• Illustrator.
• Editor/ Designer/ Layout artist of Books and magazines.

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[This review originally appeared in Shroud Magazine Issue #10]
Tiffany Aching refuses to wear midnight—the dark colors traditional for witches. And though she is growing older, she also refuses to give up the seemingly innocent ways of her people. But when evil looms, she is forced to don the mantle of her craft and stand against the darkness.

The fourth and final book of Terry Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching series leads the young witch through physical and personal mine fields, accompanied by the loyal and obstinate Nac Mac Feegle—an army of tiny blue, rowdy, drunken pixies. Not yet 16 years old, Tiffany is now the official witch of the Chalk, her pastoral home region, and must uphold the duties expected of any adult witch. She understands the vagaries of her people, but lacks many of the experiences of her older sister witches.

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